The Warped & Wicked Gym Coach Ch. 07

The first thing Jake heard was the music. It had a low electronic rhythm, filled in with distortion and electric guitar, and the vocalist was screaming more than singing. Jake's temples throbbed, as if all the blood in his body had pooled up in his brain, and he could feel the wind from the nearby speakers pass over him with each bassline. Swirling around him were checkerboards and ornate spirals of green, purple, and orange light, which he tried to follow with his eyes until he became aware that they were closed. He opened them.

In the distance, a crowd of people, hundreds perhaps, huddled together in a spacious and darkly lit dance hall - some at tables enjoying cocktails or smoking from hookahs, some dancing to the music, grinding and grooving with each other in groups of three or four. There were young and old faces shimmering and melting to the rhythm of the music. I'm hallucinating, he thought. This isn't happening.

"He's awake!" he heard someone yell, followed by hoots and applause. The walls seethed, expanded, and rippled, and the circles of lights upon them formed eyes, or bubbles, or stars exploding; but the structure and the people and the music that surrounded them all ultimately remained the same. He was hallucinating, it was true; but this was happening. This was real.

Jake looked around him - he was on a stage, hanging upright, arms and legs bound to a wooden cross in shape of an X - what he remembered from his biblical studies as a Saint Andrew's cross - floating about six inches off the ground, causing him to slightly sway to and fro. He was stark naked, his penis hanging low between his splayed legs. His heart pounded. He searched the crowd for a sympathetic face, but all he found were smug leers and lascivious women and men ogling him, laughing, smirking. Shivering violently, he felt alone, terrified, chilled to the bone, and completely vulnerable. He tried to scream, but his voice had been effectively muted by a foreign object wedged into his mouth.

To his right stood an empty podium with an archaic rune etched upon it. On the other side of podium, about thirty yards away, he noticed another large X hanging from the ceiling by thick chains. Strapped to it was a nude young woman.

Above and around him were several television monitors, all casting a live feed of the stage from different camera angles. He saw himself: ball-gagged, naked, bound, his eyes appearing crazed and alien unto himself. It horrified him. He switched his gaze to another monitor, one that showed a close-up of the girl. Oh no, he thought. Not you too. It was Holly Morgan.

He started to call out her name, before remembering that a rubber ball prevented his tongue from moving, the bands of it fastened at the back of his head. Oh, Holly, he thought. What have they done to you? Yet he could not look away. Her body was lovely: big, beautiful breasts with quarter-sized areolae, thin waist, thick thighs; her manicured pubic hair was almost as fair as the hair on her arms. She was not gagged, but she definitely seemed under the influence, as her eyes roamed about in dizzy fascination, her mouth agape in a dopey grin. His eyes darted back and forth from her close-up TV, to his, and to the bizarre gathering of wretched reprobates who would not lift a finger to help them.

Jake recognized some of them: there were prominent businessmen who did commercials, local news celebrities, the parents of classmates. He saw a large man who looked like Darius Carpenter, a running back for the Minnesota Vikings. I'm losing my mind, he thought. He could not trust his eyes, his mind, or his memories.

The music dimmed, and the people fell silent.

"QUOD SEXUS EST QUI VINCIT." A voice boomed from the speakers.

"CELEBRATURI SUMUS VICTORES," the crowd responded in unison.

Jacob bit into the rubber ball, crying out something no one could hear.

On the monitor that captured the whole stage, he could see two figures, one about six inches taller than the other, shrouded in black hooded robes, holding hands and approaching from between the two Saint Andrew's crosses. The taller stepped to the podium and uncovered his gray-haired head and his weathered, unsmiling visage. Athletic Director Tomlinson, thought Jake. That's him.

"Ladies and gentlemen, brothers and sisters, members and patrons of the West Virginia Chapter of Academia Diocles," Tomlinson began in a deep and powerful register. "Each year, our organization seeks to secure its future vitality and dynamism through the enlistment of new members, chosen from among the absolute cream of the graduating class of the most prestigious preparatory school in the state. Not solely the smartest, or the strongest, or the fastest, but the ideal citizen, exceptional in mind, body, and spirit."

A gong rang out. "Mens sana in corpore sano."

"AMEN," spoke the crowd.

