Side Bets: Chapter Two
mm, ds, bd, hm
Friday: The Second Round
Bryce was already announcing the next round by the time I reached the tournament floor. He called out, "Ben Marner and Dave Larson, table 42." With my loss, I'd slipped all the way to one of the far tables. Larson was one those players who had more enthusiasm than skill. I sought him around the room, and found him -- a fat man in a grimy Vercingetorix tee-shirt and shorts that displayed his pale, zitty legs to worst effect. He wasn't a Praetorian. Whatever happened, win or lose, I wouldn't have to have sex with him. Thank all the gods. He wasn't the least bit attractive.
Not like Paul, anyway.
I caught myself. What the fuck? Paul wasn't attractive either. I so was not gay.
Dave said, "I think you have something on your face."
I hastily wiped away some of Paul's cum. Just like that movie, I thought.
This was so not a good tourney.
Dave at least, was an easy opponent. He ran the Dark Gladiators, a Space Crusader House that always seemed to have a sucky army book. My Crusaders had him beaten by turn four. They performed just like I'd planned, pummeling his army with fire before closing in for kill.
Go me! If I kept up more wins, I would surely break the top ten. I just needed to claw my way back into the winner's bracket.
We finished a bit early, around 2:30. Paul had face-fucked me all the way through the lunch break, so I went to a vendor and bought an expensive, over-cooked meal. The woman working the booth asked, "Gyro or Hot-Dog?" The hot dog just added insult to injury, but I really hated Gyros. I bought one anyway and washed it down with a diet Pepsi.
As I was eating, some kid sat down at my table. He looked to be somewhere between seventeen and nineteen, rail thin, with lanky hair he had died completely black. It fell longer over one side of his face than the other. He had a stud in one nostril and wore a black tee-shirt and black jeans. His belt sported shiny studs like a dog-collar.
I was not in the mood.
"Who the fuck are you?" I asked.
The kid said, "I'm Andrew."
Then I knew him. "Oh, yeah. Larry's kid. I thought you were at college or something."
"Break," he said.
I said nothing. I don't like kids.
He waited till I was about to bite down on the dog before he said, "I see you like sausage. That's good."
I stared at him. "What do you know?" I asked.
"I know you have a side bet with my Dad. You're a faggot hole."
I said, "Whatever, kid. You're wrong."
"I know you're going to suck my cock," he persisted. "You're my next match. Bryce already said. We have even points."
"Not a chance," I bluffed. I needed to find out if he knew enough to blackmail me, too. "You aren't even a Praetorian. Your Dad had sense enough not let you join."
"A side bet, then. If I win, you suck me, like you did Paul. Or maybe I fuck your hole. Dad said you like that."
"What if I win?"
"You won't," he said.
"Well, what if I do?"
"Maybe I give you the choice?"
"How about this?" I asked. "If I win, I get to fuck you instead."
He paused for a long while.
"Not so sure, now, are you, little man?" I asked.
"Okay," he said. "You're on." I knew then, that he didn't have any leverage over me. I looked him over. Well, he wasn't real exciting. After all, he wasn't a chick. But I could look at that face and hair and pretend. Any I knew it would totally mess with Larry's head if I fucked his son. Oh, yes! I liked revenge.
"Are you even legal?" I goaded him. "I'm not going to let you bet if you're not old enough."
"I am fucking nineteen!" he said. "Nineteen and a half! I am not a kid!"
"Suits me," I said. "I don't want any jail bait." I swigged my Pepsi. "Shake in it?" We shook. His hand was bony and limp, and he left thereafter. I think I scared him. Damn good. I wanted to teach his father a lesson for messing with me.
The next game began at 3:30. I finished my meal and wandered back to the arena. Sure enough, Bryce announced, "Andrew Fleming and Ben Marner. Table 13." We were moving back up. Once I smacked the shit out of Larry's annoying kid, I'd be back in the running for the tournament.
He met me at the table. Unlike his dad, Andrew preferred the Imperial Legion -- normal human soldiers with more quantity than quality. They were a shooty army, like mine. Maybe more shooty. But unlike my Space Crusaders, they absolutely sucked in close combat. If I could close with them, while engaging his tanks at long range, I would win.
We took turns deploying. The whole time, Andrew was leering at me. I knew he was imagining me on my knees. The thought was more amusing than intimidating. His army sucked, and he was a damn kid.
