Date: Tue, 15 Jan 2008 17:28:43 +1300 (NZDT)
From: Nick Cramer <antinous48@yahoo.co.nz>
Subject: Cool Karl vs the jocks, part 8

This story features bullying and fighting and some masturbation and oral
sex among high-school-age males.  I visualize the character 'Karl Spivak'
as looking like a model called Karl at boyfun.com.  Comments welcome, to
antinous48@yahoo.co.nz.

______

In part 1, Karl told how he and his slave Nicky were kidnapped by Robby and
three other jocks.  In part 2, Nicky began to explain how he came to be
Karl's slave, and in parts 3-5 Karl and Nicky carried on the story.  In
part 6, Nicky described licking Karl's cock, and the instruction in
street-fighting that Karl gave him.  This brought the story up to the point
described in part 1.  In part 7, Nicky described what happened after the
kidnap, and how Karl defeated Pete Petrowski.

Now Karl gives his version of the aftermath of the kidnap, covering the
same ground as Nick did last time.

____

It was always on the cards: a confrontation between me and the jocks.  They
resented the fact that I refused to join the school's lousy football team.
But I can just hear the coach's words if I had become a football star:
'Karl Spivak, he's from a dreadful disadvantaged background, but he's
become one of Fairfield High's success stories.  Such a fine polite young
man now.'  Yuck!  Being a fine polite young man means accepting how things
work in this country: rich folks with nice houses and nice jobs get what
they want, while other folks get screwed.  Well, I belong to those other
folks.

So the day had come.  All four of them.  That would have been bad enough.
But little Nicky too --!

My head was in mess.  The possibility that Nicky liked me had given me a
real jolt.  Because I hadn't done anything to make him like me, had I?  I
was his master, he was my slave.  You see, I knew from experience that if a
person likes me, then I tend to like them back.  And that way lies
disaster.  You like a person -- you (... ah ... yeah, OK, I'll say it)
... you love a person -- someone real close to you -- or so you think.
Someone you ought to be able to depend on.  So you trust that person.  Then
that trust is betrayed.  It's like a knife in the guts.  As if life wasn't
hard enough!  I'd been there, folks, believe me, I'd been there.  And I
sure didn't want to go there again.

So my strategy now was to make people respect me, certainly, but like me --
hell, no!  For Karl Spivak to survive, he needed to be hard and cold.
Supercool tough Karl.  Yet here was little Nicky going all warm and soft on
me (wasn't he?).  And worse.  There was something in me that responded to
him -- that was grateful to him.  I felt something inside me going warm and
soft too.  Just when I had to face those jocks.  With Nick watching.  On my
side?  I would be all distracted by Nicky's concern.  Or - - I remembered
what Robby had said in the storage shed -- on their side?  Oh no, not this
time too ... oh Nicky, please, no ...!

Fucking hell.  C'mon, Karl, get a grip.  Put that insignificant nerd Nicky
out of your mind.  Don't look at him.  Don't think about him.  Keep cool.
Keep supercool.

It nearly worked.  All the way to Robby's place the whole journey to I
managed to ignore Nick until right at the end, when we were walking up
Robby's driveway.  I couldn't resist looking round to see how Nicky was
handling the situation.  From his face I couldn't really tell.  All I
noticed was that he was walking real close alongside Peter Petrowski.

I didn't think twice about that, not straight away.  But when we were
downstairs in that basement, and Pete turned out to be the first one I was
up against -- it was then that I saw the look that Nick gave him, and the
smile on Pete's face, gazing back at Nick.  It was like little Nicky had
planted the knife in my guts.  Well, I'd learned from bitter experience.  I
hardened myself.  I fought back.  I couldn't punish Nick, not there and
then.  But what the hell -- Petrowski would pay the penalty for both of
them.  In less than half a minute, pretty boy Pete was gone, flattened,
blasted off the face of the earth.

Nick had planted the knife.  It remained for Robby to twist it.  He, Brad,
Steve and me were eating subway sandwiches while the injured Pete was being
tended to at the other end of the room -- by Nicky.  Nicky and Pete were
deep in conversation, I could see, but I couldn't hear what they were
saying.

