"OK, what now?" asked Steve.
"I know somewhere we can buy some booze." Answered Dale. "The guy who works in the shop used to be a couple of years above us in school. We can go to a park and get pissed and smoke some more."
"Sounds like fun!" said Andy.
The three scallies followed Dale. Simon remembered reading a website a couple of years ago about scallies and leaders. According to the posting, the chief scally always wore a brightly coloured tracksuit and was followed by his minions. He felt quite good being a minion of Dale, especially now he was wearing his own tracksuit. As he walked, the nylon rubbed against itself; the legs rubbed together, the arms rubbed the jacket, and the bottom of the jacket rubbed against the top of the tracksuit bottoms. At first he tried to walk in a way in which the noise would be minimised, but after a while he got used to it and started to swagger like the other scallies. Swish, swish, swish as he walked through the town centre. A gust of wind blew up and caught his hood which blew against the back of his neck; the toggles from his hat blew into his face. He could feel his cock hardening again already; it was already sticky with cum from his blow job, and he could feel that the hairs were matted around his testicles. He reached into his tracksuit bottoms as he was walking and rearranged some of the hair; this caught him looks from passing pedestrians. I must look like a right scally thought Simon dreamily.
They headed to the corner shop which Dale had mentioned. "Wait out here; I'll pick up some stuff for us."
Simon took out his cigarettes and realised that he only had one Marlboro left. He lit it up, screwed up the packet, and looked for a bin.
"What you doin'?" asked Steve.
"Looking for a bin."
"Fuck that mate, chuck it on the floor."
Simon had been brought up to believe that littering was dirty and that only louts dropped rubbish on the floor; his parents had impressed this upon him from a very young age. Now that he was hanging around with kids that his parents would label as louts, it didn't seem to matter, so he dropped the empty packet onto the floor.
"Shit mate, you're a real geek; imagine worrying about dropping shit on the floor." Commented Steve.
Simon said nothing. He continued to pump on his cigarette, draining it of smoke before flicking it at Steve.
"Fucking twat! What you do that for?" Steve was flicking ash from the front of his tracksuit top. "Fuck mate, there's a small burn here now."
Simon and Andy laughed at Steve as he moaned. Simon pulled out another cigarette and offered it to Steve in consolation and then lit another for himself. Andy pulled out a Mayfair and they stood smoking in silence for a couple of minutes. Pretty soon Dale emerged carrying two bags. "Got lots of stuff to keep us going this afternoon! Plenty of booze, some chocolate, fags and papers"
They set off towards some wasteland that Dale knew about just off the North Circular; along a footpath, through a gap in the fence, past some bushes and they found themselves in a small clearing with the North Circular roaring above, a railway line to the other side, and a canal close by.
"Very picturesque!" Joked Simon.
"My mate found it about a year ago. Been here quite a few times."
Simon looked around; he could tell that it was a popular spot for drinking and smoking, judging by the number of empty cans and bottles and empty cigarette packets lying around.
"Here we go; let's start on some Stella." Dale handed each of them a can of Stella and then grabbed Simon's JD bag. "We can sit on my tracksuit; it's filthy anyway thanks to Simon!" He spread out the jacket and bottoms as well as the hoody and they all sat down.
Simon lit a cigarette and opened his can of beer. Wearing his tracksuit whilst drinking and smoking gave him a real kick; a tracksuit was supposed to be for sports and exercise, yet here he was smoking a cigarette and drinking beer whilst wearing a full tracksuit. It was a sign of how the scallies had adopted tracksuits and sportswear as their uniform he guessed.
In the meantime, Dale took a few large slugs of his Stella and then proceeded to light up a joint. He took several drags and then handed it on to Andy who also took a few drags and handed it to Simon. Simon was feeling much more relaxed than earlier; before he slumped down earlier on he had felt rather stoned and wouldn't have smoked any more pot, but he felt great now, especially after buying his own tracksuit and wandering around with his scally mates. Of course, the blow job from Andy had really given him a buzz, so he was more than ready for another joint. He greedily took three or four large drags on the joint and inhaled deeply.
"Hey, leave some for me!" exclaimed Steve.
"Don't worry there Steve. I've plenty to go round; I have another spliff and am rolling some more."
Simon took another large drag and handed the joint to Steve who managed to take only three puffs before it reached the cardboard.
"Fuck, I hate getting the roach".
By this time Dale had finished rolling the next joint and had already lit up. He finished his can of Stella and then peered into the bag.
