V
Science and Industry might have indeed been “lesser lights” when it came to the likes of Valley as led by Tim Malloy, but they gave their betters a real run for their money. It was as exciting a football game as I, for one, ever saw played.., what I saw played of it What Billy told me of it later.
After half-time I was too busy keeping my own balls in the air, juggling like crazy to make sure that everyone ended up where everyone was supposed to end up. Time-consuming, tension-ridden—and too damned easy to fuck up. That Ryan, Harker and Mario were in it with me, each with their own missions, didn’t make the outcome any the less of a risk, any the more safe. The Studbusters were really skating on thin ice this time and if it didn’t go beat by beat it could mean jail for the lot of us.
Hard time.
Volunteering is volunteering is volunteering, though: we were in it now up to our necks and we were obligated to see it through. More. We were honor-bound to see it through.
Ryan had the first of our moves to take care of, about halfway through the final quarter, and it was one of those nail-biting things that required luck as well as skill. He had as per the plan positioned himself on the sidelines between Science and Industry’s 20 and ten, fingers crossed that Malloy would at some point dash into range on his way to another go for the end zone. Were he to make the run on the far side of the field (where anyone would be too obviously in the sight-lines of the crowd in the stands) all would be lost.., but the Gods were smiling on the Studbusters, after all: not only did Malloy go for it perilously close to the sidelines but without his usual luck, a slew of burly Science and Industry goons tackling his butt The hunky young high school football star was pitched forward, stretching out toward the turf he was doomed to collide with.
In that window of opportunity Ryan did what Ryan assured us he would do—before the defense pyramided themselves all over his prostrate form. An inconspicuous but very effective blow-gun made its quick appearance between the Studbuster’s lips, a sedative-tipped dart streaking invisibly out and impacting the downed quarterback right in the shoulder.
Thunk!
Whatever reaction young Tim might have evidenced was immediately covered over by five big football players wearing the colors of the other side. And when they got up their victim didn’t—not without trouble, anyway, dizzy. Dazed. Out of the game and down to the showers.
“I’ll take him, coach,” one of the players offered, getting a quick nod from the “Bear” of Valley High, preoccupied with keeping that point spread safe: no one noticed in all the hubbub that the volunteering player in the Valley High colors was an outsider kid by the name of Mario.
“I’m fine, I’m okay,” Tim was mumbling, even as he was allowing himself to be led to the lockers—where Harker was laying in prearranged wait. The “who the hell are you” which slurred out the drugged player’s mouth was answered with “a good Samaritan” as the two Studbusters “helped” the youthful athlete off with that earth-smeared, sweat-smelling uniform, sighing as they did. Jaysus, Jay- sus, Jaysus, was this kid Malloy ever a hunk in bud, smooth-skinned over a rippling washboard belly and a vee-shaped torso that just wouldn’t quit A set of shoulders topping biceps like softballs and—
What a shame it wasn’t this teenager we were going to Studbust.
Unfortunately not young Tim simply stripped not even down to his jock (damn!), locked away in a dark empty classroom to sleep it off. The janitor would find him in the morning, we would arrange that and, after a week of ribbing, the incident would be forgotten by one and all: Malloy’s young innocent life would go on unscathed.
From here on in—particularly where Coach Heyward and Greg were concerned—Mario would be Tim. And I would be “Tim’s” big brother Bob. pleased as the proverbial punch that so important a university athletic department as Heyward represented would be so actively after my sibling’s signature on a letter of agreement.
“He’s downstairs, not hurt,” I assured the pair. “You want to meet him maybe now would be a good time, before the locker room gets too crowded after the game.” They did want to talk to “Tim” in private, didn’t they?
Shit is a pig the progenitor of pork? “We’d love to,” Coach Steve salivated (trying not to be overly eager), rising from his seat in the stands and following me into the building behind.
“Locker room’s this way,” I misinformed them, leading the pair through a maze of unfamiliar corridors well off the beaten track, deliberately taking a long way around. The destination wasn’t the locker room at all, of course; it was a forgotten storage closet of ample size. They walked innocently through the door and then practically collided with each other inside, staggered by the sight greeting their eyes.
Tim Malloy (for all they knew) dangling from a set of fleece-lined leather restraints fastened tightly around each wrist attaching links of chain looped to the pipe running just beneath the ten-foot-high stained plaster ceiling. He was in his field-messed uniform with his stretched belly button showing, a side of teenage beef trepidaciously waiting for the inevitable onslaught of rough sexual abuse, expression tense and yet somehow filled with curiosity and anticipation.
“What the fuck is this?” Greg Mayes gasped, still too shocked to realize that Ry had now joined Hark and myself in the isolated chamber, the door closed and locked behind him.
“Studbuster revenge,” the usurping quarterback was informed, “you don’t play your cards right.”
“Billy called the Studbusters?” The thought alone made Greg’s knees buckle a little: he knew about our company even if the coach didn’t “We’re dead meat.”
“The hell we are,” Steve snapped. Studbusters, whatever the fuck they were, didn’t scare him. Ignorance is bliss. And if we didn’t cut that poor kid down and open that door this instant he’d personally call the cops.
