This, the hottest American college jock sports story I ever read, was first serialized in DRUMMER MAGAZINE, probably in the 1970s. Pure fantasy but loaded with well described man-to-man pain and challenge locker room action.

I met the author sometime later in Los Angeles and, am ashamed to say, I have now no record of his name or even if he is still alive. Also, although published in DRUMMER in the hay-day of that magazine, I have no idea who owns the copyrights.

Because it has remained in my memory for so long and is not currently available in print, I reproduce it here because it relates so well to my sports related masochism index.

More information about the author and copyrights owner would be welcomed. If anybody with a claim to ownership of this story would please E-MAIL JIM STEWART, I will immediately add a credit or remove the story upon their request.

Jim - April 2008

 

A 25,500 word story in eight parts

Part 1

It happened at the very end of the '53 football season, in one of those smallish towns that pimple the flatlands of north-eastern Indiana . After the Thanksgiving Day game, five linemen, all seniors who had battled together for four years, nakedly lingered in the trainer's room, reluctant to get dressed and part. Each would be going off to a different college in the fall, and there was an almost feverish need to demonstrate their unique solidarity in some unforgettable binding way.

They were a diverse group.

Moses Brown , 18, the center, was black. At 6'4', he was the tallest as well as the most spectacularly muscled of the five, with a quick smile and an easygoing manner that belied his ferocity on the field - in practice sessions against his own team-mates, as well as in actual competition against hated rivals.

Left guard was chunkily hunky Dicko Novak, 17, sandy crew cut hair surmounting a high-cheek-boned, middle-European face lit by piercing hazel eyes and underscored by a strong, cleft jaw. His sadistic sense of humour took the form of an endless series of "practical jokes," more mean than merry.

By way of contrast, right guard Manuel Alvarez, also 18, was sleek and dark, heavy-browed and hairy, cunning and devious both on the field and off. The expression in his dark eyes turned from faraway to furtive at the click of an invisible switch, and a favourite pastime among his friends was to try to guess at any given moment just what he was thinking.

Seventeen-year-old Johnny Todd, left tackle, was compactly muscled more in the manner of a championship swimmer than in that of a football player. An all-American blue-eyed blond with traditionally sexy good looks, he was the one most clearly cast in the mould of the lady-killing, boy next-door, gridiron idol. It was a role Johnny enjoyed and played to the hilt.

The last of the five, the right tackle, was the most curious of the group. He was so strikingly tall, dark and handsome as to be destined for the movie screen, where he could best serve the masturbatory fantasies of the world. His 18-year-old face and body were his obsessions, and he kept both in a state of awesome perfection. His family had emigrated from Greece just before his birth, and he had the unlikely name of Thaao Demosthenes.

 

Here, then, were these five naked studs, who for four years had shared the giving and taking of a million pains and agonies as part of their daily routine. Not wishing to break the circle of their camaraderie, they hesitated now in the familiar trainer's room at the high school gym, unconsciously Craving some symbolic act to consecrate a mutual commitment.

Finally, Dicko initiated the halting conversation that was to lead to a solution of the unspoken dilemma: "Hey, man, yeah! Shit! We got knocked around a helluva lot out there. But did-ya ever wonder how much pain ya could really take, without freakin'? What I mean is, I mean like real pain. Before you'd start screamin' an' throw in the fucked towel?"

There was a long silence.

"Naw," Manuel finally spoke up, "but sometimes, out on the field, I'd thinka all kinda diff'rent ways ta make those other motherfuckers holler' uncle!"

', Shit! Me too, man!" Moses interjected. "Specially on whiteys!"

"I seen lotsa torture stuff in the movies and on the TV - those 'Hercules' movies an' all - that almost got my fuckin' rocks off!" Thaao shouted into the now general hubbub.

Met I could take more than any a' you fuckin' creeps!" It was Johnny Todd who hurled the challenge, stopping the conversation with a sudden, urgent need for action.

Half-an-hour later, plans for that action had been formulated. It was decided that at 8 pm. the following Monday, and each night through Friday, the five would gather there in the trainer's room. Each would take a rum as I. victim," while the remaining four would one by one act as torturer for a fifteen-minute football game-like period, each limiting himself to one particular area of the body. Torture could be terminated if the victim proclaimed that he'd had enough, but if he did he forfeited all future participation rights.

Only the equipment available in the room was to be used, and no torture would be permitted that threatened permanent injury or marks that would show: It was to be a test of the ingenuity of the Masters as well as the endurance of the Slave. Then, on Saturday night, they would cast two sets of ballots: one would decide who had been the instigator of the most pain; the other, who best stood up to it. Those two would then "entertain" the others with one last full-hour "challenge session."

At 8 pm. on Monday, the five young football stars were assembled in the still-sweaty atmosphere of the trainer's room. Perched on rubbing tables under harsh fluorescent lights, surrounded by lockers and weight-lifting paraphernalia, they made one final rule: that "in order to equalize the odds and avoid any hidden pain-producing devices all five would strip down completely for each session. This they eagerly proceeded to do.