"OK, we've got some Thunderbird and some vodka. Let's neck the Thunderbird and then hit the hard stuff."
He opened a bottle of Thunderbird, took a couple of deep swigs and handed it to Andy. "Here Simon, you share this one with Steve" he said, throwing a bottle in Simon's direction. Simon took the bottle and unscrewed the top, taking a deep swig of the cheap fortified wine. It was quite vile, burning his throat as he swallowed; he could tell it was strong though, and checking the label it gave the alcohol content as 17%. He normally drank cider or lager, occasionally spirits, but not often since he'd become very drunk on a bottle of gin he'd managed to take from his parent's alcohol cabinet one day. He drank another large gulp anyway and handed the bottle to Steve. Steve wiped the top of the bottle with his tracksuit sleeve and gulped down about a quarter of the bottle.
"Shit." Thought Simon. "This kid really drinks. I can't let him show me up in the drinking stakes." He took the bottle proffered by Steve and drank about a third in one go. He belched loudly and handed it back to Steve who in turn drank about a third. Simon drank the remaining small amount; they had finished the entire bottle in less than ten minutes. Andy and Dale had watched intently, enjoying the scene of two guys trying to outdo each other in the drinking stakes.
By now Dale had rolled four joints, and he handed one to each of the scallies. They all lit up and smoked in silence for a couple of minutes. Simon was already feeling a little unsteady from the quantity of wine he had consumed; the joint simply added to the feeling of light-headedness, but he was fine so long as he stayed sitting down. Steve, on the other hand, was already noticeably slurring his words as he asked Dale about the vodka.
"Take it easy mate. You've just finished a bottle of Thunderbird! Enjoy your smoke and I'll get it out in a minute."
Steve struggle to his feet and went into the bushes for a piss; Dale followed. Andy shuffled a bit closer to Simon. "Did you enjoy my sucking you off like a poof?"
"Erm, yeah, I guess so."
"Good. It don't come free though."
"What do you mean?"
"You'll find out" said Andy with a wink. Simon could not be sure whether it was a jokey wink or something a bit more sinister. Anyway, the effect of the alcohol and the joints meant that he did not linger on the thought for too long. Andy reached over and rubbed Simon's cock through his tracksuit bottoms; his cock responded immediately.
"Just checking" said Andy, who then reached around to Simon's backside and started probing the think nylon material around his arse cheeks. Simon's cock pumped with pleasure.
"Hmm, you really do like that huh? What about if I do this?" He grabbed Simon's right nipple through his tracksuit top and gave it a good tweak. Simon yelped a bit, but his cock became ever harder. "Thought so" said Andy.
Simon wasn't quite sure what to make of this. Andy seemed to be testing him in some way, but his brain was too addled with the pot and alcohol to think clearly. He lit a cigarette, and smoked deeply; his cock was still visibly erect in his black nylon tracksuit bottoms. Dale and Steve reappeared through the bushes; Steve was definitely a little unsteady on his feet.
"Time for the little extra I picked up earlier" said Dale. He pulled out a small folded piece of paper and placed it on a magazine which he pulled from the bag of alcohol.
"What is it?" asked Simon.
"Whizz. Or speed if you prefer. Should give us a nice kick!"
Dale set about cutting some lines using a bank card; he expertly drew out four lines from some of the powder and then rolled up a five pound note. Holding one nostril shut one hand, he proceeded to snort one of the lines up his other nostril.
"Aaahhh! That's the shit!" he exclaimed. He passed the magazine and the five pound note to Andy who also proceeded to snort one of the lines.
"Yeah! Feels like good shit too mate!"
Simon was next. He had watched the other two snort the powder and was unsure about it; on the one hand he'd had all the usual warnings about drugs: smoking pot was one thing, but snorting a line of speed was quite a step up. On the other hand, he wanted to look hard in front of his new friends. "What's it like?" he asked.
"It gives you a high; not like hash which is more mellow. Speed gives you energy, it's safe mate." Answered Dale.
Dale hadn't suffered any obvious ill-effects, so Simon decided to go for it. He took the note, pinched one of his nostrils closed, and snorted the powder through his other nostril. Immediately his nose felt irritated; like he had eaten a large dose of wasabi on some sushi. He realised that he suddenly felt a little less drunk, like his senses had been enhanced and his eyes were sharper. He could see into the depths of everything he saw, his eyes focussing in milli-seconds. He lit another cigarette, and was amazed at how bright the end burned when he took a drag; he smoke almost half the cigarette in one drag before inhaling the smoke deep into his lungs, his heart pounding as he exhaled.
