This is the 21st chapter of CIA. It's all true. I wrote this for so many of you that wrote such nice messages to me. I used some of your names in here. I hope you liked how I represented you. So if you have enjoyed it, you owe them some cash-atolla Let's say $5 a wank? I want nifty to send me a note begging me to write more because this story is so hot that people love it.
so to carry my job forward here goes:
It was as if the words "Everyone up to your numbers!" was a fire alarm. The boys - dressed in a black, grey or white T shirts, above their white or black gym shorts, all wearing white socks that emerged from their white canvas tennis shoes, all stampeded like wild cattle in a western movie. Some ran down one row of lockers, until that row was filled, then bounced off of the other boys careening down to the next row of lockers, and on to the next row, and the next. They all reconverged on the door to the right of the Coach's offices jamming it up. Simultaneously the kids in street clothes mobbed the other door, the one on the left of the Coach's offices, which was the one I had originally entered through. On their way to that exit, the boys in street clothes, first had to crush themselves past the door to the Coach's offices trying to get that coveted excused tardy slip from Coach Johnson. There were only five rows of lockers who's path led the kids directly past the coaches office door on the way to the exit. The other two columns of lockers lead directly to the exit but didn't lead past the coaches office doors. A few boys, who didn't want to wait in the long line that went past the coach's office door, would go down the empty two columns of lockers. That route put them at the front of the line, so that they could cut in front of the other kids, but there was a nearly impenetrable wall of kids between them and the coach's door. For them to get close enough to the coaches door, to reach the tardy slip, they had to push hard against or across the flow of boys. Depending on which column they went down they either had to cross the flow or go against the flow of the boys that had already gotten their slips and were trying to get to the exit door,. These boys cutting into line had to propel themselves against tsunami of boys and they were willing to hurt whoever they had to to do it, otherwise they would never get to the coach's door. Only the biggest most powerful boys were able to go against the torrent of boys. The littler boys that were trapped between the big kids that were going against the stream, and the boys behind them, got crushed in what only could be described as a boy grinder. You could see their limbs extending out trying to find something to push off; they were pinned between the bodies of others. I could see the suffering on some of the faces that were not hidden behind the torsos of the bigger boys. I tuned in my hearing on one specific boy so that I could try to make out what he was saying. "Dan, please stop pressing on my chest. I cant breath, let me out! please, please!" Then I noticed, one of the other bigger kids next to him, as he made a fist with one knuckle sticking out. He put the knuckle right on the rib cage of an even smaller kid beside the boy pleading for his life. He then put his free hand behind the fist, and leaned his entire body weight onto the one knuckle driving it into other small kid's ribs. I couldn't see the smaller boys face, as it was hidden behind the armpit of a bare chested muscular guy who was using his shirt against the throat of a kid behind this kid. The poor impaled little freshman kid couldn't have moved; even though he must have wanted to. But the bigger senior wasn't convinced, so he increased the pain by pushing with all the might he could muster from his legs pushing from the balls of his feet, trying to get the kid to go backwards or move out of the way or something, which he couldn't. I tried to listen in and hear what the kid was saying but couldn't hear anything as he was muffled by the bare arm pit of the muscular kid. I watched another big senior boy put his hand over their face of a freshman with his palm under the kids chin and place two fingers on either side of his nose squeezing both his mouth and nose closed, so that he couldn't breath, then pressing on his eyeballs with the finger tips. The kid grabbed the big kid's hand with both of his smaller hands, trying to wrench his massive paw off of his face so that he could breath and to take the pressure off of his eyeballs, but to no avail. Finally the bigger kid pushed his jaw up and backwards so that his face was pointing up to, or even past looking straight up, which finally drove him backwards and then eventually off to the side where he fell to his knees nearly unconscious, gasping for air, and trying to regain his vision. Yet another big kid had his hand wrapped around the neck of another kid and you could see he was chocking him because his head was turning bright red. I then saw this amazingly chiseled features boy give each boy in front of him a short sharp jab to the solar plexus dropping them one by one to their knees. He then pulled them sideways by their hair on the side of their head and they would flop belly first on to the floor sideways, out of the line, like a limp rag doll. Another boy, trying to go sideways to the flow, took a full on swing and slugged a little kid in the arm so hard you could hear it from where I was. Then, in the same motion, he drove his knee into the same kid's thigh as hard as he could knee him. The boy dropped like a crumpled sack of potatoes. Then he did it again to the next kid and the next. Finally when these big tough boys, had mercilessly forced the other weaker boys out of the way, and finally did get close enough, they reached out past the other boys like starving children begging for a handout. But instead of food they were reaching for, it was that silly little slip of pink paper. In this world they were the abusive kings, able to mercilessly hurt littler kids on a whim without repercussion. But at the same time, while in the same world, they were reduced to needy beggars; begging for a slip of pink paper. Once they had it in hand, they stopped fighting the mob, let the the stream of boys carry them back, in the opposite direction, rotating as they went so that they were facing forward, stepping on the kids they had downed earlier, finally crashing their way through the exit door.