Five marbles were placed in an athletic protective cup, four of clear glass and one red, and the cup set up on top of the locker. One at a time, muscles rippling, the naked athletes reached up and selected a marble. The first victim, he who drew die red marble, ironically turned out to be the one who had indirectly fathered the idea: Dicko Novak. A quick game of rock-paper-scissors determined the order of torturers. Thus it was that Dicko stood, skin glistening, ready to submit his body without question to the all

American boy, Johnny Todd. Exotic middle-European versus clean-cut Mid-westerner.

"O.K., big nuts," Johnny ordered, stretch yourself out on your back on that fuckin' rubbin' table!" Dicko slowly complied, and Johnny reached for a roll of adhesive tape.

He started at the shaved ankles, fastening them tightly together, then running the tape under the table and several times around the central supporting stanchion. Moving to the other end of the table, he pulled Dicko's arms straight above his head, taped the wrists together, right over left, and secured the binding to the stanchion at the end.

For several long moments he studied the immobilized young athlete. It occurred to him that despite the countless hours of shared locker and shower rooms, he had never really examined that naked body before: the lightly curling hairs of the armpits and fringing the strangely erect nipples, the tapering of the torso from shoulders to waist, the strong line of the rib cage, the sudden blossoming of wiry pubic hair, the leftward curve of the long uncircumcised cock. He took in all these details of his helpless victim and felt himself becoming slightly aroused.

"I choose the feet and legs he declared. He moved quickly to a custodian's locker and pulled two feathers from a duster he had known to be there. Stationing himself below Dicko's bare feet, he ordered: "O.K., start timing me.

With a feather in each hand Johnny started gently tickling the soles of die feet in front of him, first one and then the other, occasionally both at once, concentrating delicately on the tender arches. Dicko at first tried to stifle his giggles but soon was laughing uncontrollably, vainly trying to twist his fettered feet away from the delicious agony.

Johnny stepped up the pace, moving along the heavily muscled calves, and upward, to the sensitive inner thighs, higher and higher, tantalizing but not quite touching the bottom of the inert scrotum. Dicko's laughter became a kind of sobbing as aching cramps began to seize first his feet, then through his calves and knees to upper legs. Sweat poured from his body. His sobs became a fitful gasping for breath. He felt he was passing out.

"Time!" called Moses Brown, who had volunteered to serve in that capacity.

Dicko was freed and given five minutes to get his breath and restore the circulation to his limbs. He moved gingerly about the room, long cock swaying, rubbing his legs and feet. Moses, Manuel, and Thaao were congratulating Johnny on his ingenuity and silently admiring Dicko for the fact at he had not cried out for the torture tostop.

Then it was Thaao's turn.

"I wantcha on your fuckin' back, too, but spread your arms 'n' legs so's they dangle over the sides," he instructed.

Dicko silently took the required position, and his ankles and wrists were fastened together beneath the table. With his legs spread so wide, he knew his cock and balls were in an especially vulnerable position, and feared that would be the area Thaao decided to work over during his fifteen-minute session.

"Me, I'm goin' for the mother-fucker's pits 'n' fits," Thaao announced. The future movie idol stretched Dicko's cock upward toward his navel and sat on his lower stomach, trapping the member between the cheeks of his own ass. The initial movements of his hands were almost a caress, his fingertips tracing the mounds of the twin pectorals, outlining the nipples, and working by degrees into the hairs of the armpits.

He felt a growing of the cock between his buttocks and scrunched down on it harder, knowing that his own was also enlarging.

"Forceps!"

The instrument was supplied him from the trainer's first aid supplies. Dicko's breathing grew heavier, the motion of his diaphragm causing Thaao's hardening cock to roll gently from side to side on that fleshy bed. The three others drew in closer, their hands idly toying with their own semi-erect phalluses. That the week's experiences might prove m any way erotic had not occurred to them.

Wordlessly accepting the forceps, Thaao went for the left guard's right armpit, carefully securing a tiny fold of flesh between its teeth. Suddenly he tightened and violently twisted and a sharp shriek forced itself from Dicko's guts. Just as suddenly, before blood was drawn, Thaao released the first grip and moved to the sensitive flesh of the other armpit~ repeating the performance. Again an agonized scream.

Thus a pattern was established. Thaao pinched and twisted, alternating from one side to the other, drawing two lines of tiny bruises that ran from the armpits toward the nipples. The Greek god knew that~ despite the victim's staccato cries of pain, the entrapped cock was now completely hard, and he ground down on it heartlessly.

When he reached the right nipple itself, the mere touch of metal to that erogenous spot brought the loudest cry yet from Dicko's lips. But Thaao was merciless . He tightened the grip, but, instead of twisting this time, he pulled, drawing the flesh a good two inches away from the body. Just as Dicko knew he could take no more, and was about to give up, the grip was released. Tears ran from the corners of his eyes as he felt the metal touch his left nipple, and his breath came in gasps. If Moses hadn't called "Time!" at that moment, he would have thrown in the towel and given up his chances for any further participation in the week's events.

This was "half time, so fifteen minutes were given Dicko before Manuel took over. When released from Thaao's weight and the restraining tapes, Dicko just lay still a few moments, instinctively aware that all eyes were on his throbbing erection and unconsciously proud that he need feel no shame at its generous dimensions. He then got off the torture table and walked rapidly about, breathing deeply and shaking his stiff arms vigorously.

