[This story contains elements of dubious consent. If that's not your groove, read elsewhere.]
When I got home, Nick was sitting in his adopted chair, reading.
“Hey. Where have you come from?”
“The duplex. Hanging out – getting to know Finn… and Donovan. They’ve got a nice space over there. Don’t seem as close-knit as us, though.”
“Yeah, they manage. Finn and Donovan tend to spend most of their time at theirs, while Luca goes over and hangs more often with Ernesto, Jax and Ethan. But they can still mix and match,” Nick explained.
“Did you go upstairs?” he asked. “There’s a double connecting door that can be locked from the inside or opened to the hallway of the house next door? You know, like with connecting hotel rooms. They leave it open so they all can just come and go.”
“I’ve never heard of that.”
“The school did it when they remodeled the place as graduate student housing. Luckily they finished just before lockdown. That’s why it was available.” He changed the subject. “How was your workout this morning?”
“Great. I’m making progress. Can’t you tell?” I said flexing my arms. I was nowhere close to Nick’s bulging guns, but I had a respectable amount of definition.
“Jackson’s a really good coach,” Nick agreed.
“Sounds like there’s no love lost between Donovan and Jackson,” I said, gauging Nick's reaction.
He raised his eyebrows. “They’re teammates – they know how to work together, they know how to work things out. We all do.”
“I’m just not feeling the dude,” I confessed.
“It’s hard to be Donovan. Look at him, he’s perfect – all-American good looks, athletic, football star – all his life he’s been handed everything he’s ever wanted, except for one thing.”
“Which is…?”
“Not to be gay,” Nick stated simply.
“Huh.” That floored me. “And he can’t try being gay? That’s also something he was handed.”
“Come on, you know it’s not that simple.” Nick gave me a ‘Do better’ look. “Especially in football. It’s evolving, but it’s still a seismic shift. He has a shot at the NFL. Or failing that, sports television. Donovan has to deal with family expectations, social expectations, popular pressures, all of that. Baby steps, as I keep saying.
“I hope maybe when all this is over we can get him to stop seeing the people he wants to sleep with as faggots, and stop believing that the only way to channel his frustration is through bullying or sexual aggression. I don’t think that’s really his kink. It’s just self-hatred manifesting.”
I suddenly remembered – “Finn invited me for a date Saturday, he’s cooking me dinner. Then ‘Netflix and chill,’ as he termed it. Like that, in visible quotes. Pretty sure Donovan reacted kind of oddly when Finn told him. Said he’d like to come for dessert or sloppy seconds, yuck yuck, but I don’t think that’s what he meant.”
“Sounds harmless enough. I’ve never heard of Finn getting into trouble. Not like Riley. That said, I don’t entirely trust him. I think he sees himself as this puppet master mastermind—”
“No, that would be you,” I cut in.
“Fuck off." He feinted a swat at me. "Finn’s not the player he thinks he is. But he likes getting people to do things, and do them his way. Hates not being the boss. You may not have noticed yet, but Donovan follows him around like a puppy dog. Totally defers to Finn. He’s a follower, which is so odd, given who he is. It’s why Jackson is team captain.”
“Yeah,” I nodded. “I wondered about that too, but I don’t think Donovan has the compassion or humility yet to be a good leader. Oh yeah,” I switched gears. “Finn and I talked about maybe doing family dinners here for everyone on Sundays. Open things up. We have the space. We can put the extra leaves into the dining room table.”
“Not a bad idea at all. Speaking of puppet masters...” Nick changed the subject. “Riley’s kind of pissed at me.”
“What for?” I asked.
“Well, I think he’s still processing your ‘date’ last night, but he thinks that I played him. You know, by setting up that scene with you that he thought was 100% real. He thought I was on the same page with him wanting to take you whether you wanted it or not, and I think he feels stupid.
“When all I wanted was to give him an experience he wouldn’t forget. So now he’s pissed, or hurt, or both.”
“I mean, it doesn’t really matter whether it was real or not.” I pointed out. “He got to do what he wanted to do. You were just there to make sure he didn’t do something he couldn’t undo. Or would regret.”
“He’ll come around. Like I said, he’s still processing your date last night. He thought he was walking a tightrope without a net, and it turns out there was a net. Real men don’t do nets. And real men don’t fall for the tightrope either.”
“Am I the tightrope in this metaphor?”
“You are when I’ve got you tied up.”
My dick stiffened visibly. Nick smirked.
I blushed.
“Seriously, though, yes. He’s walking a highwire balancing desire and masculinity. Falling for you, even if it just means coming back for more of what he can’t seem to do without, is extremely risky. It makes him vulnerable. We jocks hate that.”
It was a good metaphor, I had to admit.
“Since it’s just the two of us here now,” he said, dismissing the matter, “I wanted to talk about this exhibition practice with you. I thought we’d do it tomorrow night. First we’ll do some demonstrations and drills. Seriously try to teach you some basic elements. Falls, escapes, holds, bridges. Then we’ll do a little rough-housing, to see what you’ve learned. Then we’ll have an exhibition face-off, you against Luca.
