Now what the fuck would Nick Kaiser get me for a birthday present? Astounded curiosity had me pressing harder on the gas peddle, the quicker to arrive and solve this mystery. Stopped at a red light, I was somewhat distracted. Three college football players were crossing the street, three hard-bodied, virile, cocky-faced dudes, wearing gray workout shorts and their purple Vikings team jerseys, carrying gym bags. Probably on their way from the dorms to the field.
You saw them all over this university part of town, strutting about with the air of minor gods, which, to be honest, a lot of folks around here considered them. Their thick muscled legs carried them with, as I once pointed out to Nick, a "healthy bouncing jock step", which made him call me a dork and smack the back of my head, before dragging me onto the back of his motorcycle and roaring us off to another state, where that night he won two grand playing pool in some roadside trucker hangout. I drove across the railroad tracks into the more rickety side of town, another two blocks, and pulled into the driveway of Nick's bungalow. His hulking black bike sat, as usual, in the middle of the unkempt scraggly lawn. This time, though, his black van was beside it. Like always, I reached to give the bike a stroke of admiration. It was cool to the touch, but heat emanated from the van, which, strangely enough, was parked so that its rear doors were close to the front of the bungalow. Only knowing Nick like I did would explain why I thought this unusual. His live-for-the-moment instincts never allowed him to waste time even to turn a vehicle around to back up to anything. His direction was always forward. On motorcycle or in van, Nick Kaiser just plowed headlong into any driveway. Or any surface he chose to make his immediate personal driveway.
Nick never locked the front door, and I walked right in. His living room always seemed permeated with the heady scents of leather and oil and rubber.
This was because he was always doing repair work in there, lugging tools and dragging greasy motors and tires in from the garage, because he didn't want to miss some stupid martial arts flick on T.V., or new raunchy cartoon on the music video channel. A few mismatched chairs and end tables were getting lost amongst these garage items gradually taking over. "There you are!" he boomed, all six feet of him, shirtless, in his scuffed black leather jeans, clomping toward me on those beat up biker boots.
I thought to myself, "A lunatic. But a STUD of a lunatic". All of him: his severe dark blond buzzcut; deep brown eyes; thick handsome nose; cocky, amused, crooked smile; strong jawline; pink scar on the chin; healthy glow in the cheeks; shoulders as broad as a doorway; stomach muscles as tight as knotted rope; long muscled tattoo-strewn arms that could swing those big fists hard enough to punch holes in walls; and the long powerful legs, their muscles bulging and flexing through the inky black leather pants which hugged and swung low on his hips, containing a heavy-loaded bulge at the crotch, and creased all around the knees and just above his boots, like gooey black tar.
"Ready for the best birthday present you ever got in your life?" he asked.
"Nick", I said, "My birthday's in August. That's two months ago." "Don't matter. You'll see, this is good enough to be late. Good enough to cover your last ten birthdays. Come on..." and as he led me down the hall, I admired that fine Nick Kaiser ass: thick, muscular, protruding, pushing hard against it's leather encasing. His bedroom door was closed and what looked like a long strip torn from a white undershirt hung over the doorknob. "Now let me blindfold you," he said, wrapping it around my head, "Til I get you in there. Want to really surprise you." And, seeing nothing, I felt him lead me into the bedroom and close the door behind me. That was when my heart increased its speed, because I sensed that Nick Kaiser was not about to disappoint. His hands on my shoulders firmly moved me three steps to the side.
"Ready?" he asked.
He whipped off the blindfold, and what I saw sent a of red hot rush from my cock to the tips of my toes, and back again to my cock which was quickly on its way to blowing open my zipper. Nick and I weren't the only guys there. My eyes met those of a handsome, brown-haired jockboy, hanging in suspension, in his purple number twenty-four Vikings football jersey, half mummified in black duct tape, hanging parallel to the floor in a Superman flying position, though his arms were pulled behind him and seemed doubly taped. About five thick chains hung from the ceiling, wrapped beneath him, turning him into this powerfully-muscled but hopelessly floating package. The black tape also stretched tightly round and round his head, from beneath his nose to under his chin. His cheeks bulged over the tops of the tape. Strands of hair were sweatily plastered to his forehead, and he stared at me with incredulity, fear, anger, embarrassment, and disbelief that a powerhouse like himself could wind up restrained so thoroughly. I wondered the same, and turned to look at Nick, who was giving me his cocky conceited smile. "You like it?"