The words - crashing through the door - are literally accurate. The door that leads out from the locker room, opens outwards into the little hallway. As each boy pushed on the door, the steel handle on the far side of the door, slammed into the wall in the hallway with a loud echoing - BANG. That, combined with the yelling, screaming in agony from the brutal pushing, the echoes of a room with no sound absorbing surfaces, together created a din that was deafening. It was kind of like that non-ending reverberating sound that you hear in an indoor pool where sounds seem to reverberate endlessly. Only in this locker room it was 100 times louder and the most continuos noise I had ever heard before. This underlying noise of the yelling and screaming and the endless echoes of boy's yelling and screaming, for reason or not, seems a little reminiscent to me of the continuos drone of noise that's emitted from a bagpipe. By analogy the notes that a bagpiper plays over the continuos noise made by the bagpipe, are kind of like the screaming conversations that were held between two boys. The boys had to scream, to be heard over the din, but their screaming, created the background noise that they had to scream over. Add to the sound, the visual images of torture, the physical body to body touching and brutality, the smell, and yes even taste; as you could literally taste the acrid flavor of the post pubescent hormones in the air of the room and it was intoxicating! It was overpowering - to the point of nearly feeling like I might pass out from sensory overload. The juxtaposition of all of the sensory overloads, the unbridled raw boy energy without showing a modicum of regard for each other, made me feel high, horny and oddly fearful. On the surface I feared that the smaller boys would be beaten and trampled alive in the crush of bodies trying to squeeze through that little hallway, and that no one cared. But beyond that I feared that I wouldn't fit in. I feared that I could be spotted by the other boys and worse by the coaches. I thought, maybe just because I was standing there staring at all the commotion they would wonder - why is that guy standing there watching - maybe he's no kid but really a 56 year old man perving over all of this. I was literally paralyzed, submerged in a concentrated boy energy whirlpool steeped in a total lack of empathy for others, that I was powerless to escape or even to stop watching. I could barely will myself to move. It took all my will power to even turn my head. I commanded myself "stop-looking-at-these-boys-or-you-will-be-caught!". I tried to take my gaze off of the spectacle in front of me but couldn't. Finally, the realization that I was so deeply mesmerized that I was effectively frozen, that I might be be drooling for all I knew, snapped me back to reality; as I checked to see if I was indeed drooling.
Now that I had regained a modicum of my self control I started to move, and think, and plan. I realized that it was still going to take quite a bit of time for all the boys to get out of the locker room so I ran to the toilets. I grabbed as much toilet paper as I could and jammed it into my shoes. I was hoping that if I filled all the empty spaces with enough of it that it that it would help keep the shoes from flopping around on my feet. By the time I was done filling my shoes, without laces, most of the boys had escaped the locker room so I then followed the last few remaining boys out through the right door. I then realized that the right door was exactly like the left door. It was also connected by a short hallway with another door at the far end just like the left door. Both opened up to the same outside hallway. As I pushed the door open its metal handle slammed into the glazed block walls with a loud bang that caused the door itself reverberate. I suddenly felt a little like I was a part of the these boys. I did something just they did that made the same sound as they did! I felt I belonged, if only because I added my own crash to the din that was theirs thus making me part of them. When I looked to my left, after getting through the second door, I could see the the other side of the other stampede of boys that were coming out of the locker room, pink slips in hand, wearing street clothes. It was so strange. That stream of boys looked so different from us. They were wearing a myriad of street clothes of every style from casual, to skater, to goth, to hipster, to nerd, to Emo, to jock, and everything in between. Juxtaposed against our naked legs and strict PE uniforms of simple T shirts, short gym shorts, white socks and white canvas shoes. they were running from class away from torment and humiliation while we were running to - who knows what?