"And so we have gathered once again to initiate two worthy candidates into our sacred fraternity. These candidates have been judiciously selected with the utmost scrutiny, heavily vetted during the whole of their scholastic and athletic careers, and severely tested and tempered over their final year, in a program designed to weed out the weak and identify the strong. They have maintained the highest dignity in the face of adversity, and they have shown the brightest promise. They have excelled in both their studies and in the crucible of physical competition, and they have emerged victorious."

"AVE!" responded the crowd.

"Sexually, they are pure. They have remained true to their own character, avoided carnal temptation, and retained their sacred virginity. How rare and beautiful is innocence!" A round of raucous applause broke out. Jake watched the scene in a state of total befuddlement.

"As is our tradition, one was made aware of their selection, and one was not. One is here of their own free will, and one is not. One is an Accomplice; one a Naïf. One is the dark; one is the light."

"IT IS RIGHT THAT IT IS SO," the crowd replied.

What the holy fuck, thought Jake.

"Here, to present the benediction, is our esteemed sister and Chapter Secretary of Recruitment, Minerva Mentor, Inductee of Nineteen Hundred and Ninety-Three. Minerva, you may proceed." Tomlinson stepped down; Ms. Bandy took off her hood and approached the microphone.

"Good evening, brothers and sisters. Tonight I present to you your two champions, worthy of the exalted status of Diocletian!" The rabble cheered once more. "Meet your first initiate, the Accomplice: Holly Morgan. In addition to the standards of this hallowed institution, The Accomplice must be a team player, willing to sacrifice himself or herself for the greater good. Without Accomplices, we cannot obtain information hidden from plain view, we cannot do the unseemly but necessary, and we cannot conspire to help natural leaders make the world a better place."

Ms. Bandy pointed at Holly. "Ms. Morgan has maintained a 4.0 grade point average while becoming the most successful tennis player in the history of the Franklin Academy. Holly is sweet yet caustic, honest yet enigmatic, supple yet willful, simple yet brilliant. She can carry a burden joyfully, and she can take a punch with composure. She has now become a friend and a confidant, and I look forward to sharing our wisdom and our rewards with this eminently worthy young woman. Her Diocletian name will now be, and forever more: Penelopia Lucretia!"

"AVE, PENELOPIA LUCRETIA!" cried the people. Holly was weeping with joy.

"Your second initiate, the Naïf: Jacob Packert. The Naïf, as it is known, is selected for the strength of their body and the purity of their heart, but their spot among us is earned by the endurance of their mind and the clarity of their soul. The trials are kept from them not as a punishment but as a privilege. They are the Academia's spirit, for they remind us of our own innocence, and they keep our intentions as pure as we all once were, and can be again." She paused, and pointed at him.

"Mr. Packert received a 4.25 GPA after leading his basketball team to the third state championship in the history of the Franklin Academy, obtaining a full athletic scholarship to the University of West Virginia. Moreover, Jacob is kind, good-natured, loving, and loyal; gentle yet strong, mature yet childlike. Resolute in adherence to time-tested values, yet flexible in the face of new experiences. Optimistic when no reason to be so can be found. He sees the good in people who cannot see it themselves. He is, without a doubt, one of the finest young men I have ever known, and my heart is glad that his trials and tribulations have finally come to a close. May he reap the fruits of his labor in abundance. His Diocletian name will now be, and forever more: Lucius Quinctius!"

"AVE, LUCIUS QUINCTIUS!"

Ms. Bandy looked over at him and smiled with tears in her eyes. Jake's jaw relaxed. Recurrent waves of pure ecstasy rose up from his chest, washing over him, thawing the cold state of his nakedness. Her eyes sparkled, and she appeared to him bathed in a light emanating from within.

Ms. Bandy stepped down from the podium; Old Man Tomlinson returned. "Does the Naïf accept this honor, bestowed upon him by this august body?" The entire audience stared at Jake, waiting for a response in icy silence. He felt his head nodding of its own volition. The gong rang again.

Tomlinson continued: "So be it. To my new initiates, I shall now relay unto you what lies ahead on your road to a greater and greater incarnation of Truth. Academia Diocles is a pillar of the community, enriching our society while cloaking itself in the shadows. It is a symbiotic partnership between Youth and Experience: an exchange of vigor and of wealth, of beauty and of its appreciation. Power cultivates the able and willing in order to bring our society to new heights; its reward the pleasures that life has to offer. We Diocletians believe that there is no success without strife and struggle. We believe that the road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom. And we believe that to the victor goes the spoils."