“Just so you know, the rumor is that when Dean was captain of his high school, he had a very unorthodox way to motivate his team. If you were slacking off, he would announce a round robin of face-offs and promised to fuck the loser at the end. It was his way of getting their asses in gear or getting the fuck-ups to quit. For the record, I will neither confirm nor deny that this practice has continued into his college career.”
“That’s probably wise,” I agreed.
“Dean gets off on rough sex as much as any of us, but he likes to think he’s doing it for the team, for the greater good. And in fact he is. Although you don’t need to be motivated, Luca does. He’s just not responding well to Dean’s style of leadership. After Dean fucks you for losing, he’s gonna offer your ass to Luca as a reward for winning. And for his overall performance this season.”
“You’re welcome,” I said, smirking.
“Yeah, I admit, that was a genius idea. Even if it’s all bullshit, I think it will help with some of Luca’s confidence issues. And also repair some of the rift with Dean. The greater good will be served.”
“What about Ernesto?”
“Funny you should ask,” Nick said, giving an evil smile. “Ernesto is a good boy. He’s so good – colors between the lines, doesn’t break the rules, a real team player, supportive, the whole deal. But he has a problem that keeps him up at night. A secret he keeps sealed in his pure little heart that only comes out when we’ve smoked weed or had too much to drink at the end of a tournament…” He paused and looked at me expectantly.
“Which is? Don’t keep me in suspense, fuckhead!”
I didn’t see Nick’s hand fly out and whale me across the face, then grab me by the neck and shove me into his nearest armpit. Jesus Christ, the speed and agility of this guy, not to mention his strength.
“Watch that mouth, faggot. You will respect me.” He grabbed me by my hair and tilted my face up to his. “Do you understand me, bitch?”
“Yes, sir. Yes I do.”
“Glad to hear it.” He let go of my hair. “As I was saying, his dark little secret is that he really gets off on struggle, as we call it in the subculture, or strugglefuck.”
“What is that, sex while wrestling?” I asked, clueless.
“No,” Nick said, chuckling. Then looked at me soberly. “Basically, it’s sex with an unwilling partner. Like CNC, but the point is, the first C isn’t there. There’s only struggle. It’s not negotiated, it’s not safe and sane. Since he’s such a decent guy, he’s horrified that this turns him on. But he’s also frustrated, because he hasn’t found the kind of outlet for his desire that he needs.”
“I can see why that’s complicated,” I agreed. “It’s really hard to set up a scene without negotiating the parameters.”
“Yep. Even with you coming up with the idea that Ernesto gets you solo. We’re gonna have to get really creative. For this to be effective, the ‘victim’ can’t know what the struggle will entail. Which means I’m the middle-man again. Ernesto needs to figure out what kind of struggle will satisfy him, and have some limits set by me, based on my knowledge of you.
“Meanwhile you’re going to have to come up with some things that terrify you that aren’t necessarily dealbreakers.”
“Clowns,” I interjected immediately. “Serial killers. Clowns who are serial killers…”
“Hold that thought,” Nick resumed. “Write them down on a piece of paper and get them to me tonight sometime after dinner. The basic framework is that you will be downstairs watching TV all night, and that’s his staging ground. Whatever he can come up with there, goes. Remember, it’s not about whips and chains, or knives. Or any gear. It’s about not wanting something that is 100% going to happen.”
We sat through a relatively silent dinner at which Dean seemed preoccupied, Riley sulky and Nick his usual taciturn self. Pedro and Rico spoke animatedly in Portuguese at one corner of the table. I excused myself to go upstairs and work on the list that Nick had asked for. Things that terrified me, in sexual contexts or more generally.
I started a numbered list from one to ten, and then wrote at number one, ‘Knives.’ For fun, I put clowns and serial killers at numbers two and three.
I was trying to think of things that might prompt some kind of brainstorm in Nick, but that wasn’t really what he’d asked for. I wasn’t supposed to craft an obstacle course for Nick or Ernesto to navigate. I was supposed to list the kind of things that Ernesto would have to ignore in order to move me to the “unwilling” column.
Part of the problem was that there’s so much I haven’t tried that turns me on, in theory. I mean torture – waterboarding, cbt, nipple clamps – wasn’t terrifying to me, but nor was there anything arousing about it, for me at least. I added breath play to the list. And sensory deprivation. I was a very scopophilic pervert. I wanted to see shit – bodies, cocks, faces.
Just in case there was any doubt about the question, I added scat and body modification to the list. As an afterthought I put “HARD NO” after both of these. Oh, and public sex. If the people fucking me are watching me, that’s fine, but I don’t want an audience of non-participants.
At ninth place I put PnP, party and play – I don’t object to an edible some evenings when I’ve got nowhere to be, but I’m not into crystal meth, poppers or GHB. Finally at number ten, I wrote anonymous hookups. Despite our life in quarantine having more or less been launched with one.
I dropped off the list at Nick’s room. He looked it over and gave it some thought.
“Good job, I can work with this,” he said.