'Doesn't seem like Nicky's on your side after all,' said Robby.  'Well,
hardly surprising.  If Nicky likes guys (y'know what I mean?), why wouldn't
he prefer a cute guy like Pete to someone with your ugly mug?'

'Shut up, damn you!'

Now Steve Dawson took over.  'Come to think of it, Karl -- who're you
really jealous of?  Is it Nicky or is it Pete?  Perhaps you always lusted
after Pete but you couldn't have him, so you made little Nicky your slave
instead.  Just the sort of twisted idea that a closet queer might come up
with.  Kinda poetic justice, if Nicky hits if off with Pete -- which is
what it looks like!'

That's when I yelled out: 'Fuck off, you bastards!  You don't know
nothing!'  I was ready to fight them all at once, there and then.  But Brad
cooled things.  I can't remember how, but somehow he got be calmed down.  I
was still livid at Steve, though, itching to get my hands on the bastard,
after what he had just said.  'Closet queer' -- NO!  Yet ... if I had this
soft feeling about Nicky, and if Nicky 'liked guys', what did that say
about me -- about king-of-the-'hood Spivak?

Like I said, my head was in a mess.  It wasn't just my body that was being
put to the test that evening.  My emotional stamina was under attack from
two directions: from Nicky and Pete, and now from Robby and Steve.
('Emotional stamina'?  Such big words.  That comes from hanging around with
Nick.)  The only way I could fight back was physically, like I had against
Pete.  I was really glad that Steve was next up.  I would murder the creep
...

Steve Dawson was a tougher proposition than Pete Petrowski.  He was a
little shorter than me but more stockily built, and he carried at least as
much muscle.  Plus he had no fat on him.  Those jocks kept in training, and
he was more fit than I was.  So my best plan was to avoid getting in close
at first.  Instead, I would attack him from a distance with street-fighting
moves.  He didn't have my experience, wouldn't know how to respond, he
would get rattled as well as hurt, I would wear him down.  Then, when he
was weakened enough, I could go in closer, I would pound his guts, twist
his arms out of their sockets, have him screaming for mercy ...

Things started badly, however.  Having fought Pete, I was already stripped
down to my briefs.  I was waiting, circling my shoulders and stiffening and
relaxing my abs in preparation, while Steve took off his cargo pants.  Then
he removed his polo shirt.  His head and right arm were free, and he was
slipping the shirt down off his left shoulder ...

His right fist landed in my belly while his polo shirt was still on his
left arm.  Ooof!  The pain was considerable.  No question, football player
Steve had strong arm muscles.  But, because he was concentrating on taking
me by surprise, he didn't manage to put his full body weight behind the
blow.  Also, as good luck would have it, just as the punch landed, my abs
were stiff.  So immediately ... POW!  My foot landed in Steve's abs.  Quite
a lot of air left Steve's lungs rather suddenly.  My long- range attack
plan was going into effect.

In reaction to my kick, Steve bent forward but did not crumple up as Pete
would have done.  However ... WHAM!  The other foot, the same target.
Steve sagged lower, glowering at me and cursing.  Yay!  I was hurting him!
Now for a kick to his shin, to send him off balance.  Yes!  He lurched
forward and landed on all fours.  Whoopee!  I jumped so that my left foot
came down heavily between his shoulder blades, slamming his chest and his
face to the floor.  Most of my weight was now bearing down on Steve's back,
but my right foot still rested lightly on the mat for balance.  Steve was
pinned to the floor, pretty much helpless.

I looked up to see how Robby and Brad were enjoying the show -- and caught
sight of Nick.  Oh fuck, I didn't want to be reminded of that little
traitor.  But ... he was no longer talking to Pete on that distant couch.
Instead he was hunkered down close to the mat, watching the action.  And he
was grinning at me from ear to ear, punching the air with his fist!  What
...?

Suddenly my ankle -- my right ankle -- Steve has got his right hand around
it -- he's trying to jerk me off balance!  I transfer my weight to to my
right leg for better stability.  But oh no -- now he's twisting out from
under -- now he's got hold of my right ankle with both hands!