I deployed my infantry in their transports. It was a bit of a gamble. If Andrew got lucky, he might destroy them all. If he didn't, I'd reach his lines that much faster. I put my Punishers behind cover on a hill. His armor outnumbered me and would kill them eventually, but I wanted to distract from my infantry assault.
Andrew deployed in a long line, seemingly paying little attention to cover or terrain.
We rolled off to begin.
"Ready?" he asked, as we hefted our dice.
I rolled a "6". He rolled a "4."
"Looks like I'm going first," I said.
I advanced my mounted infantry 12 inches into the ice fields and other cover.
Andrew started his turn, teenaged and self-assured. His Legionnaires opened fire on my transports. He destroyed one. "How do you like that?" he asked.
"Not bad," I said. I didn't mention that I still had four squads untouched and in cover.
He pulled on his crotch. "You'll be chewing on this soon enough," he said.
I resisted the urge to shoot him the finger.
The next turn was much the same. I advanced through cover with the bulk of my force, and Andrew exulted in a few minor victories.
The third turn, I was in range. I dismounted all my Crusaders. Their opening barrage vaporized his right and left flanks.
From that point on, Andrew's face was a study in disappointment, desperation, and -- finally -- despair. He tried to mow down my advancing troops, but they'd gotten too close. In the process he utterly neglected my Punishers. The fourth turn, I charged. His defensive shooting became more and more fragmented. By the end, he only had one depleted squad left, and a few useless tanks.
I took his objective.
"I win," I said.
He looked at me, big eyes pleading. He was taller than me, but somehow he seemed to be staring up at me. He said, "We were just kidding, right, man?"
I said, "Fill out the forms. Take them to Bryce, and then I'll decide."
I watched him write in the humiliating numbers. Then he shuffled off towards Bryce with his had bowed. I watched him all the way. I didn't want him to suddenly get smart and hand Bryce a set of fake numbers. Then he came back, dragging his sneakered feet.
He said, "Just kidding, right?"
I looked at him. I knew that I nothing, really, on him but guilt. So I said, "I thought you were man enough for a real bet. I bet my ass and mouth. I thought you bet yours."
He looked away ashamed. "Yeah," he said.
"So, are you going to honor your bets like a man, or not?" I demanded. I tried to sound as paternal as possible. I imagined Larry talked to him like this -- about manhood and honor and all that military shit.
"Yeah," he said. "Yeah, Mister Marner. I made a bet. Where do you want to go?"
"This way," I said, leading him to the same conference room Paul and I had used.
It was still empty. Someone had tuned out the light, emptied the water jug, and put the chair back into place.
Andrew shuffled hopelessly to the table. I followed, feeling more excited than I thought I would. Boys weren't my thing, but as I followed Andrew's lanky backside into the room, I admitted to myself that there was something about the situation I enjoyed.
I pulled one of the folding chairs up in front of the conference table. "Sit," I told him.
He did. I bet he was used to obeying.
He looked at me. A tear ran from one eye, and over his soft cheek, before it disappeared under his stupid emo haircut. I bet he'd really had to rebel to get that past his father. I should have had some sympathy.
Instead, his obvious distress just drove me on.
"Do you know what I want?" I asked.
"Yes," he sniffled.
"Open your mouth," I said.
He stuck out his tongue too.
I undid my pants and pulled out my cock. My jeans fell around my ankles. I shook my myself a bit. It had gone flaccid since my encounter with Paul, but I flapped it back into life quickly enough, looking at Andrew's predicament.
I stepped forward and shoved it in over his tongue. He made some gagging noises, but I persisted in pressing. His hot mouth and soft tongue finished bringing me back to full hardness. I looked down at him. He hadn't closed his eyes or looked away. Good. I began to fuck his mouth. Soon he stretched his neck and moaned slightly. The vibration excited me, but not as much as the thought of how Larry would learn about this sooner or later.
Andrew reached up and touch his chest through his black tee-shirt. I looked at the rest of his body: his chest, his arms, his hips, in a new light.
Besides, I knew Larry would hate me forever for what I was about to do.
I pulled out with a pop. A line of spit and pre-cum stretched between my lips and Andrew's face, then snapped back against his chin. I thrilled when I saw him lick it up. He was ready.
"Yes, Mr. Marner?"