“You can call all the cops you want,” Harker was pleased to tell him—“after you suck the cum out of this hot football player balls.” He patted the camera he held in his hand, one of those brand-new Betafilm all-in-ones.
“If you think I’m a fucking homo queer you’ve got another thing coming, ass-wipe.” Indignation made his cheeks rattle, his mouth become a straight line.
“It doesn’t matter whether you’re a fucking homo queer.”
My favorite bullwhip was curling in my fist as I spoke, low and persuasive. “You’re going to suck the cum out of that kid’s hot football player balls, anyway. And you,” I promised Greg, “you’re going to tongue his greasy football player ass and make him shoot that load.”
“Come on, man.” Greg’s whine was annoying. Very lack- of-character. “Hey.”
“They can’t make you do anything.” The coach had righteousness on his side, and a misplaced sense of virtue. “Nor me.” He regarded us all malevolently. “Killing us is one thing. Just remember, though: dead men don’t suck cock, no matter who wants them to.”
“The shithead thinks we’re going to do the torture number on them.” Ryan snickered, contemptuous of the tough act. good-sized automatic revolver suddenly appearing in his hand.
And in Harker’s.
“You’re the audience, that’s why you are here,” I promised them. “Unless you ask to get into the act Have a seat.” My finger gestured them to the bench at the side of the room.
“The man said ‘sit!”’ Harker barked, their compliance slow until they felt the cold steel at the end of his weapon, poking their ribs. “And you ‘just remember, though:’ anytime you want you can stop it Any fucking time.”
My hand lashed out the whip in it cracking hard against Mario’s ass. He cried out, the back of his stained uniform pants gaping, exposing the as-yet unblemished flesh of his cheeks. “They’re going to kill me, please, say somthing—stop them—aaaahhh—! A second strike, this one criss-crossing the first.
“Gag the fucker.” I grated in as brutal a tone of voice as either the coach or the quarterback watching could ever have heard.
“Yeah,” Ryan said, his voice pervertedly thick. “And I know just what I’m going to use to shove in his drippy mouth.” He hooked his gun under his arm and snapped a switchblade open with one skilled flick of his wrist, the eyes of our two-man audience beginning to bug.
“Holy fuck,” Steve Heyward stammered. “You really are going to stab him—”
“Not if you say the right word, scumbag.” The blade popped the strings lacing the front of the football pants, gaping it open more and more, exposing the cup and the jock underneath. For good measure I placed several more lashes on either side of the hanging body, making it dance as it dangled.
“Do what they want.” Mario begged, piteous. “I don’t know how long I can take this, please?”
“Shut up, you lousy little faggot,” Ryan growled, severing the straps of the “teenager’s” athletic supporter and yanking it off his crotch, exposing his medium-hard cock and the pendulous balls beneath. “You fucking love it.”
“Noohhh,” came the response, cut off when the Studbuster jammed the stinking piss and cum-stiffened jock hard into Mario’s mouth. “Mmmffffkkk—”
“Now let’s see how loud the cum-suck can scream.” I suggested, waling away. The kid’s muffled protests were like razors chipping away at the souls of our gun-point captives.
“Mfff! Awwwkkk! Mfffggh—!”
“You fucking bastards.” The coach’s curse was groaned out. Things were right on schedule. “You goddamned perverts.”
“And you boys ain’t seen nothing yet,” Harker assured him, digging into his pockets and coming up with a nastylooking pair of shiny needles, going up to our “victim” and patting his cheek. Did “Tim” know what it felt like, having a couple of nice sharp pins stuck through his big pink-amber quarter-sized tits… ?
Already his free thumb and forefinger were pinching the one on the ridge of the left pec, where it curved up into the hairy armpit, twisting it up and out, turning it red. An “awwww” was moaned out from behind the jock-gag. now being soaked with excess saliva. Something that might have been a “don’t.” A “please, don’t do that to my tit, please.”
“Only one pair of guys in this room who can make me stop, stud.” Ryan began to lower the first of the needles, touching the tip to one side of the unblemished aureola.
“You’re not going to do that not even you would be that sick.” Greg was positive. Absolutely positive. And absolutely wrong.
The screech that came out from behind the gag was just as piercing as it would have been unencumbered, “Tim’s” helpless body writhing in its unbreakable bondage, the legs kicking the air, the corrugated stomach accordioning Nothing seemed to help, the Studbuster pushing this First of his slender needles beneath the skin, burrowing it through the nipple, forcing it back out the other side, a trickle of cherry-red blood emerging with it making a little rivulet down the undulating ribs.
“That’s one,” Harker said cheerfully, grinning a challenge at the pair on the bench. “Here goes Number Two.”
Ryan had his instructions: keep going unless specifically requested to stop by Heyward. The way we were working it here not even Greg Mayes, that homophobe, could say the word. It had to be the coach. Alone.
Mario’s second tit was pinched up from his chest the needle on this side driven even harder through his glistening flesh. Once again he bucked where he hung, whimpering. Another rivulet of blood appeared to balance the first, each of his armpits now soupy with sweat, the kind that permeates a room with the sour intensity of its fetid smell.
