Date: Sat, 29 Jul 2000 04:15:35 +0100 (BST)
From: "[iso-8859-1] Thoby Johnson" <thobyj@yahoo.co.uk>
Subject: "Sweat! (3)" (M/t)(oral)(humil)

"Sweat! (3)" contains male-to-male sex and is pornographic in nature.
It is unsuitable and probably illegal for minors to read it.

Copyright remains with the author. You may freely transmit and distribute
this story UNALTERED.

Author's note: This is the continuing story of a 17 year-old having sex with
other men.

"Sweat! (1)" and "Sweat! (2) were both posted to alt.sex.stories.gay.
moderated and are at the Nifty archive under "beginnings".

Some feedback I have received suggest that the 17 year-old hero should
explore some seedier, and rather less lighthearted situations - and some
want him to resume training for his sporting endeavours. I will try to fit
both scenarios in. I am always grateful for feedback and comments! Please
let me know what you want.

Also: The location of the story is, loosely, a real city. However, it is
extremely doubtful whether the following could actually take place and
whether the police of that city would behave in the described manner.
Thoby Johnson.

thobyj@yahoo.co.uk


"SWEAT! (3) : In which Marmaduke comes head-to-head with a big sergeant!"

The story so far: Marmaduke has just had a big night out with his new
friend, Rodney. Now, on his way home the next morning, he is diverted by the
possibility of an adventure in a filthy, condemned public toilet. Now read
on!

*   *   *

Marmaduke moved forward slowly in the pitch-black of the decrepit,
underground toilets. There was a warm, earthy smell. Any lingering
manifestations of sewerage had long since departed. He shuffled, waiting for
his eyes to adjust.

Something moved. Yes! It was an active pick-up spot. How many were in here?
In this close, musty atmosphere? How many would Marmaduke have sex with? He
decided to simply resign himself to the dark, to be led to whatever
encounter crossed his path.

A shape emerged dimly. A large, man's hand took hold of his neck. Marmaduke
felt the rough, callused fingers feeling his skin. The hand moved down,
fingering his T-shirt and squeezing his chest, pinching his nipples. And
down. Now there were two hands. Prodding him in his bare belly, lifting the
T-shirt, jerking it around. Marmaduke lurched and managed to keep his
balance as he was yanked forward. The hands went down. His genitals were
lifted impolitely - and squeezed. His backside was fingered. By the
waistband of his stretchy, lycra shorts, Marmaduke was drawn, firmly, into a
toilet cubicle. He bumped into the wall once and then felt the closeness of
another body. A fairly big body. He felt the breath on his face. When he
reached for the unseen body in the dark, two big hands grabbed his wrists
and gathered them together in a single, iron grip. He was pushed down to his
knees.

The old, tiled floor was cold. His wrists were held above his head. He
shifted, getting comfortable, and heard the slow, rasping *"zip"* from four
inches in front of his face. The musk stench hit him first - then the heavy
piece of smelling flesh slapped him in the face. Foul meat pushed at his
lips. It was too big!. He was shaken roughly by his arms. The thing forced
its way into his mouth and he tried to take it.

Diligently, Marmaduke opened wide, and received this big guy's cock. It
stuffed him to the tonsils and tasted putrid. The man in the dark had to
hold him still, by his arms with one hand and by his hair with the other.

"Mghhh! Mghhh!" said Marmaduke, trying to breath, his cheeks bulging with
cock.

He fought off the gag reflex, forced calm, and concentrated on bringing this
guy off. His tongue was flattened to the floor of his mouth and couldn't
swirl around - which would have helped. The rancid meat was too wide to
allow his mouth to do any work. He felt as if his jaw was about to
dislocate. He gagged again, and jerked. The guy yanked on his hair, holding
his impaled face close to the coarse, pubic bush.

"Luckily, I have a big mouth," Marmaduke thought to himself. Then the guy
started pulling out and pushing back in again. Marmaduke used the
opportunity of a partially empty mouth to develop some spit - to try to
lubricate. The dick was sliding in and out, nice and slow at first, but then
in a savage, lunging action. Marmaduke's head had to be held tightly by the
hair to hold him still. He felt his knees skinning on the floor.

"Mghhhhhh! Mghhhhhh!" he said, panicking, the huge cock-head pressing into
his throat.