He continued: "You have faced the lonely and difficult road of the warrior. You have been instructed in the ways of discipline, sacrifice, and sensual awakening. And you have emerged as champions. And so, tonight, we say: to the victors go the spoils!"

"TO THE VICTORS GO THE SPOILS!" the crowd exploded in a cacophonous mirth: whooping, stomping, whistling, screaming. Tomlinson encouraged the boisterousness with his outstretched arms, then quieted them with a flick of the wrists.

The music began to play again, but with a much different vibration. It was sonorous and tribal, evoking a Druidic ritual or a Medieval chamber orchestra. Jake watched on the monitor as Tomlinson began to open his robe, his hairy chest coming into view, then his paunch, then his gray sex organs and thin legs. He raised his arms above his head as the audience yelled out in approbation. Two helpers clad in black appeared from nowhere, and adjusted the chains that supported Holly's X-shaped crucifix, working the pulley so that it lay parallel to the ground, about twenty inches from the floor.

No, thought Jake. Not him. Not like this.

Tomlinson walked in front of her, and stood between her gorgeous legs. "With this act, I welcome you into our community of excellence," he declared loudly, audible above the music without the microphone. He touched both of her thighs with his hands, pulling her closer to him. The two assistants stabilized the contraption as the athletic director worked his hands along her smooth young body, reaching at last her magnificent breasts, squeezing the nipples lecherously between his thick fingers.

The camera zoomed in on his semi-hard penis while he stroked it to full erection. He's going to be her first, Jake knew. He's going to take her virginity; that was supposed to be mine. The lesson on primae noctis from one of Mr. O'Malley's history classes popped into his mind. He switched to the monitor of Holly's face — she was smiling, but in his heightened altered state he could tell she was apprehensive and uncomfortable. Be gentle with her, he silently prayed, or I will fucking kill you.

Tomlinson opened her vagina with two fingers and placed his wizened old cock into her hole, wriggling until it entered midway. She ululated like a mournful feline as he pushed himself deeper inside her. Her eyes went wide; her pupils dilated. She cried out in what sounded like real pain, and her thrashing shook the chains. Tomlinson placed his thumb above his cock, where her clit was; suddenly he saw her shake, and her whole expression changed. Holly repeatedly began to moan. For an old man — sixty-five? seventy? — he moved his hips suavely to the slow rhythm of the song. Holly's eyes disappeared, rolling back into her head as her eyelids quivered. She grunted shamelessly over and over to the beat of his motion.

A whoop came out from the crowd, followed by another and another, until all of the audience applauded and cheered. In the wide-shot monitor, Jake noticed a small man with long hair being lowered down by a harness, right above his first girlfriend ever. He too was naked, save his belt, and his huge cock hung down ridiculously from his tiny body; another helper assisted him as he neared the ground so that his pelvis was over her face, his legs over her torso. Holly's mouth instinctively gravitated to the man's cock; she greedily took it into her mouth. The onlookers were jubilant; Jake was forlorn but spellbound.

Her head moved back and forth, taking as much of his cock as she could. It seemed as if this was not her first time. The Accomplice, he thought. She seemed to pause, cough, and react to the vigorous thrusting that the old man was inflicting upon her.

The black-clad assistant twirled the dangling stud a hundred-eighty degrees, so that his face was now over her pussy, as she still managed to suck his cock, which twisted in her mouth like a screw. He grabbed her legs and pulled himself into her, licking her clit; Holly quaked and convulsed, ready to explode. Tomlinson pulled out of her, his cock red from her ruptured hymen; he pushed himself lower, touching her anus with his tip. Holly eyes open wider, a look of sudden panic came over her. Tomlinson bent his legs, arched his back, and steadily shoved himself in. Holly could no longer keep sucking, attempting to cry out, her sounds stifled by the hard penis still inside her mouth. The man was lifted up again, adjusted in mid-air by his team, then let down again so that his hips were right above hers. Another assistant took his cock and put it inside her, as the other pulled on the chain, working the man like a marionette, eliciting screams of passion from Holly that sent cold rivers of sweat down Jake's brow. Part of him wanted to believe she hated this, but the more he watched the more he could see in her eyes and hear in her voice her absolute sexual bliss.

Good for her, he thought. All of a sudden he felt more joy than jealousy, and he was glad of it.

