Date: Fri, 18 Jan 2008 15:30:23 +1300 (NZDT)
From: Nick Cramer <antinous48@yahoo.co.nz>
Subject: Cool Karl vs the jocks, part 9

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.  'Brad' looks like a
model called Matt at the same site.  '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 parts 7 and 8 Nicky and Karl described in turn
what happened after the kidnap, and how Karl defeated Pete Petrowski and
Steve Dawson.

[Apologies.  In part 8, it should have been Steve's RIGHT arm that Karl
twisted up behind his back.  Steve's right elbow had already been hurt, and
Karl's tactic would have been to inflict more punishment on the same weak
point.]

Now Nicky takes up the story at the point where Karl is about to take on
wrestling star Brad van der Velden.  ____

Yippee!  I couldn't remember when I had ever felt happier. Between Karl and
thugbrat Steve it had been a nailbiting rollercoaster.  Yet now, even all
sweating and grimy from the mat, with the red blotches here from what that
brute had done to him, Karl's body had never looked more beautiful to me.
Such a smooth, young-looking body, with just one or two cute moles, and
hairless -- except that down from his navel, over his slightly bulging
tummy (well, after all, my master has a little bit of flesh on him as well
as muscle, he's not a boring fitness fanatic), there's just that little
hint of a treasure trail.  And I've seen where the trail leads!  Under his
blue briefs, that glorious bulge -- his awe-inspiring cock and balls and
his dark wiry pubic hair -- his manly apparatus that I, only I in that
room, had had the privilege of stroking and licking!  Oh yes, I was in
ecstasy, gazing up at Karl Spivak triumphant.

When my hero looked down at me now, with anxious eyes but a shy smile on
his spotty boy-next-door face, I wanted to yell out: 'Hey Karl, you don't
have to worry, I'm on your side!'  But something told me to keep quiet.
Robby was a mean spiteful dude, and Steve too.  Anything I said like that
could make things worse for both Karl and me.

Then ... down to earth with bump.  Brad.  Karl still had to fight Brad.  I
had thought of Brad as the least nasty of the four jocks.  But was he going
to let Karl off?  No sir, he was not.  My hero, weary from two bouts, still
had to face his toughest opponent yet, the wrestling champ, that grotesque
mountain of muscle.  My all-conquering Karl, please please be still
all-conquering!  But I knew it was a hard ask.  I knew, with a terrible
sinking feeling, that it was an impossible task.

When I say 'grotesque mountain of muscle', what I mean is this.  At first
sight, you'd think Brad was short.  But in fact, he was as tall as Karl or
Robby.  It was just that he was so broad as well.  And plenty of guys have
big pecs.  My darling Karl's impressive pecs and his little pert nipples --
I could gaze at them happily for a long time.  (What would it feel like to
stroke them and caress those nipples with my tongue?!  I still hadn't had a
chance to ...)  But Brad's pecs weren't impressive, they were overwhelming.
They were massive hard cushions of muscle, the skin stretched tight over
them, kind of spilling over at the side.  His shoulder muscles spilled over
too.  The result was that his armpits weren't like ordinary armpits, they
were like deep dark caves guarded at the entrance by great curtains of
solid flesh.  As for his eight-pack abs -- well, if you saw them on a
statue you'd say that the statue was a caricature.  And his thigh
measurement must have been pretty close to my waist measurement.  OK, you
get the picture.

There was Karl in his blue briefs and, opposite him, Brad, now wearing only
tight black lycra shorts that came down to mid-thigh and emphasized his
huge muscular butt.  Karl went on the attack, as I guessed he would: a kick
to Brad's belly just above the groin, then a rapid series of punches to his
chest and the upper part of his abs.  Brad took a step or two backwards,
looking mildly annoyed, like an adult being hit by a small child in a
tantrum.  Then with his left hand he grabbed Karl's right wrist and held it
totally immobile, as if it were caught in a vice.  Karl tried to bring his
left knee up into Brad's groin.  But with surprising agility Brad hooked
his tree-trunk leg behind Karl's left calf so as to unbalance him.  Karl
toppled backward and Brad came down on top of him, his huge left fist still
gripping Karl's wrist.