My first thought, as I watched the boys dressed in street clothes pour out the left door was, I know all those kids running to freedom are going to tell all the other kids, in all of their disparate classes, what happened to me on my first day in PE. I also knew that there was nothing I can do about it. I could run after them and beg them not to tell, which would only stoke their story, so I was helpless. The gossip would spread like virus. Every kid and every teacher would soon know that I was stripped naked and got a hard cock over it, that I was made to do naked split legged push ups in front of everyone, that I was beaten on the bare ass with a belt buckle, licked the dirty floor, duck walked naked with another hardon and finally was made to put on nasty dirty, stinky, smelly gym clothes. It was like watching a glass of milk knocked off of a table. You can watch it fall intact, but know that when it reaches the floor, that it will shatter, that its contents will be permanently disgorged and splattered everywhere, and the glass will never again to be what it is right now and the milk will be spilled. I'm that glass, and my story the milk, I haven't hit the floor yet but it's inevitable, and when I do everything that happened will be spread everywhere, never to be forgotten. I snapped back to reality as I ran, sort of in place, along with the boys dressed in PE gear in the opposite direction from the boys dressed in street clothes. I resigned myself: everyone will know, there's nothing I can do about it, I'm doomed. I was at the back of the clot of boys, as I was feigning running as we were backed up as we were turning the corner going through some double doors, and then finally up a half a flight of stairs before we burst out into a huge open gymnasium. It was an enormous room, not nearly as large as the training room at the CIA; but it was still huge.
The girls were at one end of this huge room doing volleyball. Clearly they had been at it a while, which made sense, since they hadn't held back by some macho coach who wanted to humiliate the newbie boy for 15 min before class. The boys all ran to different areas scattered around our end of the room. They all stood in a perfectly straight lines. The random mixture of black, grey and white gym clothes, that fought to get out of the locker room, was now completely segregated. Each line of boys was centered around a coach and all had the same exact outfit on. I looked for Coach Bates and saw him across the room and ran over to his line of boys, all in perfect all-white uniforms, standing at rigid attention. As I surveyed the room I noticed that there were eight lines of boys and eight coaches divided evenly into four groups on opposite sides of the room. The other side of the room had bigger boys, dressed in black gym shorts and either black or grey T shirts with white writing. My side had smaller boys all wearing white gym shorts and either white T shirts, like the boys were wearing in my line, or grey T shirts but with black writing and white gym shorts. I quickly deduced that Seniors must have to wear black shirts and black shorts, Juniors wore grey shirts with black shorts, Sophomores wore grey shirts over white shorts and us Freshmen were all in white. Both the shirts and shorts had the school name and school district number silk screened on them; white for the Seniors and Juniors while the ink for the Freshmen and Sophomores was black.
As I approached the line in front of Coach Bates I started trying to figure out where I was supposed to stand; as it was clear no one was going to tell me. I noticed that there were numbers painted on the floor. I assumed that the the numbers started at 1, but didn't know for sure because they were all covered with feet, but saw that they went up to 32 because the last couple of numbers had remained uncovered. Each boy had carefully put one foot over each numeral. The result was a bunch of perfectly spaced and perfectly straight lines of boys, at attention, distributed around the room. Once in a while there would be a gap in a line. I assumed of course that the gap was an absent boy. I was the last one to join our line. I was the last partly because I had to jam toilet paper in my shoes, partly because I couldn't run very fast in these shoes, partly because I had to figure out where I was going, and partly because had to figure out where to stand without any guidance. I didn't know what my number was so I stood at one end of the line and put my two cruddy used gym shoes over the numbers 3 and 1. I assumed that I was student "31" in Coach Bates' class. I looked down the line of boys. The line was as straight as a laser. All the kids in my line were much bigger than me which made sense since they were 14 and I was just barely 12. My mind slowly put it all together. The older bigger boys like Tommy and Ben who would have passed as adults were on the other side of the room and the younger smaller boys were on my side of the room. I realized that having just turned 12 really made me stand out. I'm remarkably smaller then the smallest boys; even in my line. No wait, what am I thinking I'm 56, no wait, when's my birthday? Am I 57 or 56? Fuck, I feel as if I'm loosing who I really am. What year is this? Why was I embarrassed earlier? These are just kids, they can't embarrass me. Besides, I'd always dreamed of this sort of thing happening when I was in High School. Now its happening, I should be taking advantage of it, not fearful of it. I HAVE to get a grip. I'm an adult man; not a 12 year old boy! FUCK! I'm loosing my identity. Am I Adam Kline or am I Sean Bulloch. No, No, I'm Brent Hall. Wait, no, they took me when I was 55, and then it took 4 years to be regressed; so I'm 59? FUCK! Help me...