Wolcott was dressed in the same yellow-stained wife beater, fatigues and combat boot outfit as the previous night. Bruce had stripped down, or been stripped, to just his varsity jacket. He was bare chested and naked from the waist down, and barefoot, his skin blindingly white. Like last night, just wearing that one article of clothing made him seem even more naked somehow, more exposed, more ridiculous.
His arms were tied behind to the back of the chair behind him and Wolcott’s hands worked between his spread open legs. The wiry muscles in the old man’s white-furred arms were straining, and his big hands crushed what I knew to be the younger man’s shockingly undersized manhood. He had Bruce’s nuts in one fist, pulling them down towards his thighs, and his other hand twisted and squeezed his dick.
Both men stared into each other’s eyes intensely. I could tell that Bruce was straining to maintain his torturer’s gaze, to not cry out. Wolcott puffed on the cigar between his lips, blowing smoke out of his nostrils into the former quarterback’s agonized face. He smirked at the trembling man, daring him to protest as he gave his dick and ball sack an Indian burn.
Bruce’s big, shaven thighs shuddered with each squeeze and twist, but he kept himself in place. He even lifted his butt off the chair and thrust his hips forward to bring his defenseless package closer to the sick old son of a bitch.
As I watched Bruce accept this torture, a memory of my youth came back. I was playing Pee Wees or Mighty Mites or some Pop Warner division like that. It was early August, the start of the season. It was one of those practices where older players had joined the coaches, as assistants or role models or some other aim I didn’t understand.
Most of these bigger guys frightened me. They seemed dangerous, their voices deep and their language crude, their colossal bodies towering over us, moving with the force of titans. I kept clear of most of them, as if our coaches had released a dozen stallions out onto the dusty field. However, Bruce had graced me with a high five in front of my teammates that made me blush with pride at his acknowledgement.
Before practice started the coaches had lined us up for a cup check, going down the line and having us knock on our crotches to produce the hollow thud indicating that each player was properly equipped. The handful of delinquents had been made to do up-downs while the rest of us took a knee around Coach Wilson.
From his neon Starter jacket he produced the item in question. Rubber and hard, vented plastic, like the holes in a hockey mask, bulging with potency.
“Men, this right here is the most important piece of equipment that we use when we play ball.” He held it in front of us, displaying it like a holy relic.
“You need to wear one of these, always. That way when you’re older you can play a game that’s even more fun than football.” At this last sentence his voice slowed and deepened with innuendo. My heart fluttered when his big hairy hand grabbed the sizable basket in his Zubaz pants and the other coaches and older players laughed. My face flushed, thinking about my coach’s dick and balls. I had seen him putting it away after taking a piss in the bushes, and knew he had a big, thick, hairy thing between his legs.
“Brucie knows what I’m talking about.” The rest of the coaching staff erupted with laughter and elbowed Bruce or slapped him on the back. He snickered along obligingly, though in retrospect I realize he was likely a virgin himself.
Then we were permitted to stand and practice began. The sermon’s message was clear. Protect the dangling organs between your legs at all costs. Safeguard these your father’s and forefathers’ most cherished gifts. They were the precious seeds from which all our strength, size and virility would one day flourish. They were your birthright, your inheritance and your genetic future all bound up in two vulnerable orbs, your most treasured masculine asset, just hanging there like a pair of bullseyes. The essential source of all your manhood, to be protected above all else.
And now here was Bruce some 12 or 13 years later, legs spread wide open, letting the old man brutalize those sacred, vital testicles. He had yielded the wellspring of his masculinity to this vile sadist. I was outraged by this heresy.
The former champ was completely passive, enduring each crushing squeeze, each punch, twist or slap. Sweating and straining to keep his legs open, to welcome the older man’s careful, unhurried battery of his balls. Just like last night, Bruce was complicit in his own ruin and this knowledge both sickened and inflamed me.
Wolcott was experimenting with him. Staring at his agonized face as he tried out different techniques, watching for what got the biggest reaction. What hurt more, one finger jabbed into a single testicle or three? What prompted him to squirm faster, a single punch to the boys or a steady volley of bitch slaps to his ball sack? Wolcott took his time, studying his victim’s body language and clearly relishing his agony.
Between each prod or squeeze he’d pause, watching the younger man tremble, and the old man would breathe deeply or sigh with satisfaction like he was savoring a fine whiskey. I even saw him lick his lips when tears began streaming down the ex-jock’s stoic face. The old pervert’s big cock was clearly erect in his camo pants, pulsing in appreciation each time his victim winced or twisted in pain.
I wanted to bang on the window, to shout at Wolcott to stop, to holler at Bruce to close his legs, to defend himself and his small but precious gonads from the sick old bastard’s marauding hands. I had to help him. My mouth was dry and I was entranced, boned-up obscenely. Once again, instead of intervening all I could muster was base self-pleasure. I quickly freed my leaking hard-on from my waistband. Before I knew it my sweatpants and underwear were all the way down at my ankles and I felt the mulch dig into my bare knees.
I slowly wacked off as Wolcott tormented Bruce’s dick and balls with the patience and precision of a skilled artisan. The former athlete’s smooth, muscled thighs would shake when the old man seemed to try to make his finger tips touch between the flesh of his testes, and sweat cascaded down his forehead, but he never fought back against this slow and deliberate attack on his manhood.
They kept looking into each other’s eyes. Bruce seemed meek and fearful yet determined, like he wanted to make his torturer proud. Wolcott regarded him with utter contempt, as if he expected him to break at any point. There was an intimacy and a bond between them that seemed nonsensical but made the outrageous scene even more erotic for me.
He emptied his Scotch and finished his second cigar, stuffing both butts in Bruce’s jacket pockets, then stood from the armchair. Wolcott walked behind Bruce, quickly untying his arms and tipping the chair to force him up. An order was barked and Bruce hit the floor and began doing clapping push-ups. Wolcott circled him, shouting insults and spitting gobs of saliva down onto his head, jacket and flexing bare ass cheeks.