Karl's task now was to prevent Brad's body weight from immobilizing him.
He had to keep his back and shoulders off the mat.  Because his right arm
was in Brad's grip, he had only his left arm to support himself with, the
palm flat on the mat behind him and the elbow bent.  I tried by a kind of
telepathic willpower to inject stamina into Karl's sinews.  I imagined his
strong muscles inflicting punishment on the street thug who had rashly
taken on the sixteen-year-old Karl two years ago ... And for a little while
my telepathy seemed to work.  I watched the flexing and shifting of the
well- developed muscles under the skin of Karl's left arm, his shoulder,
his shoulder blade and his upper back.  His arm quivered with the effort,
but he still withstood the weight and pressure from above.  I saw Karl's
face in profile (the upturned nose, the dangling blond locks): he was
frowning but far from desperate.  My heart leapt: yes, Karl still believes
he can win!

Karl had weapons for a counterattack: his legs.  He planted his feet firmly
on the floor, spread apart.  Then he pushed up hard, lifting his thighs and
butt, trying to topple Brad sideways.

But Brad could use his legs too.  Karl, by lifting his legs, had made it
easy for Brad slide his own legs underneath them.  And Brad did slide his
right leg under Karl's, while bringing his massive left leg down on top of
Karl's leg.  Now Brad had Karl's right thigh in a tight scissors.  That
would be uncomfortable enough for Karl.  But what was worse, Brad could now
concentrate most of his huge body weight on to this one point.

I remembered the hardness of Karl's right thigh from when I had stroked it
just a few days earlier while licking the his scrotum.  I had paid homage
with my fingers to all the latent power in that splendidly muscular leg.
Well, all that latent power was needed now!  Brad's scissors meant that
Karl could no longer move his leg.  But still Karl managed to maintain that
bridge, keeping his right hip and buttock off the mat.  Yay, Karl, you can
do it, your leg muscles are so awesome!  You can do more than bear the
weight, you can shift it!  Just push a bit harder, Karl, and you'll be able
to roll Brad over leftward and get out from under him!  Yes, Brad's moving
...!

But it was the wrong sort of movement.  Brad was lifting his body so as to
let the weight of it fall again.  It was only a short fall back down on to
Karl's thigh.  But gravity combined with Brad's awesome bone and muscle
mass ...  Oh no ...  I heard a long loud sigh of disappointment from my
hero.  Karl's right foot skidded over the mat as the bridge formed by his
right leg collapsed.

Oh Karl ....

But he wasn't done yet!  His left shoulder jerked upward an inch.  He was
redoubling his efforts to push himself up with his arm.  Yay, my strong
Karl ...  Miraculously he gained another couple of inches.  His left elbow
was closer to being straight.  And his left leg -- Brad hadn't trapped it,
it was flailing vigorously, now trying to push up, now trying somehow to
inflect damage on Brad.

But what was Brad doing with his right hand?  It suddenly dawned on me that
he wasn't using it for anything.  So Brad wasn't using all his resources to
crush Karl!  In one way this was good.  Brad wasn't hurting Karl as much as
he might.  In another way, it just reinforced (with a sickened feeling, I
had to admit it) how much stronger Brad was than my hero.

In answer to my thoughts, Brad put his right hand to use now.  He gripped
Karl's left shoulder, and shifted his weight so that maximum pressure would
bear down on it.  Karl gritted his teeth, breathing noisily, but ... within
two seconds, his left forearm and elbow had been pressed down on to the
mat.  Karl's left shoulder was now propped on his upper arm only.  And
Karl's right arm was useless, his wrist being pinned to the mat in Brad's
left-hand grip.  Even so, Karl's right shoulder, without any prop, still
maintained two inches clearance from the mat.

Karl was concentrating all his strength into maintaining this precarious
position.  His chest, straining upward ... the corrugations of muscle over
his ribs ... the veins and tendons of his neck ... his blue eyes blazing
defiance ...  If brave determination deserves victory, then you deserve it
now, Karl!

By contrast, Brad's face, looking down at Karl's, was impassive.  He was
totally in control.  He had only to wait.  Two seconds ... three seconds
... It took only four seconds of relentless pressure on Karl's left
shoulder to sap his last reserves of stamina.  All his muscles went
suddenly limp.  For the first time I saw my hero flat on his back on the
mat.  His eyes were closed, exhausted.  His torso heaved with just the
effort of breathing.

'You submit, Karl?'

Karl didn't answer straight away.

'Think about it, Karl.  If you don't submit now, I let you get up and we go
through all this again.  You won't beat me, and you'll be that much more
tired.  And you'll still have to fight Robby.  Whereas if you submit to me
now, you'll still have a chance of beating Robby.  What's more, the Spivak
team will be two to one up....'

Robby interrupted.  'Say, Brad, what's the deal here?  Sounds almost like
you want Karl to beat me!  We're supposed to be taking the guy to pieces,
remember ...'