His chains began to jingle, and he lost his center of gravity. Before he knew it, he was looking up at the ceiling, the overhead lights momentarily blinding him. He lifted his neck as high as it would go. The music changed once more; horns and reeds played a triumphant melody, cymbals crashing the percussion. He could see the silhouettes of the crowd, a red stage light behind them. A figure appeared and stood in front of him, blocking the light. It took his eyes a few seconds to adjust, to see that it was Ms. Bandy.

Her hands carefully undid the toggle fastenings of her black robe. The front of it parted, but he was still partially blinded by the lights and his own weird visions. She took the robe over her shoulders, then let it fall gracefully to the earth like a feather. His eyes adjusted more. There she was — Ms. Bandy, Trish, Minerva Mentor — the desire of his heart for a year — fully naked — perfect breasts and nipples and hips and legs; she even leisurely spun around to show him her perfect ass — perfect everything, everything! — smiling beatifically at him.

"With this act, I welcome you into our community of excellence."

She playfully pushed his cross, rocking him like a child on a swing set, until two more assistants took the reins and supported his weight. Trish crouched low like a cat and climbed upon his chest. He took in her smell, the softness of her skin, the devilish twinkle in her eye as she made her way forward to kiss him, her bent knees up at his armpits, her warm vagina resting on his abdomen. She reached around his head and released the ball gag, letting it drop to the floor. She leaned in. They wrapped their tongues around each other's, swimming in the other's mouth, for what felt like whatever he imagined eternity was.

She transferred her weight forward, placing her hands on his shoulders and her elbows on his pecs, and she brushed her tits back and forth across his face; Jake opened his mouth, tongue out, attempting to lick her nipples as they passed, like one trying to catch snowflakes in a flurry. She stopped, allowing him to take one; Jake suckled at it, relishing the taste, drinking it in. A tear escaped the side of his right eye.

She inched her bottom toward his crotch, as he became aware that he was already incredibly hard. She arched her back and imperceptibly lifted her rear, opening herself up, kissing his tip with her labia, expertly sliding him into herself. His virginity was shed by gradations: first like scratching a long-held itch; then, as she enveloped his cockhead, he felt like he was coming back to a home he never knew. As she pushed him in deeper, he could feel everything; she clenched at his chest with her fingernails, making noises only he could hear, her face a blend of indescribable emotions as his rock hard phallus forced her walls apart, and sex became his immediate obsession. He was now a man, and men fucked.

Trish Bandy fell on top of him, her face at his ear. "Oh, god, Jake," she moaned. "I've been waiting so long for this . . . I've wanted you inside me since the first day of school . . ." As she squirmed back and forth, he felt the cool of the air on his wet cock melt into the feverish heat of her tight pussy. She sat up, too quickly it seemed, as a look of shock rang across her face. "Oh! You keep hitting my . . ." Her words transformed into a birdsong of elated delirium, as he found he could manipulate her facial reactions by undulating his hips. I'm gonna make you come, he thought, his eyes squinting at her malevolently. This is my sweet revenge.

Jake sensed that there were more hands caressing his body; he swiveled his head left and right, and saw two more naked women at his sides: one he recognized as the Channel Five meteorologist - about thirty years old, auburn hair, breast implants, freckles all over her body; the other he did not know - dark black, with frizzy hair and full, pouty lips, athletic arms and shoulders, gorgeous eyes. They kissed at his ears and neck; the black woman fed him her nipple, which he sucked readily.

Ms. Bandy was howling and shaking while riding his cock: "Uh-huh, yeah . . . yeah, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me with your big fucking dick!" A hand was now fondling his balls; he did not know whose. He looked into the crowd; some watched, some danced, some masturbated, some writhed on top of each other: nude, oiled, slithering like a pit of snakes. He turned to his right, watching two men fuck Holly to orgasm, who heaved gutturally as she came, and it seemed to him as if a ray of light shone straight out of her mouth. He could no longer tell the difference between his hallucinations and reality, and he did not care.

His gaze returned to Ms. Bandy, and they locked eyes. He relived every moment between them — their first encounter, her now obvious ruses and machinations; his simple, sweet nervousness around her, and all the lessons she taught him, unconscious as he was to them, which only now made sense — as he watched the subtle changes in her face, as the orgasm grew inside of her, exciting his cock further.