Steve took the magazine and snorted his line.
"You ever snorted whizz before?" Dale asked Steve.
"Yeah mate, shit loads of times. Used to do it all the time when my parents went away for the weekend. My mate used to get it from this guy he knew down the pub, Dave I think it was. Lived on the Lewisham Road estate. We used to give him stolen shit in return for gear. Me and my mate had a right racket going on down there; all the geezers got to know us they did, sorta feared us in some ways, y'know? Anyways...."
"Christ Steve, you're babbling!" said Andy.
They all laughed.
"So, is any of that actually true?" asked Dale.
"Some of it, maybe, actually not much, I was shittin' a bit."
"Thought so. You haven't tried it before have you?"
"No."
"Have another line then"
Steve took a second line through his other nostril and passed the magazine back to Simon. The rest followed suit. By now Simon was feeling incredible; he smoked two more cigarettes in less than five minutes and felt pumped full of nervous energy. His brain seemed to have been hotwired and was racing with thoughts and ideas, his head bobbing in time to some imaginary beat running through his head. He stood up to go to the toilet, and then instantly forgot why he'd stood up and sat down again. Dale reached into the bag and pulled out two half bottles of vodka.
"Time for some more booze!" he said. Dale handed one bottle to Simon and then opened the other bottle, taking a swing straight from the top. He shuddered and handed the bottle to Andy. Simon opened his bottle and took several large gulps; he handed the bottle to Steve who did likewise. By this time Dale had lit another couple of joints and handed one to Simon who eagerly took it and took a huge drag. He could feel pins and needles on his skin; he took another large drag and exhaled. He took another drag, by which time the joint was half finished.
"Hey, leave me some!" exclaimed Steve.
He took another large drag and handed the joint to Steve. Simon took another large swig from the vodka and then lay back on his elbows.
"Fuck!" he exclaimed. "I'm pretty wasted!" The combination of the pot, alcohol and speed had left him feeling very intoxicated. His head wasn't spinning, but that was only because the speed was countering the effects of the alcohol to some extent. He remembered that he needed to go for a piss, so he staggered to his feet again and made his way to the bushes. This proved to be quite a challenge as putting one foot in front of the other required his full concentration; as he lifted a foot, his weight immediately fell onto it, so he walked like a penguin, bobbing his head with every step. Eventually he reached the bushes and pulled his cock out from under his tracksuit bottoms; it immediately hardened in his hand and he was instantly gripping it in the palm of his hand. He tried to piss, but found it difficult through his erection. Eventually he managed to squeeze a jet of urine from his helmet, and it was quickly joined by a second jet which shot out at a right angle, and dribbled down the front of his tracksuit bottoms. "Fuck" he said, to no-one in particular. He crouched onto his knees and finished his piss closer to the ground.
Simon hadn't heard Andy approaching as he was preoccupied with trying to piss straight. Andy had risen almost as soon as Simon had disappeared into the bushes, mumbling about also needing the toilet. He watched where Simon went and followed at a short distance. When Simon got down to his knees Andy felt his own cock twitching; the sight of this horny scally on his knees, wearing a full black Nike nylon tracksuit shaking his cock was too much to bear. He approached Simon from behind and pulled his hood over his head. He grabbed Simon's hood roughly and pulled it tight over his head before reaching round and tightening the drawstrings to the extent that the hood covered Simon's eyes. "Shhh. Just stay there."
Andy pulled his cock from his white tracksuit bottoms, now as hard as a rock, and pushed it towards Simon's mouth. At first Simon resisted, his mouth tightly shut.
"Take it you fucking poof, or I'll tell the others you like cock"
Simon obeyed, and opened his mouth, allowing Andy's cock, by now oozing precum, to enter. "Now suck gay boy"
Simon licked around the tip of Andy's helmet tasting the salty precum rolling around his tongue. Andy quivered as he slowly licked the underside of his penis before taking it all into his mouth. He worked it slowly, bobbing back and forth, sliding Andy's foreskin over his helmet sending him into paroxysms of pleasure. Simon could not see a thing; Andy had pulled the cord fairly tight on his hood, so as he worked the cock, the nylon rubbed over his nose making his already hard cock harden even further. He sucked harder, working the cock for all he was worth whilst Andy grabbed Simon's head and forced him to move faster. Just as Andy's started to shudder, he pulled his cock from Simon's mouth; he ejaculated spurt after spurt of white, juicy spunk over Simon's hood, down his jacket and on to the front of his tracksuit bottoms. Finally he finished; "I need a piss now." Andy declared. "Stay there." He put his still hard cock into Simon's mouth and proceeded to empty his bladder. At first Simon was not sure what was happening; he could feel the warm liquid entering his mouth and then realised that Andy was pissing in his mouth. At first he tried to resist swallowing, but eventually he was forced to take some of the urine. The taste was unpleasant, but what was strange was that he actually seemed to be enjoying it. Despite the fact that he was being treated like shit, a cock slave and piss receptacle, his own cock was pumping even harder. Eventually Andy withdrew his cock, and Simon could not help but gag; he opened his mouth and a large quantity of piss washed from his mouth and down his jacket.