"Sir," I prompted.
"Mr. Marner, sir," he said.
I said, "Stand up and take your clothes off, Andrew. Then bend over the table."
He made a soft noise, somewhere between a sob and a moan. "Yes, Mr. Marner," he said. He drew his black tee over his head. The flesh beneath wasn't as pale as the contrast with clothes and hair had implied. He was so thin, his ribs stood out like a cleaning brush. His belly was flat, taut, almost concave. I remembered when I had looked like that in a mirror. I'd been sixteen, maybe.
Andrew's hands went to his belt. I nodded for him to continue. Still shuddering slightly, he undid his belt and let his pants fall. He wore plain white briefs. Whitey-tighties, we'd called them in high school. Why any male would wear them once he could pick out his own clothes, I was sure I didn't know. Maybe his mother still bought them.
Perversely, that thought made my cock jump even more.
Andrew undid his shoes and socks so he could pull his black jeans over his feet.
He stood up straight before me. His hands went to his briefs. I could see he had a huge package -- bigger than any skinny kid had a right. His hands hovered over the waistband.
He looked at me.
I nodded, and he slid his briefs down over his legs.
His cock was a monster snake, both thick and long. As it sprang free, it achieved a huge hardness. His balls dangled low and pale and big. The hair on them was barely visible. Little Andrew had had a number of hair colors over the years, but I realized his natural color was blonde.
"Bend over the table," I told him.
He did. His cock was so long that it bounced against his legs. His ass thrust up into the air. The bubble of his cheeks contrasted sharply with his bony hips and back. His ass and flanks were thin, lanky, revealing fat and muscle groups like an anatomical drawing.
I stepped up to him. I gripped his cock, and let it slide in my fist. It was seriously huge. In some other circumstance, I might have been intimidated. Not now. I had tamed it. It was hard for me and what he must know I was about to do. I leaned over his back. I felt his labored breathing as I whispered into his ear.
"I bet you think this makes a man, don't you?" I said. I gave his cock a hard jerk.
"Yes, sir, Mr Marner." I jerked it again. "I mean, no sir, Mr Marner."
"That's right," I said. "You're just my bitch."
As I spoke, I ran my hand over my cock-head, collecting some precum and the remnants of Andrew's spit. Then, having slicked it enough, I pressed my cock-head against his hole, and pushed.
His ass spasmed as I entered. I think he may have been in pain. I didn't care. Certainly, after a few strokes, whatever he was feeling wasn't pain. I fucked him like I would a woman, with different rhythms. The last game of the day had ended. I didn't have anything else to do.
As my lust grew, I thrust into him harder and harder. I worked my cock from side to side at full extension, feeling the softness of his ass.
I said, "You're going to tell Larry about this, aren't you? He's going to know what kind of slut his son is, but he won't be able to do anything about it." My statement made Andrew cry out. His face had flushed so red that the color went down to the fourth or fifth vertebrae on his back, and even onto his shoulders
I felt my cock swell as Andrew moaned. I spasmed and came, shooting cum into his guts. I pulled out, slapping his sweet ass.
As I did, his hands sank from the desk to his engorged cock. They gave it only a slight stroke, but I knew he wanted to touch himself.
"Turn over," I commanded.
"Sir?" he asked.
"Over," I said. "Flip. Lie back on the table."
He did. His ribs stretched out. God, he was so thin. But his cock was huge.
"Stroke off," I said. "I want to see you touch yourself as my cum runs out your ass. I want you to show me how much you like it."
His hands, bigger seeming because of his bony wrists, flew to his crotch. He stroked, pulling upward. His smooth face contorted in lust. Sweat plastered his stupid, long, black hair over his face. I could indeed see my cum drooling from his ass and dripping on the table. I sat down on the table to get a better look at his eyes. Lust warred with humiliation as he stared back at me. His fist flew up and down his huge shaft.
He moaned. Great wads of cum came flying out and pooled on his thin belly.
I grabbed myself, and with three strokes I came again, splattering his face.
"Let that be a lesson," I said. "Never bet and lose."
I staggered away, leaving Andrew covered in his cum and mine.
Fuck you, Larry, I thought. I knew what I'd just done to his son would haunt him forever. Probably Andrew, too.
But who cared? Not me, except as far as the thought was vaguely exciting.
After all, I wasn't gay.
Tournament Games 17