Damien Defeated
A Gay Fictional Story by captain144.
They had not long moved home to Little Howling. Their old house, at number 4, Prewitt Drive, lay in ruins. It was unclear what had happened during their enforced absence the previous year: perhaps a gas leak. Their new home was not far from Prewitt Drive, and Patricia was relishing the new neighbors and the opportunities for nosiness that they presented.
They applauded, briefly, as Damien’s opponent was announced to the audience. The referee’s voice boomed around the cinder block walls: “And in the blue corner – Damien Stroud.” Victor roared, pounding his meaty hands together. Patricia, slightly more demurely, looked around to make sure that everyone else in the audience was applauding satisfactorily.
In the middle of the ring, Damien lurched to the right, a fist whistling past his ear. He took a couple of steps back, his considerable weight off-balance, before a second fist buried itself into his stomach. The walls of Little Howling Leisure Center began to blur as his eyes scrunched up with pain. He attempted to re-group, raising his gloves high and rocking on his toes.
Wham. The small crowd watching murmured approval. His opponent was fast – far quicker than Damien, who felt like a lumbering snail by comparison. For years, Damien had been the biggest boxer in the district by a country mile, which had done away with the need for skill or speed – but now, as an adult, his competitors had caught up.
Dancing away, his opponent looked effortless. A slight sheen on his arms and brow was the only hint that he was working hard. Damien knew Phil Castor by reputation – as a junior, he had been a good boxer (although on the handful of occasions he had faced Damien, the bouts had not lasted long). But he seemed to have had a late growth spurt since they had last met, and he had definitely hit the gym.
Damien blocked yet another uppercut and took some quick steps back and to the right, but his opposite number was there again. A quick one-two sent him reeling, and still the heavy fists kept coming. He knew it was over. A crashing blow to his face shook his jowls. He raised his arm ineffectively but couldn’t make contact.
The ref didn’t intervene – this was Damien’s first year as a senior boxer. In the junior league, the previous year, the match would have been over by now, ended as a safety precaution. Despite the fifty or so other people in the room, and the two with him in the ring, Damien felt alone.
More steps back, and he was leaning against the rope. His vest was drenched. His vision was blurred with sweat and mingled tears as he, gasping for breath, raised his fists again.
It was too late. One more blow sealed the deal, thumping into his jaw and sending spit tumbling to the floor. Damien sank to his knees onto the mat, and the referee jumped forward to finally end his misery.
He had lost. Three years in a row as his age group’s undefeated Junior Heavyweight Inter-School Boxing Champion of the South East had come to a screeching halt the second he had stepped onto a bigger stage. He could see his parents’ faces in the crowd, looking worried and a little disappointed. They were the only members of the audience not cheering.
Phil was grinning, his black gum shield making his face seem slightly sinister. He held out a hand and pulled Damien back up to his feet.
“Touch gloves, please,” said the referee, smartly. There was a single tap. Then the referee grabbed Phil’s arm, raised it into the air, and called out, “We have a winner!”
The cheers of the crowd were echoing in Damien’s ear as he slouched out of the sports hall towards his changing room. The usual signs for the ladies and gents had been replaced with red and blue: at some point in a previous year, tensions had boiled over outside the ring, and the organizers felt it best to separate opponents while they cooled down. The room was silent – Phil and Damien’s match had been the final bout of the night, and all of the other blue corner boxers had left. Damien was relieved.
He kicked off his socks and shoes and yanked his vest over his head, before throwing it onto a bench in disgust. He didn’t know how to handle the emotions bubbling inside him: misery, disappointment and, worst of all, shame were simply not things he had experienced until…well, until that night with his cousin, in the summer of 1995. They were alien feelings to him, and he had never learned to deal with them.
He slipped his hand inside his shorts and removed his cup. Instantly, the smooth bulge in his crotch disappeared entirely. Damien wondered whether anyone would notice if he began to wear the cup all the time – he enjoyed the powerful silhouette it gave him. He slipped off his shorts and jock next, balling them up and tossing them onto his vest.
Naked now, he grabbed his towel and a bottle of shower gel and padded across the empty changing room into the shower block. Six shower heads lined the open room, two to a wall: usually, this was a setup that Damien would have avoided at all costs, but he stank. He could smell himself. This had been the most intense bout he had ever experienced. Bruises were already starting to form on his chest and his round stomach. Hanging his towel from the row of hooks by the entrance to the shower block, he positioned himself beneath a shower head on the right-hand side of the small room. He hit the button, and as the cool water ran over his floppy blonde hair and down his shoulders, he began to lather himself up.