The thing exploded in his mouth. Come flooded directly down his throat. He
gagged, spluttered and retched. More white muck came out from his nose - the
stuff his fucked mouth couldn't swallow. He remained clamped around the
slowly receding piece of flesh, gagging repeatedly, come dribbling. Then the
thing slid from his mouth and he spat onto the floor violently, still
coughing and retching.

He was drawn to his feet by his hair and pushed, face first, against the
wall. The guy still had hold of his wrists, but now they were behind him. He
felt something cold and hard. *"Snick!"* went the handcuffs in the small of
his back, echoing sharply in the dark, tiled room. His cuffed wrists were
jerked upwards and his cheek was pushed against the cold tiles.

"You are under arrest. Anything you say may be used against you in a court
of law. Thanks for the head-job, cocksucker."

The world took a surreal turn as Marmaduke was marched back up the leaf-
blown steps into the daylight. He squinted. There were more, uniformed
police. He heard:

"Big Sarge has bagged himself an early-morning faggot!" ". . . Didn't have
to wait down there long. . ." "A pretty one, too." "You like sucking cocks,
faggot-boy? There's plenty more where you're going!" "Looks like a fit
bastard. Don't let him go!"

One of them slapped a hand into his crotch and grinned leeringly into his
face. His cross-cuffed wrists were lifted again, making him bend forward. He
looked down, focusing on his construction boots. There were early-morning
shoppers about, looking on in curiosity. He kept his head down, the come
drying on his face. The big guy - the sergeant - who had treacherously
received Marmaduke's oral ministrations, gripped Marmaduke by the jaw and
snapped his head up. The young captive's eyes flashed angrily.

"You got a good mouth for sucking, faggot-boy. And a pretty face. That's
good. We gonna see if we can bang you up for public lewdity or something so
we can fuck your face some more!"

Marmaduke was frog-marched some four blocks to the station, wrists lifted
painfully and head held back by the hair. The indifference of the passers-by
matched the indifference of the bright, blue sky. The police-officers joked
amongst themselves and pushed him along. Up the steps of the station and
through the automatic, glass doors he was marched, and then paraded into the
busy reception. It was air-conditioned and the dry atmosphere was cool on
his bare limbs.

A young, female officer sitting at the counter peered over her spectacles at
the newly arrived prisoner. Her eyes settled on the prominent bulge in
Marmaduke's tight shorts. He felt embarrassed, but had already decided to
tough this out.

The counter reached as high as his waist. He was placed against it and
forced forward, his torso and chest lying across the bench-top, feet on the
floor, his restrained wrists jerked upwards - near his neck. With his cheek
flattened against the laminex surface of the counter, Marmaduke could see
under the woman's computer keyboard at eye level. A small bottle of Liquid-
Paper teetered near his nose.

"Name?" demanded the woman, curtly.

Marmaduke gave it. There was a pause while she typed it in.

"Address?"

He gave that too, his voice slightly distorted due to his face being
squashed sideways into the surface of the counter.

"What's he arrested for?" she asked someone else.

"Committing an act of public lewdness," came the answer.

"Is that all?"

"There was `indecency' and a `public sexual act' as well."

"And trespassing. Those toilets had been closed off by the council."

"Okay. I'll put down all of those."

"Hang on. If he was *trespassing*, how can we pinch him for *public* acts of
indecency?"

"Fuck it! It doesn't matter. Let the lawyers sort it out. And make sure you
put `resisting arrest' too!"

"Yes, Sarge."

There was further typing, then Marmaduke was hauled upright. He placed his
feet wide apart to keep balance against the painful jerking around of his
hair and bent-upwards arms.

"Now, faggot-boy, you're in more shit than Batman," a youngish policeman
sneered. "We better get you off to a cell so you can be fucked up the arse!
You'll enjoy that, won't you faggot-boy?"

"I wouldn't even notice being fucked with *your* little dick!" said
Marmaduke.

That was a mistake. He was punched hard in the stomach. Winded, he doubled-
over to the floor.

"Not a smart thing to say, pervert!"

Again, he was hauled to his feet, and again, he was punched. The breath went
out of him with an "urgh!" and as he went down to the carpet for the second
time, Marmaduke resolved to keep his mouth shut from now on.

"Take off your clothes!" he heard.

What? Were they serious? Yes they were. Quickly, Marmaduke undid his
bootlaces - difficult when handcuffed from behind. He sat on the floor,
twisted his arms through his legs and shucked off the boots and socks.
Encircled by a ring of police-officers, not wishing to incur further wrath,
he hooked two fingers into the waistband of his shorts and G-string and
sloughed them both down his legs. He needed some help with his T-shirt. It
was pulled off backwards over his head, down his arms, and hung behind him
from his cuffed hands. His skin goosebumped in the cold air.

