The usual disclaimers apply to all chapters in this series. This is a work of fiction intended solely for the edification and enjoyment of adults of legal age. Any resemblance to any person living or dead is purely coincidental. Mention or description of any institution is only for background purposes and does not mean or imply any connection with or disrespect to that institution. All rights reserved subject to Nifty's terms of use. First time readers can learn more about the Colonel by reading "With a Flip of a Coin" posted in Nifty's Gay Authoritarian and Gay College sections in March and April 2012.
Laramie is best known as home of the University of Wyoming, the only four-year college and the only graduate university in the state. In certain circles Laramie is even better known for a trade school so highly considered that it is known simply as "the Institute," or "the I" for short. At three thousand dollars a month, its nine month courses are far from cheap. Most of its students are recent high school graduates, small town guys from blue collar families that had done well repairing and restoring cars and trucks. Their parents know how much money their sons can make with the I's education and reputation.
Still, this large pool of eighteen and nineteen year old rural guys has no way to blow off steam. The local bars strictly card, not about to risk a lucrative Laramie liquor license over a fake ID, so bar hopping is not an option. Most of the I students live in a dormitory complex complete with chaperones and curfews, features that please the parents back home but make partying impossible. The one safe way to use up energy is the Boxing Bouts.
A local business with a small bar area and a large dance hall finally figured out how to make money off of all one thousand I students, and that is to hold a fight event in the dance hall on the second Thursday of every month. The spectators have to pay a cover charge and show a picture ID to get in. A very large ranch kid turned bouncer guards the door connecting the dance hall to the bar. A makeshift fight ring occupies the center of the dance floor. Temporary bleachers are raised up on the east and west sides, leaving the ring's north side for the officials' table and the south side for boxers to wait with their friends. The powers that be at the Institute are so pleased with this arrangement, and the resulting reduction of dormitory testosterone, that they give any I boxer his Friday classes off and excusal from staying in the dorm for Thursday, Friday and Saturday nights.
Every match follows the same pattern almost without exception. One boxer is an I student, a teenager with street brawler instincts but no training in the sweet science. The other boxer is a couple of years older, a U student with a boxing background. The fans are overwhelmingly Institute students, chanting "I for me, I for me," as their champions enter the rings and get their clocks punched by the better-trained college kids. There usually is an attempt to match boxers of approximately equal weight, but sometimes one could be as much as twenty pounds heavier than his opponent. It was this hunting ground to which the Colonel brought Sergeant Kevin Knoyle to act as tiger bait.
At the Wednesday weigh-in the Colonel spotted not one but two potential targets among the half-naked contenders. One was an I student named Rob who matched the sergeant's one hundred forty-five pounds but who stood three inches taller (at 5-11) and was accordingly slimmer and less muscled. He had the straw-colored blond hair, blue eyes and washed out white skin that belied him as a midwestern farm boy. Taking him down, both in the ring and out, should be no problem.
The other focus would be more of a challenge, a student at UDub named Nate who had both height and weight on the sergeant. His one hundred sixty-five pounds of solid muscle, tanned skin, dark eyes, heavy eyebrows and furry chest came with a certain swagger and a boastful confidence in his body language. He promised to be a challenge to any dominant trying to make him submit -- and the Colonel loved that kind of challenge.
The following night the dance hall started filling up an hour before the opening bell, with a line running down the block despite the snow and winter wind. Inside, the big room turned warm and stuffy from the body heat, the testosterone and the smell of sweat. The Colonel perused the first round of matches carefully. There was Rob the I student, matched in the second bout against Kevin. There also was Nate, the cocky U student, matched in the fourth bout against a beefy I student in his higher weight class.
During the fight card's opening match the Colonel made a point of standing next to Rob. The nineteen-year-old's friends had finished wishing him well and had returned to the bleachers, leaving him alone and nervous about his first public boxing bout. The Colonel casually placed his hand on the younger man's bare shoulder, causing him to jump and turn in the officer's direction with a startled look on his face. The Colonel spoke first.
"How do you think you will do, boy?" deliberately using the demeaning name.
Rob was too apprehensive about the fight to protest. With false bravado he replied, "Against that guy? No problem!"
"He's under my command," the officer stated, without explanation. "Care to make a bet on the fight?"
"Sorry, old man, but I don't have any money for that."