Quick.  A heavy knee drop onto his abs, or at least on to his side, to
knock the wind out of him and regain my momentum.  Shit, it hasn't worked,
he's twisted away.  Ouch, I've hurt my own right knee instead, and now I'm
flailing around on the mat, partly on my back, partly on my left side.
Steve is trying to stand up, still holding on to my right ankle.  He's
leering down at me, the bastard, he thinks he's in control now.  Gotta use
my left leg to attack him, that's the only weapon I've got in this position
... WHAM!  Left heel hard into his groin ...

Oh no, it wasn't his groin after all, he'd got out of the way, my foot just
brushed the outside of his thigh.  He's lifting my right ankle high now, to
the level of his waist.  My left leg is useless, it's easy for him to keep
out of range of it.  Oh-oh, I see what he's going to do now ... he's
twisting hard with both hands ... owww, my knee will be dislocated ... it's
no good, I've got to flip over on to my front ... fuck, fuck, fuck, he's
still got my ankle, I'm still powerless, and now I can't see what the
bastard is doing!

AAAAH!  He's let go my ankle and landed with both knees heavily in the
small of my back.  I try to push myself up with my arms and squirm out from
under but ... too late, he's sitting astride my back now, facing forward,
his knees up near my shoulders.  Fuck, he weighs a ton.  He grabs my left
arm and tucks it between his leg and his side, squeezing it.  Then he
clasps his big mitts under my chin and pulls my head upward.  Oh wow, he's
going for that corny pro-wrestling hold, a camel clutch!  Urggh, my neck
and chest and abs are being stretched, it's real uncomfortable.  But
everyone knows that those holds only work because they're choreographed,
the two wrestlers cooperate.  And my right arm is free anyway, so I'll just
get my left arm free as well ...

Easier said than done.  He's squeezing my arm real tight, it's in this
awkward position behind me, I can't get any purchase, I can hardly move my
left shoulder at all ...

So what about my right arm?  I can grab his wrist and pull.  But it's one
arm of mine against both of his, I'm not strong enough ...

OK, I can reach behind me, punch his head, grab his ear, pull it ...

AAAAAAH!  The stretching and twisting of my neck and my torso suddenly gets
much much more painful.  It feels like he's gonna twist my head off.  I
hear his voice in my ear: 'Cut that shit NOW, Spivak, y'hear?'  And he
gives my neck another agonizing tug.

I cut the shit, as instructed.  I let my right arm go loose.  I close my
eyes.  I'm beaten.

NO!  Can't admit that yet.  Got to get my brain into gear, think of some
game plan.  Because ... there's that picture of in my mind of little
Nicholas just a short while ago, all happy, punching the air when he
thought I was winning.  He's on my side after all!  Can't disappoint the
little guy ... can't be shamed in front of my slave ... No, no, not my
slave, that's all a stupid game, what I mean is I can't disappoint this guy
who's my f- ... my fr- ... (oh hell!) ... this guy who looks up to me and
seems to like me ...

Oh, c'mon, Karl, that's crap.  Get real.  No one's on your side but
yourself.  And that's the way you've always wanted it.  Just because you've
lost to Steve, no reason to let your brain turn to mush.

'You submit yet?'

I find myself shaking my head.  Makes no sense.  But something in me ...
Anyway, I refuse to submit.

'Good!  'Cos I don't want to finish with you so soon.  I got more holds to
demonstrate.  Like this one ...'

Suddenly Steve lets go of me and stands up.  I slump forward, on hands and
knees.  A sorry picture I must present!  Tough street-fighter Karl, huh?
Panting, sweat dripping off me, hair stuck to my forehead, head drooping,
staring at the floor ... While standing behind me, I know, is star
footballer Steve, muscular and ruthless, grinning down as he plans new ways
to humiliate me.

However ... gotta go on fighting ... can't let -- can't let Nicky down
... (Fuck! Why can't I get that guy out of my mind?)  I begin to stagger
upright and turn round to face Steve ...

