Cry Havoc

Chapter 7
Gymnasium

Chapter Description: from Book One: Domination

wednesday 20 september - 11:45 AM

High school boys rarely feel entirely comfortable in their schools’ locker rooms. Sure, they’ve pretty much done most of their growing-up... broadened shoulders, smatterings of facial hair, respectable dicks that dangle between dropped balls. But these aren’t the students about whom I’m talking. One can’t forget the overweight. The hairless beanpoles. Those who bring up the curve in class and bring down the curve in gym.

And, most self-conscious of all... the late bloomers. The high-schoolers who could walk into a junior high’s locker room during a sixth-grade class and turn not a single shocked head.

Sophomore Steve Benjamin had this problem. On this Earth for 15 years and with the accrued knowledge to back it up, he was, for most other intents and purposes, a 12-year-old. His years of torment had resulted in a textbook case of arrested emotional development. Though not overweight, his slender body was lined with evident pudge. Baby fat. And he dreaded gym class more than anything else of which he could conceive. Twice a week would his peers bear witness to his two-inch penis, a penis about as proud as a “Millionaire” contestant who thought an elephant weighed more than the moon, a penis flanked by a dozen downy, flimsy, flick-‘em-and-they’ll-break pubic hairs.

Steve didn’t want to simply hold a bath towel around himself as he navigated the labyrinthine floor plan of lockers, benches, and showers. He wanted to pin it together and reinforce it with duct tape. Oftentimes, as a defense mechanism, he would joke to himself that what he really wanted was to do was undergo surgery to fuse the top of a bath towel to his abdomen, so that nothing short of somebody bloodily flaying him would the humiliation of his “babydick” become the highlight of any given day’s physical education class. And by that point, he figured, he’d be more concerned with bleeding out than with his cocktail wiener of a dinky being on display for all to see.

Besides, Recon had already taken care of that two days previous. Knowledge of Steve’s humiliating “assets” was no longer limited to the tiled walls of the creepily-steamy locker room. Fully one-tenth, if not one-fifth, of the Tupper High student body was in on one of Steve’s deepest, darkest secrets. The poor child cried himself to sleep both Monday and Tuesday nights.

But the time had come for the moment of truth. Steve “Babydick” Benjamin was going to attend his physical education class, perform to the best of his ability, and enter the locker room with all the confidence he had spent nearly 48 hours practicing. They would see. They would all see. There’s more to a man than the size of his dick.

“Now measure it against yours, Impulse!” hooted Recon. The locker room had, minutes ago, dispersed after the post-class showers. Only four students remained in the oddly claustrophobic room: Impulse, Recon, Loudmouth, and Babydick Benjamin. All four of them were as naked as the day they’d been born. All four of them sported rock-hard erections -- nine inches, eight, eight, and three, respectively -- and the three older, larger, and far more intimidating of the quartet harbored absolutely no intention of letting Steve out of the locker room until he had capitulated to all of their demands.

Impulse stood side-by-side with Steve. Every time Steve accidentally made skin contact with Impulse, the latter called him a faggot. Even in obedience was Steve doomed to unconditional antagonism.

“Nine inches here,” Recon said in reference to Impulse’s cock.

“Too big to fit in any vapid cunt’s mouth,” Impulse spat with a smile. “For the record.”

Recon slid his tape measure over to the other contestant. “Aaaaand... three inches here. Wonder if this thing would even stay inside a pussy without flopping out of it. Like a Cheeto down a hallway. I dunno, Steve... have you been eating your vegetables like a good little boy?”

Laughter from everyone. The tile walls made it echo, as if Steve had manditorily stumbled into an unrelenting sonic nightmare.

“Enough!!” the sophomore shouted. The Tigers stopped laughing, as if on a dime. They were almost as surprised to hear Steve standing up for his dignity as Steve himself was. “We get it! Two eight-inch dicks! One nine-inch dick that satisfies half the women and turns the other half into shish-kebab! And my pathetic little dinky, the same one I’ve had all my life, the same one that’s looked the same all my life, the same one that’s taking its sweet time in growing! Big deal! Big fucking deal!”

The Tigers were speechless. For 10 seconds, at least.

“Leave us,” said Impulse, indicating his two brothers-in-arms. “I’ll take care of this itty-bitty widdwe spitfiwe.”