For a minute I felt worry overtake me. What if this asshole coach withstood this display we had so carefully put on for him? As Ryan had quite honestly said. Mario did love this; the kid was a freak for pain—within a certain limit, of course. A limit we were nearing. But we’d studied the coach, even asked our consultant shrink about him—or about his type. One thing he couldn’t take was having one of his players get hurt I was sure it’d carry over.., well, almost sure.
It was going to be closer than I liked but the shot was still there and having gone this far, shit, what else could we do but go for it all the way? At least Greg was breaking, babbling to Heyward that they had to say something like “Tim” had begged them to. “We can’t just let them torture him like this.”
The coach struggled with his morality, torn as he watched Ryan stab the third of the needles through the puckering foreskin of Mario’s fat, blue-veined dick, after which he began to tie lengths of tough nylon fishlines between the needles, forcing that big piece of man-meat upward almost as far as the belly button, using the left-over for wrapping around the balls, tight tighter, tightest The football player’s stud-eggs turned several colors in their sac, separated and looking as though they’d burst open.
“Mfwuuuhhh.” Harker’s hunky young cousin blubbered, complexion mottled. He looked like he was going to pass out and still the Studbusters kept at him for the benefit of the college’s all-stars.
“Cry, yeah,” Harker urged him, a dildo of enormous size, ticklers attached to the head, greased up in his hand. “Wait till you get reamed by this, fuckface.” He “tickled” Mario’s armpit hairs with it and his bloody ribs, and the cheeks of his face and his ass—and then he jabbed it up his ass.
The howl was worse than any that had come before and it was the straw that broke the camel’s back. Coach Heyward slithered back up onto his feet, shoulder-blades supported by the wall behind him, mouth quivering. “All right,” he said, shaking. “You win. You win.”
“Do we?” I wasn’t about to let him off the hook with just a simple “you win,” not after all the work we had to go through to get to this point. “What,” did we win?
VI
The tape we made is still one of my favorites, easily the equal of the one Greg made of the drugged Billy Wade Vinovitch. Ryan is even better with a video camera than he is with tit-needles, and we’ve got some great shots of that manly stud Steve Heyward spit-polishing the stiff, plumheaded rod of some unidentified football playing kid he and his all-too-identifiable quarterback are obviously keeping in tied-up captivity. The sweat-drenched boy is twisting back and forth between their sucking mouths, the ravenous Greg delving deep into the cleft of the youthful ass, tongue probing the button and not stopping there. Flailing thighs stretch apart and come together first around one face and then the other as the rape continues. Mario’s chest heaving, hoarse little hissing noises making the Adam’s Apple bob in his throat After a while they get louder, his hard-on growing almost too big for the coach’s mouth to encompass, the meandering veins around the circumference popping here, there, back and front A close-up shows us the gaping pee-hole, the tightened boy ball signalling the cannonade.
“Now,” comes the shuddering gasp. “I’m shooting, you’re making me cum. you bastards, unnggghhhkkk—!”
Jets spurt with immense power and size across the space between the bulging bulb and the face in front of it hot globules of fish-smelling semen splattering onto Coach Heyward’s good looks, dripping cluster-like down his clean-shaven cheeks, off the tip of his sculptured nose. An expression of disgust and humiliation contorts his features along with a sorrowful “aawwwww”—and yet something else is also in that expression as well, something more like. I don’t know, fascination? Intrigue? Justice done?
A score evened?
Is that what I think it is, that dark wet patch staining the inside of the coach’s pants? Spreading outward and downward with gravity and capillary action?
I hope so.
Not that it matters. We didn’t bring either of these assholes here to show them new ways of getting their rocks off. The Studbusters want a career put back together again, that’s their motive, their sole motive. And if Coach Heyward wants to argue the point “hey. you know how easy it is to duplicate videotapes these days?
“How cheap?”
Steve knew, and so did Greg. “What the hell.” We were startled (and irritated) to hear him say with a characteristically indifferent shrug. “It was a shot. Worth the try.”
“You son of a bitch.” An oath voiced not by any of the Studbusters but by the coach, the truth behind that original tape bursting all over his mind as though the second-stringer had smashed a raw egg against his forehead. Before Greg could give him his patented amoral smirk Heyward was turning to ask a favor of us—“because real Studbusters would know the job’s not finished yet, wouldn’t they.”
Yeah, they sure would. And immediately that patented amoral smirk on Greg’s puss was blanched away: the Studbusters were advancing on him, fingers itching to shred those nice designer clothes off his terrifically constructed body. “Wait a minute, guys,” he hiccupped, looking desperately towards the coach for protection. “You can’t let them do it to me, please—coach—”
“Practice’s at 9:30 tomorrow, fella,” came the replay as Heyward sauntered out, his stride downright jaunty, the hat cocked on the side of his head. “Don’t party all night.”
“Coach—“
He didn’t get to say much more, his mouth too full. It stayed like that ’til about ten after nine the following morning, after which the Studbusters assumption was that he went directly to practice, warming the bench while Billy Wade Vinovitch helped Heyward work up the plays for Saturday’s game against the Clips.
