Bitching Knight

© 2012


Jonathan Longhorn

Disclaimer: Copyright 2012 by Jonathan Longhorn.  All rights reserved.  If you are offended by teen gay sex, then what are you doing here?  Leave now. Likewise, if you are under the age of 18 (or the legal age in your community), leave now. This story is for adults only and is a total fantasy.  The author does NOT condone or promote any of the activities depicted in this story.

If you are expecting sex to happen immediately, this may be the wrong story for you.  There will be a narrative to open the story, some history, and then sex will come later.  If that's not for you, I understand fully.  However, I hope you'll take the time to read the story and give it a chance.  I think you won't be disappointed.

This is a work of fiction and is not based on any real person or place.  Any similarity is entirely coincidental.  This work is copyrighted by the author and may not be reproduced in any form without the specific written permission of the author.  It is assigned to the Nifty Archives under the terms of their submission agreement but it may not be copied, posted or archived on any other site without the written permission of the author.

Condoms are not used in this story but remember it is fiction and in the real world having sex without one can be very dangerous.  You can be exposed to not only AIDS, but other STDs that are starting to become more and more drug resistant. Don't ruin your life or your future. Slip it on before you slip it in.

All of the characters in this story are totally fictitious and are assumed to be at least 18 years of age.

Chapter One

There are times when a small town can get lost and be nothing more than a blip on the radar map in a state as big as Texas.  Occasionally, that blip can give way from a row boat to an aircraft carrier in its impact and it can garner a much more lucrative, if not public, distinction.  McClintock Valley, Texas was one such community.  A town and surrounding area of slightly more the 32,016 in population, it held a per capita wealth index that ranked it among one of the tops in the country.  There were those who still considered it a farming community since it was nearly 140 miles from the nearest city of 100,000 or more.  True, the town had originally been settled by immigrants well over a century ago when farming and ranching had been the mainstay; however, in more recent decades, oil and gas discoveries propelled a number of the families into ultra-wealthy status.  These days, it was not uncommon to look out across fields of corn, cotton, or sunflowers and see dozens of oil wells pumping day and night.

In addition to the town's notoriety for its wealth and privilege—it also amassed tremendous acclaim for athletic superiority.  The McClintock Valley High School Knights had become synonymous with gold medals, state championships, and national rankings in nearly every one of their athletic squads, including: baseball, football, soccer, swimming, diving, wrestling, gymnastics, volleyball, and softball.  Simply put, year in and year out—the boys and girls teams at McClintock Valley High School were unyielding in their place within the cream of the crop of high school sports.

The fast-approaching beginning of the new school year had already been deemed to be no different.  Each of the Class 4-A sports teams for the school, were ranked at #1, or—in the Top 10 of the state.  Three of the programs—among them, the McClintock Valley football team which was in final prep for its first game in less than a week—were #1 in national rankings among comparable size schools and squads.  These stats—coming just weeks before the doors opened for the new school year.

Tilman `The Colonel' Romanowski had made a name for himself that was unequaled.  He was `da Man' when it came to coaching.  For 42 years he had been putting together squads and records that were dreamed of but seldom—if ever—achieved by anyone else in the world of high school sports—3-A, 4-A, or for that matter what most considered the elite of the bunch . . . 5-A.  During his 40 years as a Head Coach and Athletics Director, he had turned down multiple offers to ascend into the ranks of the NCAA, or for that matter—the pros.  The majority of these offers came to Romanowski with promises of incredible prestige, unprecedented financial rewards, and other lucrative perks.

Word of his impending retirement spread like wildfire and the demand for his skills shifted into overdrive.  Even as he sat at his desk, clearing out his personal belongings and making way for his successor, the new Head Football Coach and Athletic Director—hand-picked by him—his phone was ringing off the hook, his fax machine was pumping out page after page, his computer was dinging with new emails; offer after offer after offer flooded in for him to bring his expertise to every region of the country.  There were even some offers from schools in Canada.  Offers came in from other high schools, small colleges, massive universities—even several lucrative offers to take over the leadership of the most recent World Series and Super Bowl championship organizations.