He scrubbed his pits before rubbing the Lynx into his sandy pubes and spreading it around his crotch. He felt his prick begin to stir even as he did so: it had been days since he had had any relief. “Women weaken legs” – even the Romans had known it. From his early days in boxing, he had been instructed to leave himself alone in the run-up to a boxing match. To let the testosterone build up. And while women had rarely been on the scene, he had dutifully left his cock well alone for the last three weeks. Well, it hadn’t helped him win this time.
Damien looked around. No one was likely to come in, and he was really desperate to come. His cock was at full mast, slimy with shower gel and ready to go. He shrugged, and went to work, gripping his thumb and forefinger around his stiff prick. Eyes closed, he leaned back against the cold tiles as the water rushed over him.
His eyes shot open again in alarm as the door to the changing room opened. He pirouetted under the shower, facing the wall.
“Alright, Bid D?” Phil Castor’s voice called. “The showers in my changing room are backed up – water everywhere. You don’t mind, do you?”
“N-no. No, that’s fine,” Damien said, tremulously. He closed his eyes again, despairing. Was it not enough to be humiliated in the boxing ring?
Phil was still out of sight, stripping off by the lockers. He couldn’t see Damien. Maybe it would be okay – Damien could just run back to his bench now, while Phil was changing. But no – Damien’s cock was still obviously hard, and he would have to walk straight past his opponent. He had to stay here, facing the wall. Hopefully Phil would also face the wall – it was the decent thing to do, after all. And Damien could slip out while Phil was showering.
Damien’s cock remained defiantly stiff. It had been days since he had ejaculated, after all. And despite his terror, there was something risqué about being caught wanking in a public place. Damien grit his teeth and continued to rinse himself, staring fixedly at the tiles.
A shower began to run behind him. Phil had taken one as far away from him as possible. So far so good. Damien just needed to slip out now. Hopefully Phil wouldn’t see anything, and Damien could get dressed quickly and leave. His heart was racing, pounding harder than it had when he was running around a boxing ring. His cock would not go down. He had to do it. He couldn’t stand here forever.
He stepped out from under the shower head and walked towards the door, back to the main changing room. But before he could grab his towel from the hook, there was a derisive snort from the other shower.
“Hello, Big D. My, but whoever named you that clearly hadn’t seen it, had they?” Phil said maliciously.
Damien’s eyes widened in shock. This was his closest secret, out in the open. A source of dread and worry since his youngest days. In his early days at boarding school, he had got away with communal showers – the sprawling flab of his belly had formed a curtain of flesh which had hung low enough to protect his modesty. He had limited his self-abuse to toilet stalls, or very late at night, under his dormitory sheets. No one had been allowed to see his cock.
By his fourth year at boarding school, once he began boxing, some of the fat had turned to muscle – but by this point, pupils had been afforded more privacy. The senior dorms were shared one-to-one, and communal showers had been a thing of the past. Boxing was hardly a team sport. It had been easy to keep the little secret between his legs between him and the school nurse.
But now, it was out in the open. Water still running down his body, Phil Castor was staring at Damien’s tiny, hard cock with the utmost glee. He knew that by the end of the week the entire Southeast intermediate boxing circuit would know just what was (or wasn’t) hidden beneath his oversized cup. His face flushed with shame. It didn’t help that the flaccid cock between Phil’s legs was at least three times the size of Damien’s puny erection. And why was he still hard?!
“You look a bit excited, Big D. What were you doing in the shower before I got here?” Phil kept on grinning as he spoke. “Have you been saving yourself up for after the bout? Or was it because another man joined you in the showers?”
Damien went bright red. “I’m not a poof!” he said, angrily.
“Oh yeah – maybe not. Looking at you, you’re not really a man, are you?” Phil wasn’t smiling now. His eyes were gleaming, calculating. “Look. You can’t call yourself Big D if you’ve never had a big D. And I’ve not jacked off in weeks, either. Why don’t you congratulate me for beating your ass?”
Damien backed away, but Phil was too quick. He grabbed Damien’s wrists and pinned him against the tiles.
“Come on, Big D. Don’t you want to play with a real cock for once? That thing you’ve got is toy-sized. Go on.” Damien glanced down at the snake swinging between Phil’s legs. He was petrified. And his slow, dull mind was nevertheless beginning to reach some unpleasant conclusions. He certainly did not want to touch Phil’s cock. But if he tried to resist, it was only going to go one way: hadn’t they just proven that in the boxing ring, only twenty minutes previously? Damien had witnessed some of the things that happened at boarding school to boys who were deemed soft touches. Many of them had happened on his orders. Quickly jack Phil off, and it would be all over – better that, surely, than find himself with a cock in his mouth, or worse.