Recon and Loudmouth left the locker room. In one fluid motion, Impulse slammed Steve’s denuded form against a row of lockers, pinning him to the cold steel across the neck with his forearm. A fire was in the bully’s eyes. He seethed through his gums, and Steve could smell the unmistakably malodorous scent of rotting food emanating from Impulse’s unflossed teeth.

“Think you’re so fuckin funny, dontcha?”

“No,” Steve replied, savoring the gulps of air he managed to inhale through the pressure applied by Impulse’s forearm. “I’ve just heard about enough about your cock.”

“You wanted to hear about my cock,” Impulse spat. “Fuckin faggot. Well, you’re done hearing about it. Now... see it.”

The senior grabbed Steve by the hair and dragged the sophomore to his knees. Impulse’s rod, still dripping with excitement, stared the kid in the face.

“How does it look?” sneered Impulse. “Everything you’d ever dreamed, faggot? Well, the girls certainly aren’t complaining.”

Impulse took the tape measure and forcefully planted it in Steve’s left palm.

“Now you get to touch it. Measure it, Babydick. Measure my fucking cock.”

All of the spirit and verve Steve had so confidently exhibited less than a minute ago had vanished. He was back to his old self-- back to how everybody saw him. A little kid. A tool. And a wellspring of amusement. And, with his spirit and verve having vanished like a fart in the wind, Steve had no choice but to unspool nine inches of the tape measure and run it along Impulse’s hot, dripping hardon.

“Ungh,” grunted Impulse, pleasantly surprised by the warmth and tactile sensation of Steve’s measuring hand brushing against the Tiger’s rod. “How big is it, faggot?”

“A-- about nine inches.”

“Touch it,” Impulse demanded. “I know I’m nine and a half before I’m about to cum. Fucking stroke it. Feel what a real man’s cock is supposed to feel like, Babydick.”

Having already developed the worst case of nausea he could recall ever having, Steve felt as if he had nothing to lose in the privacy of the abandoned locker room by wrapping his nervous, shaking fingers around Impulse’s sex organ. It was certainly easier than getting his ass beat and his bones broken.

In seconds, Steve Benjamin was masturbating his tormentor. On his knees, on the damp tile of the locker room, and practically drowning in a maelstrom of humiliation and fear. He just wanted it to be over. All he wanted was for it to be over.

“Smell it,” said Impulse, eschewing his traditional elaboration.

Steve dragged his nose along the length of Impulse’s shaft. Since the elder kid had recently showered, the harried sophomore wasn’t subject to the usual horrors of a post-workout penis. But he couldn’t help but think that Impulse had deliberately left his scrotum unwashed in anticipation for this criminal act of humiliation, for its scent bore all the olfactory horrors of unclean genitalia.

“Hear,” Steve began, melodramatically feigning the state of being deep in thought, “see, touch, smell... damn. Dammit, Steve. Don’t you hate it when you can’t remember the fifth thing?”

Steve was too weak, too exhausted, and too physically ill to play the games of a smug asshole any longer. He had never done it before -- and, God willing, he would never have to do it again -- but, eager to break free from his waking nightmare by any means necessary, he did it. Steve wrapped his mouth around the head of Impulse’s enormous cock and began to suck.

Though he moaned with a sudden pleasure, Impulse was not above doling out the criticism. “It’s not a fuckin Blow-Pop, Babydick. C’mon. You’ve seen it in the movies. You’ve seen it at home, in front of your computer, beating off that pathetic baby carrot between your thighs. Do it right or I’ll make you eat my ass.”

Steve “Babydick” Benjamin proceeded to do it right.

Less than a minute later, Steve’s stomach was loaded with Impulse’s cum. Semen streaked the lining of his esophagus, dripping inelegantly into the chamber that would convert it to useful protein energy and rehydrating water. His tongue was burdened with the overwhelming bleachlike taste of Impulse’s fluids, and Steve was quick to wipe off the stray drops and lines that remained on his lips with the back of his sleeve. He hadn’t felt so ill in his life. All he could think about was that he was--

“A babydick and a cocksucker,” Impulse interrupted, zipping up his jeans. “And a good one too, you little faggot. We’ll have to do this again sometime.”

Impulse left the locker room. Steve gathered up his clothes, redressed himself, and felt a churning in his belly.

He ran to the nearest stall, bent over the toilet, and vomited.

to be continued