"I was thinking more about a dare. Are you the type who refuses a dare, boy?"
This time the epithet stung, just as the Colonel intended. Rob snapped back, "Hell, no, I don't never turn down a dare. What you got in mind, old man?"
"Well," said the officer, "I ordered Kevin, your opponent, to mop the floor with you."
"Shit," spat the farm boy, "there ain't no way that wimp is gonna beat me."
"Are you positive about that?"
"Hell, yeah!"
"In that case, you will enjoy my dare. I dare you to make this a submission fight, winner take all, loser comes to my house and has to do whatever the winner says until Sunday night. Of course," he pretended to hesitate, "if you're not certain you'll win, or if you're too weak to live up to that dare, I'll just go tell him for you."
The Colonel made as if to turn away but the boxer, covering nerves with boastfulness, grabbed his arm and said, "Tell that little shrimp that I'm going to enjoy beating the crap out of him in the ring and then using him the rest of the weekend!"
"Deal?" said the officer, extending his hand.
"Deal!" said the farm boy, shaking it firmly.
Meanwhile, the sergeant was pumped, physically and mentally. He had worked through his warm up routine. He had punched himself in his gut one hundred and fifty times (double that if you count both fists). He had knocked out fifty quick pushups. He had "ridden the bicycle" to tighten his abs and awaken his leg circulation. He had focused his mind, walking himself through the fight step by step, concluding with laying his opponent out on the mat. The young noncom was ready for combat.
This being amateur and unsanctioned, the bar management was careful to keep things as safe as possible. Both fighters wore padded headgear and mouth pieces. The referee hovered around the fighters, quick to stop the match the moment a victor was clear. Even so, Kevin was too fast for the ref. When, as expected, Rob came roaring out of his corner windmilling his arms, Kevin took a step back and to the side, then jabbed the farm boy with a series of lefts to his exposed right ribs. Rob crouched over, bringing his elbows in to protect his hurting side and exposing his chin. With a vicious right hook, Kevin lifted Rob off his feet and crashing to the mat. Rob went out like a light, the crew stepped into the ring to revive him, and the ref hoisted Kevin's right gloved arm into the air in the classic victory sign.
While Rob recovered with his friends, the Colonel congratulated the sergeant. The two of them stood at ringside together, one fully clothed, the other shirtless and in shorts, looking ready to box again. Two matches later, Nate dispatched his I opponent effortlessly as expected. The officer leaned down to talk into the NCO's ear.
"Sergeant, are you brave enough to fight that big guy?"
"Sir, you know I am. Do you want me to take him in the ring?"
"Yes," replied the Colonel, "show him how Army tough you are."
The sergeant agreed. The officer waited until the cocky college kid's friends had completed their congratulations and drifted back to the bleachers. He walked up directly facing Nate, extended his hand and said, "You did well, young man. Do you always win your fights?"
Nate didn't bother to conceal his sneer. "Yes, old man, I always win."
"Really?" said the Colonel, feinting surprise. "And what happens to you when you lose?"
The college student's body language radiated defiance as he straightened up and hunched his shoulders towards this old geezer who obviously did not appreciate just how awesome Nate was. "I never lose," he growled.
"Really?" the Colonel repeated. "And what happens to the losers?"
Nate lowered his guard and replied, "The smart ones leave in a hurry, old man, the dumb ones become my bitch."
"Well," said the officer, acting as though he did not quite believe that statement, "my young friend over there is no dummy, but if you beat him he will be your bitch." Nate listened with interest while the Colonel continued. "Starting tonight." Nate's face showed he was hooked. The officer continued. "For the whole weekend, to Sunday night." Nate's face could not conceal his delight. "At my house," the Colonel concluded.
"I don't have anything better to do," Nate replied in a bored voice, acting as though he were stifling a yawn. "Just don't come crying when I turn your boy into hamburger meat."
The Colonel laughed and extended his hand. They shook on the deal, agreeing to a submission bout between Nate and Kevin, winner takes the loser from immediately after the boxing matches until six o'clock Sunday evening. The officer then left the college stud to go set upthe match with the fight judges.
There were eight matches in the first round that night, sixteen pugilists in all. After the last match, most of the crowd left to get ready for Friday classes at the I or the U. So did most of the boxers. Only a few diehard fans and fighters stayed for the three rematches. Last of all was the pairing that the Colonel had arranged. Only a handful of aficionados remained to appreciate what promised to be the best exhibition of the night.