I left and bumped into Riley in the hallway, also headed for bed. Literally bumped shoulders with him. He gave me a quizzical look, but said nothing, opened his bedroom door, entered and closed the door behind him.
Friday morning was spent shopping for food with Nick and Pedro, doing laundry with Rico (which involved giving into a 69 on the laundry room floor, a giant leap forward for Rico, who was now treating me like Narcissus would Echo, which is to say, with slavish devotion – if slavish devotion includes being throttled, smacked and choked in between besotted kisses).
It did not, however, include interacting at all with Riley, who suddenly couldn’t see me in a room. When Nick had said he was processing our “date,” he wasn’t wrong. Riley was a live-action spinning pinwheel of death processing his own feelings. I trusted that we’d get a reboot eventually.
I have to say I normally wouldn’t have been enthusiastic about sex in the laundry room during the day, since it was the only way out to the back patio where Pedro’s hibachi lived. But somehow, the guys managed by common accord never to stumble across one of our matinées. Or soirées. Everybody seemed to understand how to give the guys nailing me their space.
We all found time to study during the afternoon. By mutual accord, we had a light dinner of chopped salad around 5pm, which was early for us.
Sometime after 7pm, I was summoned by the wrestling squad to the basement which, unsurprisingly, we had all to ourselves.
They were all in singlets. And the first thing Dean did was to hand me a singlet that was at least two sizes too small for me. ‘In for a penny, in for a pound,’ as they say. I stripped out of the clothes I was wearing – I was on beyond zebra when it came to caring about modesty – and slipped into a flimsy piece of lycra or spandex or whatever it was.
I was already boned up just from being on display, and despite my newfound immunity to certain kinds of humiliation, I was beet red as I approached the circle of wrestlers. Every one of whom turned me on in different ways.
Nick took pity on me and walked me through the basics of wrestling starting positions. Neutral (standing within the circle), superior (restarting “on top” after the ref stopped the action when you had control) and inferior (or bottom, when your opponent had control).
From neutral, he showed me a number of ways to try to engage with one’s opponent, legal and illegal throws, what constitutes a fall – all of which ended with me on my ass on the mat under him. He showed me different possible moves from inferior to superior, how to bridge my body to try to get out of a hold, how to look for a vulnerability to get into a position that would let me throw or flip the opponent.
I was drenched in sweat. The others demonstrated their favorite moves out of inferior position. Ernesto found a way to always end up pinning me on my stomach where he was covering me, distinctly sporting wood.
Luca, who physically reminded me of Ernesto, insomuch as he resembled a swole dancer with his graceful limbs, became on octopus on the mat, finding ways for his beautiful arms and legs to always have me in his grasp, always outsmarting me and outmaneuvering me. Overall he was just kicking my ass effortlessly, and Dean was effusive in commending his moves, without being too obvious.
I sensed Luca passing into a zone – of confidence and comfort in his skin. Nick continued to instruct me, while Dean just officiated over the whole affair pretending to be neutral.
Then it came time for the “Exhibition.” Dean assumed his team captain mantle. “Worm.” It took me a second to realize he was addressing me. “You are falling behind. You’re not pulling your weight. This is your last chance to prove you’re committed to the team.”
I looked around, genuinely baffled.
“Luca, you’re facing off against the worm.” He looked at me. “And you, faggot. If you lose, it’s your ass.” I’m not gonna lie, he sold it. This did not seem like a put-on, or even a scenario.
Needless to say, Luca wasted no time in smearing my ass. It was over before it began.
And Dean wasted no time ripping off my singlet, spreading me flat on the mat, peeling down his singlet to reveal his rampant cock, and burying it in my ass.
I liked the feel of his body pinning me. He was so much bigger than me, I felt the mass of him covering me, and I felt his massive arms encircling me. He smelled good. Of body spray, and honest sweat. It was, if I must qualify it, pleasant. Not soul-stirring. He made himself at home in my ass, agreeably. And then with a low protracted moan, he emptied his balls into me.
I think he felt he’d done his job. Order restored. Almost. He pulled up the straps of his singlet, looking satisfied. I tried to gather myself together to make my retreat, but Dean seized on my movement.
“Where do you think you’re going, faggot?” he said, with deadly focus.
I played my part perfectly. “I fucked up. I’m out of here.”
“No you’re not,” Dean overruled me. “Luca won. Don’t you think that deserves some reward?”
“I’m sure it does. What’s that got to do with me?” I said, defiantly.
“I’m pretty sure his reward is your ass”
“Whatever,” I said, rolling my eyes.
Out of nowhere, Luca landed a roundhouse into my stomach and grabbed me around the neck in a choke hold. Honestly did not see that coming.
“Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to, bitch?” Luca upbraided me, “Did you hear what Captain said?”
His sucker punch had slightly diminished my capacity to respond. I groaned and said, “Um…”
Luca laid me out on the mat, effortlessly, spreading me out like play-doh. “Captain said I get to fuck you. I won. I earned the right. And I intend to take full advantage.” I had to give credit where credit was due. My cock was raging hard in an instant.