He swallowed. He knew he wasn’t gay. He had once wondered whether his cousin was, although he knew now for certain that he wasn’t. Harvey’s girlfriend was smoking hot. But for a time, he had thought that Harvey had a boyfriend called Cedric, or something like that. Some kind of silly pansy name, anyway. He hadn’t cared, really. It was just something new to bully the boy about.
Damien had not liked the malicious look on Phil’s face when he had mentioned beating his ass. Better to give in now than to face worse later. He reached out his hand and cupped his fingers around Phil’s cock. It had grown, slightly, but still pointed straight down at the floor. Tentatively, he moved his hand up and down the smooth shaft, feeling it stiffen as he did so. The pink head of Phil’s cock winked out as his foreskin moved back and forward. The room was nearly silent, disturbed only by a faint tapping as Phil’s heavy balls knocked against his thighs. The showers had both long since stopped running.
Gaining in confidence, he wrapped his fist around Phil’s thick cock (something he had never been able to do with his own tiny pecker). He began moving it faster, hoping against hope that Phil would come quickly and bring this misery to an end. But instead, Phil winced a little and caught Damien’s wrist.
“Damien, it needs some spit or something,” he said, sounding annoyed. With that, Phil reached out and shoved Damien’s shoulders so that he fell roughly to his knees. He shoved his blonde fringe away from his eyes and looked up in horror. This was going downhill, fast. His cousin had once mentioned that he could talk to snakes. Gazing up at the python now swinging in front of his eyes, Damien wondered briefly if this was what he had meant. He closed his eyes, tight. He did not want to think about his cousin right now.
Phil wrapped his fingers through Damien’s blonde hair and pulled his face towards his crotch. Damien still had no choice but to give in. He did not have as much experience as he liked to let his friend Piers, and the rest of his gang, think, but, racking his brains, he tried to remember what the very occasional girl had done to him over the years with her mouth. He stuck out his tongue, running it gently across the underside of Phil’s meat, tasting a hint of sweat and salt. He moved further down, gently kissing each of the swollen plums dangling beneath it, before running his tongue back up the length and around its shiny head. This wasn’t too bad – the taste wasn’t pleasant, but it wasn’t too bad.
Phil rolled his eyes, and, grabbing the back of Damien’s head still tighter, rammed his cock down his throat.
Tears streamed from Damien’s eyes as he was choked in a way that brought back awful memories of the time he had swallowed a ten-tonne toffee. That had caused his tongue to grow to four feet long. It felt like the slab of pork currently being rammed down his gullet was nearly as huge. The back of his head hit the tiled wall as Phil brutally fucked his mouth. He whimpered. His hands hung limp and useless. Snot was pouring from his nose, which was millimeters from Phil’s abs.
Phil’s swollen chunk of meat continued to beat furiously against the back of Damien’s throat as he sprawled across the grimy tiles. He felt Phil’s thick dark bush brush his nose twice a second. He tried to keep his teeth out of the way, but he was struggling to breathe. He couldn’t control his head as it lurched forwards and backward with the force of Phil’s thrusts. Through a haze of tears, Damien looked up at Phil’s face, which was furrowed in concentration. Or was it…irritation?
“Look, Big D. This just isn’t working for me. I need to use a hole with fewer teeth, I’m afraid.” Phil pulled his cock out of Damien’s mouth and pushed him away. Damien lay back and watched him step out of the shower area, cock swaying ahead. Damien held his breath with fear as Phil rummaged through his bag.
“This’ll do,” Phil said, sounding pleased with himself. When Phil turned back, he was holding a small tub of hair gel. He smeared some of the sticky gunk onto the end of his spit-spattered cock and threw the tub at Damien, who dropped it. He laughed as Damien scrambled across the shower room on his knees.
“Shove some of that on your arsehole and get over here,” Phil barked.
Damien slowly stood. He gritted his teeth and walked towards the locker room benches. He knew things like this had happened at his all-boys school, although he had never really partook: it would have required him to get his body out. He had inflicted the other usual punishments, however: he had forced his inferiors to stand naked in a cold changing room if they had annoyed him, and once, someone had invented a game called Jousting: some of the smaller boys had been forced to clench the ring of a donut in their arsecheeks, while Damien and his friends tried to hook them onto the ends of their school sticks. He felt a twinge of hot regret mingle with his own present shame at the thought. Shame was a relatively new emotion for him, but he had begun to get used to it since his encounter with the dementias four years prior.
Damien closed his eyes. He knew that this could go the easy way, or the hard way. He knew he was fucked either way.
Facing the lockers, he reached his hand around and wiped a big dollop of the fragrant gel onto his cherry. It resisted even his finger as he rubbed against the tight hole. His last hope was that Phil wouldn’t be able to fit his cock in, and would simply give up. It was not much of a hope. Damien sank to his knees, put his hands on the wooden bench, and tried to control his breathing.