"Nick, how the fuck...?"
"Ahh..." he waved his hand dismissively, "It was easy. Saw this one doing your 'bouncing jock step' across University Boulevard and figured I should make him a little more useful other than his just scoring touchdowns. Pulled the van over, asked him to show me directions on a map in the back of the van, and...he was easy. Caught him off guard. These sweatsock boys are so stupid, they're easy to nab if you catch them off guard."
Hanging jockboy didn't like this account. The air began whistling through his nose as his breathing increased, and a ferocious burst of "MMMMpppfff!", accompanied by a burst of struggling made me fear he'd escape, but Nick's amused, calm, arms-folded stance reassured me. Any wrapping job by Nick would not be unwrapped easily, unless Nick himself did the unwrapping. Jockboy was under control. The shiny black tape might stretch somewhat against his straining muscles, but would not give way. Too bad jockboy wasn't as aware of this as I was: he could have saved himself the bother of kicking up such a useless fuss
He was hanging so that his face was eye level with mine. I examined it, rubbing a finger along his hunky nose and the black tape sealing his mouth. I took my time circling him, savoring him from every angle like a new car. I sniffed his damp hair and licked his ear, rubbed my hand over his strong shoulders, and fingered the white plastic arm stripes on the purple jersey (those stripes that weren't obscured by tape binds, that is). He'd been stripped from the waist down, his thick sinewy legs bound tightly together, his ass a rising mountain of muscle, which I rubbed and slapped. I was like a greedy kid in a candy store, and jockboy couldn't tell me "no". White sweatsocks pulled to the knee tightly wrapped his muscular calves, and I stuck my nose on one foot and inhaled the delicious jockstink, which made him let out a particularly loud moan, which sounded something like "No", but who knows? I got down underneath to look up at jockboy's equipment. Even soft as it was, it seemed a good sized-piece, hanging straight down, slightly swinging. "Nick", I said, "You are one crazy fuck. You know we could probably get arrested for this?"
"Who's gonna know, bud? You think he's going to go to the cops to say he was snatched off the street and played with?" "Uh...probably not. But..."
"But what? Hey, you always wanted something like this. Now you have it. Just enjoy it, man. Don't go fucking wussy-assed worrying about what's going to happen later. And check this out..." He picked a long stiff feather off the dresser, "The fucker's ticklish." He rubbed the feather's tip on the back of jockboy's leg, just behind the knee, causing the chains to jerk loudly as jockboy's flying form jumped halfway to the ceiling with a loud roaring grunt.
I could swear I caught a whiff of a whole new coating of salty-sweet jock sweat as his swinging slowed, him shaking his head from side to side, breathing hard through his nose and moaning. He looked at me as Nick handed me the feather, and his eyes seemed to plead that I ignore Nick's instructions to "Have a field day with him..."
"Why tickling, Nick?" It's wasn't the first thing I'd have thought of to do with my captive hunk.
He snickered. "Look what it does to him", he said as he dropped to one knee to look underneath jockboy. I joined him, and saw jockboy's cock had indeed stretched into what looked like a flesh-covered billy club.
"Okay", I said, "How'd you find that out?"
"Tried different stuff and watched the effect..." Nick shrugged. "And here, this goes with your present." He handed me an empty glass jar with a blank white label on which he'd written "JOCK-MILK".
"So you'll always have something to keep to remember my present by. So, you two have fun tonight," he patted the side of jockboy's head, "I'll be gone til tomorrow. They're having this pool tournament in San Remo, and I'm going to try getting a piece of it..." I twirled the feather about as Nick grabbed his helmet and headed out.
"Hey Nick", I said, and he turned in the doorway with that cocky grin of his.
"You're crazy, but you're the best, man. Thanks a lot for the birthday present." And I turned to my moaning suspended jockboy. "Let's get started..." and I tickled his socked foot and heard the chains jangle really loud.