"He's got a nice big donger - for a faggot," said someone.

He saw the policewoman's eyes go there, and he felt acute, buttock-clenching
shame.

"Cavity search!"

Marmaduke hit the counter-top again, his face shoved into the same place.
The policewoman looked down at him and their eyes met. His breath was ragged
and fogged the patch of shiny laminex near his mouth. Rubber gloves snapped.
Marmaduke shivered. His feet were kicked wide apart and a sheathed, lubed
finger was inserted into his hole.

He blinked, shifted slightly on the counter, and said, "ah!" breathlessly,
as the probing finger searched around inside him. The finger slipped out and
Marmaduke was pulled to his feet. The same finger was used to search under
his tongue and around his mouth.

"Pick up your clothes!"

He managed to gather them all up, crouching and feeling around on the floor
behind him. "At least this'll make a good story to tell Rodney (see "Sweat!
(2)") and Eric (see "Sweat! (1)")," Marmaduke thought to himself.

Soon, thankfully, he was led away, penis swinging, down into a cold, white
corridor where his nipples went hard from the chill. He looked straight
ahead as they passed barred cells holding a motley few other miscreants who
whooped and yelled lewd comments at the naked, boy.

The bare call was bare indeed - and small. The barred door clanged shut and
there was nowhere to sit but the floor. Marmaduke got his shorts back on, a
struggle because his wrists were still cuffed. The T-shirt had to stay
wrapped around his hands, behind his back. Tiredness from his strenuous
exploits the previous night eventually overtook him and he curled up to
sleep.

Fitful slumber was not forthcoming. The hardness and coldness of the floor
kept him from dozing, and the discomfort of the stainless-steel handcuffs
didn't help either. How long he'd been lying on the floor he couldn't tell,
but presently, the bars swung open and he was prodded to alertness with a
booted toe. His arrest had been processed and he was now allowed a phone
call.

Who to call? Rodney's number was still scrawled on waistband of his dirty
shorts - but Marmaduke wasn't sure how much help Rodney would be in this
situation. Yes. There was only one person who would be willing to respond to
the distress call of the incarcerated Marmaduke:

Eric!

Marmaduke had seen clearly the adoration in Eric's eyes (see "Sweat! (1)"),
the infatuation with the fit young stripling with the defined pectorals and
the slim little waist. Surely, Eric would not mind driving all the way from
the outer suburb of Dee Why, all the way to Darlinghurst, to bail the boy
out of jail! Marmaduke somehow remembered his number.

"Hello?"

"Erm . . . hello Eric. It's Marmaduke."

"*Helloo* Marmaduke!" Eric gurgled happily.

"I'm in a spot of bother here, Eric . . ."

"Oh?"

Eric was regaled with the tail of poor Marmaduke's tribulations and readily
agreed, as Marmaduke knew he would, to fetch the wayward little urchin from
the clutches of the law. Marmaduke was placed back in his cell to wait. He
waited while Eric negotiated northern-suburbs traffic and found a parking
spot in Paddington. He waited, oblivious, while Eric walked to the police
station, argued with the big sergeant, signed a ream of forms, and agreed to
the required financial impose.

"Hello, Marmaduke."

Marmaduke looked up. Finally! Eric stared at him through the chrome bars.

"Eric!"

"Christ! What have they done with your clothes?"

"What? Oh. This is what I was wearing."

"What were you doing in those public-toilets?"

"Oh, Eric. What do you *think* I was doing?"

"You should know not to . . ."

"Are you going to get me *out* of here?"

"I have to go back upstairs and sign more forms. How much trouble did you
cause? I'm having a hell of a job getting you bailed out."

Marmaduke pouted and put on a little-boy-lost expression. His liquid, doe-
eyes looked ready to overflow.

"Oh Eric! Please get me out! *I don't like it here!*" Marmaduke nearly
sobbed, calculatingly.

"Yes, of course, my puppy!" said Eric, and they embraced through the bars.
Eric ran his hands over the bony ridges on Marmaduke's bare flanks, feeling
the teenager-hard body writhing at his touch.

Eric had to go back upstairs, leaving the boy forlornly in his cage. The
correct papers were signed and finally a policeman unlocked the cell-door
and Marmaduke was allowed to proceed past the smirking staff, out into the
carpark with Eric.