All too soon the fifteen minutes were at an end, and Dicko Novak faced the expressionless dark eyes of Manuel Alvarez.

"O.K., mon, I'm sick of this on-the-back shit Let's see ya get on your belly on that fuckin' table like ya was makin' hot love to it."

Dicko obeyed, lying on his stomach and embracing the narrow table with both arms and legs. Again, wrists and ankles were taped together underneath it, and now he was quite suddenly aware of the total openness of his virgin asshole. Would Manuel dare? Manuel, whose cock, though of only average length, was the thickest he had ever seen? He squirmed in helpless dread.

"I choose the ass!" Manuel gloated, and Dicko was on the verge of calling an end to the proceedings right then and there. "Hand me my belt; I'm really gonna warm up this mother's fanny."

Dicko almost felt relief that he was only going to be whipped, not violated. But then he felt the first stinging blow from the heavy engineer's belt, crackingly applied to the crease where buttocks meet thighs. First just a warmth, then a tingling, then the outraged fire of a thousand burning nerve ends. He could recall the many times in the past that his stem father had given him a "licking," but had never known such pain as this.

It was almost as if Manuel had made a scientific study of buttock lashing, had devoted his entire young life to perfecting his technique. Each slash of the leather belt was just a fraction of an inch enough above the one before so as to avoid breaking the flesh, yet to inflict maximum punishment. Under the glaring fluorescent lights, the reddish overlapping of the welts could be seen imprinted in full detail on the twin white mounds, even to the placement of die buckle holes.

Dicko began to fear losing control and voiding his bowels if the incessant lashes did not soon let up. He was surprised when the screams he heard inside his head turned out to be his own, but he didn't care. There was no question, in the little corner of his mind that could still think, that he had been enduring this agony for at least an hour and that the time of breaking was here.

"Time!" came the blessed call from Moses.

The huge Black, whose own turn was nigh, eyed his prey as he was untaped and sprang unsteadily to his feet for the five-minute respite before the final ordeal. Moses thought of all the stories he had heard and read about the maltreatment of his forebears by white masters and overseers, and relished the opportunity for some small measure of revenge that was to be his over the minutes and nights to come.

Pacing around the room, loosening up, getting his breath back, Dicko could almost sense the hostility of his next and final tormentor, and found himself unable to meet the glittering black eyes. There were few portions of his anatomy left untouched, among them the areas he most prized and held dear: his face and his genitals. Which, he wondered, would Moses Brown choose?

"All right, white boy! Back to the table, and make like ya did for the Greek here. I fuckin' well liked that view all t' hell 'n'back!"

In what seemed to be no time at all, Dicko felt himself once again on his back on the sweat-slippery table, arms and legs stretched to the sides and fastened underneath. In one respect Moses was innovative: he slapped a broad piece of tape over Dicko's eyes, plunging him into total darkness.

"See." Moses explained to the group, "all I'm gonna use is my own two fuckin' bare hands."

Then Dicko's worst fears were realized. He felt those two bare ham-like hands playing with his genitals, milking his cock, pulling the foreskin back, massaging the hardness that at immediately developed. But this was not torture! This was pleasurable! He let himself relax to the coming ecstasy, but just as that orgasmic moment of release came close, the massaging came to a halt. The hand went instead to his balls, grabbing them and gradually, achingly, squeezing them.

"No! No!" Dicko screamed. "No permanent damage, remember?"

"Don't you worry none, white boy. Just couldn't resist squeezin' those two big fuckin' nuts o' yours." He turned to the others. "I choose the cock 'n' balls!"

'Re pressure eased somewhat, but the big hand kept a painful grip on the testicles. Then came a curious prickling sensation, higher up in the groin area, just above the base of the still-tumescent organ.

"One!'

Another prickling. 'Two!"

And another. 'Three!"

While Moses counted, it came over Dicko what his tormentor was doing down there. One by one, he was pulling out the sandy pubic hairs. And with each one, the pain escalated. Surely this had to be the worse torture of all: balls in a vice-like grip, cock erect yet unrelieved, and the exquisitely pinpointed pain Of the pulling out of deeply rooted hairs . On a razor's edge between purgatory and paradise, Dicko thrashed wildly within the confines of his bounds, certain, for the first time of the entire evening, that his mind was going to snap.

“ … sixty-six...sixty-seven ... sixty-eight"'

Dicko had just gasped for the breath with which to blubber his capitulation when "Time!" broke through the fog in his brain and he was released to the general rejoicing and boisterous congratulations of his peers. They held him to the shower room, where all Luxuriated under the tingling sprays.

There was little of the grab-ass horseplay that usually accompanied their showering together, however. Each was lost in his own thoughts of what had been observed and experienced that evening, and of what was to come to each of them over the next four nights. Only Dicko Novak was fully at ease. Still, a certain hardness closed in around his eyes, especially when they focused on the dangling purple-headed cock of one Moses Brown.

END OF PART ONE

SEVEN MORE EPISODES TO FOLLOW
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