There were, of course, countless offers with previously unheard of financial incentives from organizations that were begging to be pulled from perennial last place standings.  These were organizations that either had to get out of the basement or—get out of the business.  All of them knew and shared in one piece of common knowledge—although none of them admitted it outwardly—Tilman Romanowski was their last hope.  He was their savior.

No matter the label: icon . . . savior. . . .  There was little else to say but that Tilman Romanowski was a legend for the ages in the annals of the coaching universe.

But. . . .


Even a savior gets tired.  And that is what this was all about.  Tilman Romanowski was tired.  Just.  Plain.  Tired.  He graciously turned down every offer that came his way; usually making a recommendation of one or two other potential candidates for the job that might be considered in his place.  Granted—he blinked once or twice.  A few of those offers were mind boggling.  He could almost buy a small foreign country with some of those bags of gold that were being dangled in front of his face.  He was flattered.  He was pleased that he had made such a far-reaching contribution to the sporting world, and—to the boys and girls who had passed through his doors and onto his teams over the years.  But, no.  It was time for `Tilman' to take care of `Tilman'.  He had a house that was perfect for him.  He had good health; at the age of 64, he stood 6'2", 205 lbs. of pure, lean, toned and sun bronzed muscle.  He had more money than he could spend in his lifetime—or several lifetimes.  It was just time for a change; to do something different while he was still able.

He wanted to read something other than stats and rosters and playbooks.  He wanted to do the most important thing in his life. Being `Dad' and `Grandpa' to Tilman Jr., and to Timothy and Nathaniel.  The twins had all the makings of killer athletes.  Maybe with his 1-on-2 tutelage he could help them rise in the ranks.

Too, Romanowski wanted to ride his horses across his ranch property, which measured nearly 10,000 acres.  He wanted to sit by his pool and watch the Presidential helicopter come and go at the Barrington-Gray Wolf ranch across the river from time to time.  He wanted to go 'watch' the neighbor kid play football instead of being a 'coach on the field' for a change.  God—the kid was good.  The kid was . . . phenomenal.  He hoped Channing de Marignay realized that while what he had right now over at the university was great—what he had waiting in the wings promised to be a once in a lifetime history maker.

He wanted to fish.  A river ran along one side of his property and a viaduct had been trenched out to feed a man-made lake that was stocked with catfish.  He wanted to watch the sun rise and set somewhere other than where he had for so many years—his perch atop practice fields and team boxes in the stadiums and aquatic center—an athletic complex that carried his name.

Almost as soon as word began to spread that Tilman Romanowski was retiring, the school district's offices were inundated with applications, queries, resumes . . . recommendations.  No one was ever interviewed.  The Colonel had his successor in mind for six years, even while the kid was still a student at the high school, starring in not one, not two, but in four of his athletic programs.  In all of his years of coaching, he had never seen anyone who grasped the whole situation, the depth, and the intensity—the passion—as did his #1 all-time athlete, Colton Taylor Wakefield.


Entering high school can be a daunting, if not terrifying experience that many adults have worked strenuously to forget.  Some succeed.  Some, never get past it for one reason or the other their entire live.  Some?  Well, good or bad—some try to relive high school or rewrite their high school experience by living it through their children, which, most of the time, adds a lot more stress to an already confusing and frustrating time for kids.

There are times that in a parent's exuberance to give their child a better life, to give them every opportunity, to open the door to the future, they add that extra, unnecessary stress and pressure, having long forgotten what they, themselves had to struggle with through high school and their teenaged years.  It's so much easier to put that pressure on their kids when they choose to not remember. Or if they do remember, it's a softer, muted memory where the good things stand out and the bad things have somehow faded in `badness' over time.  Or—they have been boxed up and crammed into a corner in the basement or into a deep, dark closet never again to see the light of day.  Hopefully.  For some though, the sting of failures and defeats have intensified over time and they are determined to `right' those bad memories by forcing their own kids to excel—no matter the cost.

For an incoming freshman, there are so many changes that hit all at once.  Adjusting to classes, different teaching styles and the terrors of dating or—the nightmares of not dating.  Balancing friend and school time with work mandated in the family business, or for some, praying they can find a job...any job...even if it means standing behind a counter to take fast food orders for their friends or classmates and—yuck!—having to call them `Sir' or `Miss', just to help them get by every week.