Brad ignored Robby.  'What d'you say, Karl?'

'OK, I give in,' Karl croaked.  'You're too strong, Brad, I could never
beat you.'

Brad smiled, a broad grin, and stood up.  He put a hand down and helped
Karl get to his feet.  They stood side by side: the man-mountain and his
opponent, defeated but still proud, his head high, the sweat trickling down
his smooth youthful torso.

Brad went on: 'Even if Robby beats you, it'll still be two all.  So the
Spivak team will have acquitted itself with honor.'

'Shit!  "Acquitted itself with honor"?  Whose team are you on, Brad?'  This
was Robby, snarling angrily.  'Anyway, we've still got to let little Nicky
have a turn!  C'mon, Nicky, this is your chance to get back at Karl!  To
punish the bully!'

It had to have been pre-arranged.  Robby and Steve darted behind Karl and
each grabbed an arm.  'Whaaa...?'  Brad seemed as startled as I was: he
backed away and looked on with a puzzled expression.  As, for Pete, he was
sitting some way off, half turned away from us, his elbows on his knees,
staring at the floor.  He was taking no notice.  His body language conveyed
a clear message: 'I think you're all horrid and mean, and I don't want to
play with you any more.'

'Me?'  That was my voice, a startled squeak.

'Yes, you!  We're holding him still for ya.  He can't hurt you.  Now hit
him!'

I stood bemused in front of Karl and the two jocks who were holding him.

'Look, if you don't hit Spivak, I'll do it for you!  With Steve holding
him!  I'll make him whimper for mercy, like Brad should have done!'

'No, no!'  I looked at Robby's big muscular arms.  I had to protect Karl
from Robby, even if it meant hitting Karl myself!

I came closer.  I clenched my fist.  I jabbed Karl in the stomach.  It felt
soft.  Poor guy, he was too tired to tighten his abdominal muscles.  Still,
I hadn't hit him hard.

'You can do better than that!'  It was Robby again.  'If you don't, I will!
On your behalf!  Before I fight him on my own behalf!  So hit him, damn
you, hit him hard, until I tell you to stop!'

It was mental torture.  What was I to do?  I looked at Karl -- at his poor
exhausted face.  He gave me a sort of twisted smile.  'Yeah ... Robby's
right ... you can do better than that ... I taught you better than that
...'

I felt like my head was exploding.  My master Karl!  After all I've tried
to tell him!  He KNOWS, damn him, he KNOWS what I feel about him!  Does he
really want me to hit him?  Well, perhaps it'd serve him right, the
bastard!  Serves me right, too, for coming to like a guy who is just too
scared to be liked!  Who punishes anyone who gets close to him!

I look wildly at Steve, then at Karl, then at ... Robby.  Arrogant, cruelly
grinning Robby, holding Karl's right arm.  OK, it's time for punishment.
It's time for me, Nicky, to punish the the guy who most deserves it.
Here's my fist coming, the impact will be concentrated in the knuckles, I'm
putting my whole body weight behind it ...

'Ooof!'  Robby bends double.

Keep up momentum, hit him again ... I kick him in the abs.  Yay!  It feels
good.  Robby has let go of Karl and is lurching towards me.  I try to punch
him again but it misfires, just bounces off his arm.  He grabs my shirt
front.

'What the fuck are you playing at, you twerp?'

There's enough space between us for a knee to the groin to be effective,
maybe ...

'Right, you're gonna get it!'  A sudden heavy blow to my left cheekbone,
and I see stars.  My spectacles fly off.  A ridiculous thought goes through
my mind: I hope someone picks them up so they don't get trodden on.  I
manage to open my eyes.  I see blurrily Robby's expression of fury and his
fist drawn back again.  I close my eyes.  This is it.  Looming ahead of me
are reconstructive surgery, brain damage, life in a wheelchair...

But nothing happens.  At least, what happens is not what I am expecting.
Robby lets go of my shirt.  There is some sort of commotion.  I open my
eyes.  Brad has one arm round Robby's neck while with the other hand he is
restraining the arm with which Robby had been threatening to punch me
again.

'That's enough, Robby,' says Brad.  'Leave Nicky alone.  If we're gonna go
on with this business, I reckon it's time for me to join the Spivak team.
Steve, you let go of Karl.'

Steve didn't obey -- not straight away.  Then Brad spoke again, with a
hardness in his voice that I hadn't heard before: 'Steve, do as I say!  Let
Karl go!'

[to be continued]