This was the only bout between fighters who actually knew how to box. When the bell rang to start the first round, both young men moved warily from their respective corners and started circling one another, fists held in the proper position to protect their faces. They both bobbed and weaved with a jab here, a jab there, none of the short swings connecting with the opponent's skin. At one point the sergeant managed to work his way inside and pounded the college stud with three left jabs and a hard straight right. Surprised and pissed, the larger man shoved the noncom away, then went back to carefully testing the buck's defenses.
Twenty seconds before the bell, Kevin penetrated Nate's perimeter again, once more getting in jab after jab. This time, however, when the sergeant swung a mandropping right hook the stud ducked to his left. Before the buck could retrieve his extended arm, the college kid let loose a strong right punch that hit the soldier in his right eyebrow. Blood started oozing but the bell rang to end the round.
In the corner the Colonel repaired the cut with astringent and a bandage while coaching the pumped and sweating NCO. The bell rang to start the second round. Both boxers again came cautiously out of their corners to circle the center of the ring. They needed all they knew about the sweet science to keep from being hurt by the other guy. Kevin was forced to defend his cut forehead, thereby exposing his abs and ribs to onslaught after onslaught from Nate. By the end of the round, the difference in weight class and arm length was beginning to take its toll on the sergeant.
When the third and final round began, Nate clearly was leading in points. All he had to do to win was cruise until the bell. That, however, was not the cocky college stud's style. He never wanted to just win, he wanted to dominate. Deep in his soul, he was a scared little kid, afraid that someone might someday see him for what he really was: a submissive waiting for a real man to take control and use him as a slave. He overcompensated by concealing his true nature with bravado that was just a little too forced. Most folks took Nate's confident air at face value, as he intended them to, but the Colonel was an experienced dominant always on the outlook for other men's weaknesses. The officer knew that, once he got the student into his house, the stud would be another addition to the older man's slave harem.
In the ring, the only thing that mattered was the contest of muscle and will. The sergeant predictably fought without caution, looking for the takedown that was his only path to a win. The college kid exploited that, in the same way that a basketball team leading with a minute to go exploits its opponent's usually vain hope to catch up by fouling. Every time Kevin opened his fists to strike, Nate was there to deflect and counterpunch. More than once the sergeant connected with blows that did damage, but the long-armed stud focused relentlessly on the bleeding eyebrow cut, opening it up wider and wider. When the bell finally rang, blood was flowing down the young buck's face. Dejectedly Kevin stood to one side of the referee as the official raised the college kid's arm in victory.
Throughout the evening's final match, the Colonel had stood with Rob, now left behind by all his Institute buddies. In a low seductive voice the officer had described what was to come, reinforcing the voctech student's sense of despair. By the time Nate sauntered over to claim his spoils, Rob was mentally as helpless as a lamb.
"Congratulations," said the Colonel to Nate, "you just won my boy for the weekend. And he won this boy for me."
The college stud arched an eyebrow, digesting all this. "Hey," he said, "if I won Kevin and Kevin won this dude then by rights I should have both of them now."
"No, boy," said the officer, deliberately using the putdown, "our deal only covers Kevin. So either walk away or follow me to my house."
At this point Nate was thinking only with his cock, which is to say not really thinking at all. He threw his street clothes over his sweaty chest, went to his vehicle and joined the caravan to the Colonel's den. Kevin rode with the officer in his pickup truck, where the older man clued him in on what would take place. Rob followed, his souped up ride proving the truth of the local joke that the Institute taught its students everything about vehicle mechanics except how to install a muffler. Third in line was Nate in his Toyota FJ Cruiser.
During the drive, the Colonel made a telephone call from his cell phone.
"Hello, Jeff? How're you doing? Still having fun with Sam? Good to hear. Are you guys up for a party at my place tonight? Oh, too bad. Well what about tomorrow after that exam? And the rest of the weekend too? Excellent! I'll see both of you then."
When the convoy arrived at the Colonel's house, the officer parked his truck in his garage while the sergeant directed the I student to park in the driveway and the U student to park on the street. As the older man opened his front door for the three former fighters to enter, only one thought went through his head: "Come into my parlor, said the spider to the fly."