Too slow.  He's darted behind me.  I fell his arms come up under my arms,
then his hands join at the back of my neck.  A full nelson!  I'm trapped
again.  I'm standing, but my arms are sticking out at right angles, my
forearms dangling helpless from my elbows.

Steve turns me this way and that, displaying me to the spectators.  Robby,
lounging with legs apart, his hands clasped behind his head, is relishing
every moment of the show that Steve is putting on.  Brad, elbows on knees,
is looking strangely solemn.  Nick is sitting hunched, leaning forward, his
hands covering his face.  His shoulders are shaking.  And Pete -- what's
Pete doing?  He's not on the couch any more, he's sitting not far from
Nick, behind him and to one side.  Nick doesn't seem to know he's there.
But Pete is looking at Nick, not me.  He stretches a hand out towards Nick
as if to pat him, to console him ...

NO!  It's ME that Nick likes, not you!  You filthy bastard, Pete, you're
goodlooking, you're rich, you've got everything!  Yet you still want to
take this from me -- you want to take Nicky from me!  Well, I'm not gonna
fucking let you!  I can't punish you again just now, but I can sure as hell
punish your friend Steve!

The new game plan comes to me in a flash.  We are near the edge of the mat,
close to one wall of the big basement room -- a solid concrete block wall.
I plant my feet firmly and push back hard.  Steve isn't expecting it.  He
lurches into the wall.  But it's only a gentle collision, and he steadies
himself easily.

Shit, it hasn't worked.  But it's the only plan I've got.  I try again.
This time I hear a sharp crack.  'Aahhh ...!' from Steve.  His grip loosens
slightly.  It was his right elbow hitting the solid concrete.

A gleam of hope.  I spur myself on.  Desperately, I use my legs to throw
myself and Steve back at the wall again -- and again -- and again -- and
again.  His elbow is hurt, he is losing concentration.  He fights to keep
his hold on me, but his hands are slipping.  For a second time his elbow
smacks into the wall.  'AAGH!'  He lets go of me.

We are both moving pretty slowly by now, but he is slower than I am.  I
turn round and land a punch just above his navel while he still has his
back to the wall.  All my weight is behind that punch.  Whoooh!  Steve's
face creases up and he slithers down the wall, his legs folding under him
neatly.  But I don't want him on his back, I want him face down.  I grab
his shoulder and yank him forward.  Then it's me on his back this time.  I
grab his left wrist and twist his arm up -- high up, up as far as his neck.
It's not just his elbow that's hurting now.  His yelps of pain turn into a
high-pitched shriek.

OK, I want to punish the guy, but I don't want to maim him for life.  I
whisper into his ear: 'Just say it.'

'I submit, I submit, please, for Chrissake, Karl, stop!'

I let him go.  He sits on the mat, rocking to and fro, clutching his arm.
Robby bends down beside him.

Nicky -- what about Nicky?  Suddenly that's all that seems to matter:
what's Nicky's reaction?

I see him.  He's pleased.  Yes, I think one can safely say that the little
guy is pleased with the outcome of Spivak versus Dawson.  And Pete is
nowhere to be seen.  But ...

Now big Brad looms in front of me.  'You're doing good, Karl.  The score is
two to nothing, the Spivak team winning.  You'll want a couple of minutes
rest.  Then I guess it's up to me to restore some honor to the Fairfield
High School team!'

Oh man ...

Nicky marches up to Brad, white-faced, trembling.  He opens his mouth to
speak.  But Brad simply looks at him, unperturbed, unmoved.  Slowly Nick
backs away, then sits down, his head in his hands, staring numbly at the
floor.

I don't know if I'd hoped for some reprieve.  I guess I must have.  Because
now, with that hope gone ... Every muscle in my body seemed to be begging
for rest.  Instead, there was still Brad to handle.  Then Robby ...

I drank some water that Brad gave me.  Then, three minutes later, here was
weary Karl, the slacker from the wrong side of town, face to face with
fresh and fit Mr Muscles van der Velden, the only unbeaten wrestler on our
local high school circuit.  Oh Nicky, I know why you don't want to
watch....