Phil stepped behind him, rubbing his hands gently up and down his shaft to spread the lube. His eyes narrowed. He knelt behind Damien’s flabby body and lined himself up, his swollen head slipping easily into the cleft between Damien’s cheeks. He found his target, pressing firmly against the entrance to Damien’s poop chute. He pushed forward.
Damien felt a searing burn as Phil shoved his rock hard cock unwaveringly into his massive backsides, which offered no resistance. He pulled out almost the way, the tip stretching Damien’s ring, before ramming home again, and again. Tears filled Damien’s eyes as Phil’s hands gripped his waist for more leverage. In, and out, and in again. Damien tried to pretend he was anywhere else but was continually dragged back to the present: he could feel Phil’s pubes as they pressed into his cheeks, smell sweat mixed with the slightly sweet fragrance of hair gel, hear the gentle, rhythmic thwack as Phil’s pendulous balls knocked his thighs. He was cold, and wet, and ashamed. There was no escaping this moment.
Phil slowed his rhythm and leaned forward, his torso resting on Damien’s broad back. For a moment, Damien hoped the ordeal was over, but Phil just wanted to make sure Damien could hear him clearly. He continued to move his cock slowly in and out of Damien’s slick hole, as he began to whisper into Damien’s ear.
“You know – we have fought before. Not just in the ring. Don’t you remember?” His voice sounded cold and slightly breathless. Damien racked his brains. He had seen him at boxing meets, but he couldn’t recall any other meeting with him.
“No?” he muttered quietly.
“I took up boxing because of you. You and your little gang beat the shit out of me. I was 13. I wanted to get strong and beat the shit out of you. I wanted to beat your ass. And now look at you!” Phil said triumphantly, as he gripped tight on Damien’s hips and slammed his cock as deep as he could into Damien’s gaping chasm. “I hope you know you deserve this.”
To Damien, it felt as though the air had frozen in his lungs. He was numb. The only sensation in the world was the relentless pressure of the cock bruising his intestines. The world seemed to turn black, and he again recalled the night he had been attacked by dementias. But this time no one was coming to save him.
Fortunately, Phil seemed to think he had tortured Damien long enough. Or perhaps he thought that someone might come looking for them and make sure there was no trouble. Either way, he began to pick up the pace again, fucking deep and fast into Damien’s hole. His balls had begun to tighten, thrilled at the thought of humiliating Damien further by dumping his load inside him. He bit his lip and kept pounding.
“Fucking hell,” ejaculated Phil, as he ejaculated. Three weeks’ worth of thick spunk ropes were unleashed inside Damien’s bowels. Phil pulled out, landing a final couple of spurts on Damien’s lower back as he stood up.
Damien stayed kneeling, staring into space. He was willing the other man to leave. But he didn’t hurry: Phil stepped into the showers again, to rinse his cock clean, before patting himself dry and beginning to dress. Damien stayed very still as Phil began to style his hair in front of the mirrors. He desperately wanted to cover himself up as quickly as possible. His arse was beginning to throb, and a glob of spunk and hair gel was beginning to make its way down the back of his thick thigh. But he didn’t dare move. He didn’t want to attract any more attention from Phil. Trying to stay unnoticed seemed to be the safest course of action. Despite his shame, and against his will, his stubby boner was still standing proud in front of him.
“See you around, Big D,” Phil said casually, as if nothing more remarkable had happened than a polite chat over a cup of tea. He walked out of the changing room, leaving Damien alone and in shock.
Damien’s breathing began to slow. After a few minutes had passed, he stood up. Flushing bright red, he used his sweaty boxing vest to mop the slimy mess from his arse crack and the bench. Then, looking over his shoulder to check that he was still alone, he quickly gripped his rock-hard nubbin with his fingertips. His little balls were aching as he quickly jerked it up and down. It took half a dozen quick strokes before, panting, and biting down on his lower lip, a second gush of white spunk joined Phil’s load on the back of his vest. He wiped his cock off with the vest, bundled it into a ball, and began to dress.
“My ickle diddikins!” Patricia shrilled. “It’s so unfair! The judges were all wrong. There were fouls everywhere! You’ll win next time, my sweet.”
Out in the hall, drinks were being served to celebrate the end of the championship. Damien’s father slapped him on the shoulder. “Better luck next time,” Victor said gruffly.
Nearby, Phil was with some friends, holding a lager. He smirked over at Damien. “Ickle diddikins seems a better nickname than ‘Big D'” he said softly, so that only Damien could hear.
Damien cast his eyes to the ground. His torn arsehole throbbed, and he could feel damp cum pooling out into the seat of his underwear. He felt numb. He felt that he deserved this. He felt as if he would never be happy again.
The End.
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