"Keep your mouth shut about this." Said Andy.
"Ok."
"Tell anyone and the word will get around the school that you're a fucking poof. Now get up"
Simon pulled down his hood and looked down the front of his tracksuit: globules of spunk peppered his jacket and tracksuit bottoms mixed with streaks of urine. He pulled some leaves from the ground and wiped off the spunk as best he could; there were still some stains, but it looked passable.
"OK mate, lets head back; the others will be wondering what happened."
They both headed back towards the clearing. By now Steve was lying on the floor, and appeared to be sleeping.
"Where were you guys?" Asked Dale.
"Simon is a bit wasted." Replied Andy. "He had an accident."
"Fuck, he stinks of piss!"
"Yeah; I guess he's not used to all the drugs!"
Simon staggered back to the centre of the clearing and slumped to the floor. The effects of the speed were now wearing off and he felt a little groggy. He picked up the half empty bottle of vodka and took two more swigs.
"Betcha can't finish that." Said Andy.
Never one to refuse a challenge, Simon emptied the remaining contents of the vodka down his throat.
"What do I win?" he asked.
"You win another spliff!" replied Andy.
He passed Simon a joint and drank deeply from his own bottle of vodka. Although he could already feel the effects of the vodka hitting his stomach, Simon lit the joint and sucked on it deeply. He was a little shaken by what had happened in the bushes, but also quite excited. He had found the whole experience a real turn on; Andy ordering him around and making him obey his wishes under the threat of blackmail made him feel stimulated and excited. He drew deeply on the joint, sucked the smoke far into his lungs and held it for about thirty seconds; he exhaled and then took another huge drag. The effects of the drug hit him almost instantly and his head started to spin. He took another drag from his joint and a large burning ember fell from the tip onto his tracksuit bottoms; there was a hissing sound as the burning hash cut a trail through the black nylon creating a trail about two centimetres long. He didn't care any more; the drug had taken hold and he lay on his side trying desperately to convince his head that the earth was still and that he was not lying on the deck of a ship in a force ten hurricane. He lay still for about ten minutes, oblivious to any conversations between Andy and Dale; they could have been talking a different language for all he could comprehend. He started feeling nauseous; the ground was still spinning and he couldn't get a grip. He started feeling warm saliva in his mouth and propped himself up on his elbow; then he vomited. Three or four times he retched, brining up large volumes of liquid and what looked like carrots. Eventually he dry-retched a couple of times and felt better. He wiped some spittle on his sleeve and sat up.
"You alright mate?" enquired Dale. "I thought you were asleep until you threw up!"
"Yesh, I'm ok" slurred Simon. "Jush feeling a bit pished. What'sh the time?" His head was spinning a little less violently now, but he still felt very drunk.
Dale checked his phone. "Just coming up to three."
"Shit! I'd better get back. I shupposhed to be grounded" He staggered to his feet and stood rocking for a moment. He could still taste vomit in his mouth and a faint sense of Andy's cock.
"Yeah, it's just starting to rain. Probably a good idea" said Andy.
Dale gave Steve a gentle kick "Time to get up lazy-arse"
Steve opened his eyes slightly and groaned. "Fuck me, I was wasted"
"No shit" said Andy, "You were out for over an hour"
Simon looked at Steve: he was lying in the grass, which was now getting wet due to the increasingly heavy rain. His tracksuit looked relatively unscathed compared to Simon's; he sat upright, and rubbed his hair. There was wet grass sticking to the back of his tracksuit top, and the Nike Premier logo was partly obscured by mud. He zipped his jacket up to his chin and stood up unsteadily. The four scallies picked up their belongings and headed back to the station leaving their rubbish behind in the clearing.