"You'll have to front up to a magistrate on the 25th of whatever month seems
appropriate in view of plot-progression," said Eric. "I have the paperwork
here. We'll worry about it in another episode."

"Fine," said Marmaduke. "Can I come to your place?"

"Of course you can! You poor thing. I suppose you're feeling a bit shaken up
after all that."

They stopped at Marmaduke's apartment. Eric sniffed the stale air whilst
Marmaduke dragged on a pair of jeans, and grabbed a jacket and some other
things. Once again, the pair drove north to Eric's house (see "Sweat (1)"),
Marmaduke fidgeting in the passenger seat, Eric marvelling at his luck.
Marmaduke was thinking about Rodney, and whether he should be allowed to
meet Eric. He guessed that it would be all right, seeing that neither Eric
nor Rodney were full-time lovers, and that they were completely different
ages and therefore fulfilled different needs. They were silent for a while,
then Eric said;

"Was the screw in the public toilet worth it?"

"All I did was give a copper a head-job."

"And then he arrested you?"

"Yes."

"Bastards! . . . You should stay out of those places, Marmaduke."

"Yeah . . ." Marmaduke whined disconsolately. ". . . I know."

"Marmaduke . . ." Eric started, carefully. ". . . I'd be an idiot to think
that you are . . . exclusively mine. I know what it's like . . . you're
young . . ."

". . . dumb, and full of come!" Marmaduke chipped in brightly.

Eric smiled. "It's just that . . . I've become very fond . . . It seems
silly. We've only seen each other twice. I wouldn't mind seeing you some
more. That's all."

"Oh, Eric . . ." Now Marmaduke smiled. He put his hand on Eric's leg, and
then slipped out from his seatbelt and laid his head down, lovingly, in
Eric's lap.

"Christ! What are you doing?!" said Eric. The car swerved slightly.

"Nothing! Just concentrate on your driving!"

Eric blew air out from his cheeks. The boy cuddled his thigh, his head
resting there like a melon on its way home from the shops. Eric gently
stroked the boy's splayed, lollipop hair.

"Marmaduke?"

"Yes, Eric?"

"What plans have you got?"

"I want to eat your cock."

"No. I mean, what plans for the future?"

Marmaduke rolled his head and sat up. "I don't know."

". . . *ahem*. . ." said Eric, broaching a subject. "You said you'd done a
couple of triathlons."

"Yeah."

". . . and that you needed a . . . er . . . coach." Eric cleared his throat
again.

"Can *you* coach me?" Marmaduke asked.

"No, no, no," said Eric. "But I *know* someone who can. In fact, he's had
quite a lot of experience . . . coaching likely young lads . . ."

"What are you talking about, Eric? Is this guy a proper athletic trainer? Or
some kind of . . ."

"Oh yes, yes. He's done a lot of coaching in those triathlon things. What
are they? Swimming . . ."

"Swim, cycle, run," said Marmaduke. "How do you know him?"

Eric grinned sheepishly. "Well, I'm sure you're aware, Marmaduke, that I
like looking at young fellows with good figures . . . in Speedos."

"So this guy is gay?"

"Oh yes - but at the same time, very . . .er . . . *potent*. He lives at
Byron Bay. You'd have to go up there and stay with him."

Marmaduke did not look at all sure about what Eric was getting at. Was this
person some kind of kinky nut? Was *Eric* a kinky nut? And did Marmaduke
even *want* to get back into training? Moving to Byron Bay would be a big
decision.

"What's his name?"

"Frank Wrath."

"Oh shit . . .!"

"What? Do you know him?"

"No. But I remember someone mentioning his name back home. He treats his
athletes like they're in the army."

"That's Frank."

"I haven't even thought about this, Eric. And in any case, I'm in trouble
with the law. I need to get that sorted out before I took off up the coast
to Byron Bay."

"Yes," said Eric. "That's what I was thinking about. There'd be no more wild
gallivanting if you were being trained by Frank Wrath. He can be very
strict."

"That's what I heard. Shit! Even his *name* makes him sound angry!" said
Marmaduke.

"Yes. It does, doesn't it?" said Eric.

Marmaduke had plenty of food for thought during the remainder of the journey
to Eric's house. He had heard Frank Wrath was a cigar-chomping cowboy of a
man - and not a man to be trifled with. Marmaduke imagined himself under
Wrath's authority. Yes. *That* was something to think about.


To be continued in "Sweat! (4)".