Some worry about the classes to choose which will increase the chances of getting accepted to the college of their choice.  Others focus on the option of `getting out of Dodge' and preparing for military service as their means of escape from small town and rural life or for much more private reasons that they pray no one will find out about before they can make their escape from a conservative, repressive area.

There are so many fears, uncertainties, and pressures that come with the beginning of a new school year—many are carried over from the previous terms but all too often, they are magnified by a whole new group: the horrors of acne, bad hair days, out of date fashion styles, what's hot `today' as opposed to last Wednesday in fashion and wardrobe, or—gulp—the total embarrassment of clean but mended clothes or hand-me-downs, cliques, non-cliques, status, loss of status, gaining status . . . the list goes on and on.

As if that isn't enough, add in those body changes and comparisons to worry about. Breast size—too small?  Too large?  Weird shape?  Do they match?  What if I can't say yes?  What if I can't say no?  Will I be declared a slut?  What if I get pregnant?  Will I have to—ick—touch his penis?  What if he wants oral sex?  What if I don't do it; will he think I'm a lesbian?  What if I am a lesbian?

Am I too short?  Am I too tall?  What about my cock size?  Too small?  Freakishly large?  Too thick?  Too thin?  Weird shape?  Why am I cut?  Those guys are uncut?  Are my balls pitifully small?  Elephant balls?  High and tight?  Danglers?  The horror and total embarrassment of no pubes—still?  But then again, that senior with the black leather necklace doesn't have a single hair down there. And he's a stud.  How did he become a stud?  How do I become a stud?  Could I become a stud?

What if someone catches me checking out their junk?  I'm just comparing, right?  Will I ever get a blow job?  What if a guy wants to give me a blow job?  Is that gay?  A mouth is a mouth right?  What if they think I'm gay?  What if I am gay?

Even though McClintock Valley was considered to be in a rural area, the pace of life in the last few decades had picked up dramatically.  Additionally, kids have become assaulted by new pressures over and above those that may have existed in their parents or even in their grandparents day; pressures that most adults couldn't begin to fathom—and some that didn't even exist until a few short years ago.  Things like Facebook pages, Twitter, Sexting, and the ever ubiquitous cell phones—able to record on-the-spot stills or videos and send them to one's entire contact list of friends, classmates, and—family.  Reputations could be made, or—destroyed—in seconds, with nothing more than the press of a button.  Cyberbullying.  A concept unknown just a few decades earlier.

Every school year brought with it the majority of the kids having to face the inevitable foray of comparisons to elder brothers, sisters, parents, uncles, aunts...even a few grandparents.  This was the case even now, in late summer, as seasoned veterans stood alongside rookies and wannabees.  Not just those wanting to be involved in the traditional fall sports programs but for the entire school year.  The new Director of the Knights athletic program had put out a call for `all' interested parties in `all' sports.  He wanted to see what he had to work with, what he had to deal with, where he needed more focus, who looked like promising team leaders, team captains, and—stars.

And, not just the athletes.  Coaches and new hires were just as susceptible to these moments.  It was more than make or break for the kids . . . the coaching staff was always excited by the prospects that a new school year promised, but equally anxious about where they stood in the eyes of their peers, even in the eyes of the kids and, most importantly—in the eyes of the Athletic Director.

Coaches could get cut, too, after all.

Colby Tate Wakefield felt that pressure.  It was constant.  Never ending.  A 24/7 microscope focused on him.  He felt those eyes always watching him.  He felt those comparisons every minute of every day.  It was a little unnerving to be the younger brother of Colton Taylor Wakefield, the all-time, record-setting acclaimed Prince of the McClintock Valley Knights.  Anyone with less mettle would have crumbled under the pressure and run for the hills.  Had Colby Tate done the same, no one really would have blamed him.  It's rather difficult to face the reputation and the success of a big brother who was, for all intents and purposes, looked upon throughout the community and even the entire state as a god.  But not Colby Tate.

Crumble and run?  Sheah—right.  As if.  Not in the kid's makeup.  Crumble and run was not even in his vocabulary.  He had the strut.  He had just enough cockiness mixed with the right measure of in your face arrogance, both—backed up by an arsenal that was brimming with talent to literally take the bull by the horns and show it—and everyone else—that he was on top.


Bring it on.


Go for it.

Colby Tate was in control.

This was Colby Tate Wakefield's time.  He owned McClintock Valley High School here and now, and—he ruled over everyone.

In his first three years of high school, Colby Tate had led his football and baseball team to the state championship.  He had won a series of gold medals in gymnastics.  He had won gold medals in diving.  He and his best friend—Palmer Breedlove had won gold and silver in tennis singles and doubles.  Wrestling?  He had been declared a phenom . . . a king.  Three years.  One hundred and thirty-eight wins.  Gold.  Nothing but gold.  Every year.

Some impressive accomplishments for a kid that was only 5'6" tall and weighed in at 180 lbs. of solid granite, perfectly sculpted, 8-packed perfection; and, he had a boyishly cute as hell face that was topped off by a mop of auburn colored hair that bleached into streaks that were closer to a shade of golden wheat after extended periods of time in the sun and pool.

His lack of height just made him work harder, strive on with more determination, and to find his own way to climb out from under the imposing shadow of his 6'2" 215 pound brother.  Their height difference notwithstanding, they were mirror images of one another in almost every other aspect of their builds and looks.  Even with the height difference and a 6-year age spread, they were often mistaken by strangers as twins; something that humored Colton and irritated Colby Tate.  But the younger Wakefield had something extra that his much worshipped big brother would never be able to match—a thick 11" uncut cock with apricot-sized balls that hung low and swayed like a bull's.

Colby Tate Wakefield, in all respects, had carved out a name for himself.  He, like his big brother before him, had taken his place as the Crown Prince of McClintock Valley High School.  Colby Tate was amazing on the field, on the diving platform, on the mats and even in the classroom where he was currently #1.  Class President.  Student Government President.  Peer Council founder and president.  Fund Raising Co-Chair.  Team Leader.  Team Captain.  Everyone admired him.  Everyone respected him.  Everyone wanted to be in his circle.  Everyone wanted to be in his favor, to `share' in his limelight.

And—everyone wanted a piece of him.

`Some' would do anything to get it.

No ... matter ... what.

Colby Tate was about to find out just how far some would go to claim `the prize.'

END of Chapter One

To be continued ...?

Author's Note: We would not have access to stories like this and others, without the efforts of the Nifty Erotic Story Archive website. Server hosting and bandwidth is pretty expensive.  Please show your support and help it continue by sending a donation at I've made several donations and I hope you will as well. Even a few dollars helps.  Please give what you can.

This is just the start of a story which may or may not be continued. Whether it continues or not partly depends on the comments and responses I get, to gauge the level of interest in taking the story further. It also depends in part on work I'm doing for an erotic gay murder mystery series. Time spent on that novel takes precedence over my short story fiction.  If there is enough positive responses, there MAY be additional chapters but they will be at irregular intervals because of other time commitments and work on the novel. I would love to write full time but I have to work for a living. Life happens.

In the future, I may also be posting starting chapter(s) for other stories, to see if there is any interest in them. Most Nifty posts will be to the High School and College sections.  Maybe also in the Authoritarian section, and a possible K-9 story. Please let me know if you're interested in those areas.

Please send your comments, thoughts and ideas to Jonathan Longhorn at Yahoo email using jonathan (underscore) longhorn.  That should be easy for you to figure out and helps cut down on spam.  Valid objective criticism accepted but flames will be ignored.  Since I don't get paid for doing these stories, your thanks, thoughts, comments and ideas are always appreciated.

The volume of positive responses will be a determining factor in continuing the story.

When emailing me, please start the "Subject" line with the name of the story (Bitching Knight in this case) so I don't toss your email as spam.

My other stories on Nifty:

The Boiler Room (boiler-room.pdf in the College section) /nifty/gay/college/boiler-room.pdf

Revelations (A story of two brothers in the Incest section) /nifty/gay/incest/revelations