(Story) Posh vs scally: a love story

Thanks for the feedback for my last story. I've thought about rowing suits and rowing lads a lot over the years. Here's an older story I've dug up in case any of you might appreciate it. ---------- Mikey was, for once, unsure if he would prevail. They were less than midway through the training, and his resolve was weakening. Soon he would fill his lycra with spunk, again, and he didn't know how much longer he could keep it up. His ordeal had begun, as many such do, when he was given the choice between expulsion or joining the crew. He'd chosen the latter, but he was starting to regret it. His natural instinct to avoid the involvement of the authorities, and his own inflated estimation of his capabilities, had led him to think: how hard can these posh lads be? I could probably take any three at once. They'll probably try Marquis of Queensbury while I'm going for the nads and kidneys. But there were nine of them and he was just one lad from the suburban wastelands out to the east of the city. It hadn't all been bad, he thought, since his social worker had pushed his file into some sociologists black-box meatgrinder. Some plan to rescue bright kids from the gangs and the estates, they said. Mikey'd never thought of himself as smarter than the average sixteen-year-old chronically self-abusing hoodie wearer, but that's what the bearded hippie was telling him one day, when he was introduced to some men in suits. After that he just said yes to everything, and they loaded him up with a school uniform, textbooks and put him up at the boarding house on the spacious school grounds. The less contact with his old life, the better, they thought. It wasn't as bad as he was expecting. He was quite popular, in fact. Posh lads loved slumming it, apparently. And he found that he wasn't dumb either; plenty of the posh lads were not there because of their exceptional brains. Come the weekends, though, he was itching from the boredom. A posh place like this, there were acres to explore inside and out. Security was light during the day and the place was nearly dead, compared to weekdays when it thronged. In his more customary attire (crinkly black trackies, sneakers, hoodie, baseball cap hiding the blond curls the school was making him grow out: he didn't know it but he was a fashion sensation at the school and many of the more observant lads were investing heavily in scally-chic), he patrolled the grounds looking, more or less, for stuff to nick. This Saturday had found him sneaking into the boathouse on the river late in the morning. Some of the school crews trained even at the weekends. Mikey figured that while they were on the river, there'd be a lot of posh lad wallets unprotected in the changing rooms, so stuffed with cash they'd barely notice if a little went missing from each. He'd been in the middle of the process when he was disturbed by the returning crew and was forced to take cover. He found himself wedged in a dark corner between two sets of lockers, hoping he wouldn't be spotted through the narrow gap which incidentally gave him a decent view of most of the changing room. It was following this that he became acquainted with the less-advertised aspects of the sport of rowing: the team building rituals. The crew filed in in ones and twos, eight thoroughly buff lads. Mikey recognised some of them from his classes, they were all around his age. He caught a load of their cracking physiques, trained by rowing and weights machines, and felt a twinge of inadequacy. He was slim and lithe, not built like some of these lads. A couple of them would tower over him by more than a foot and had thighs that would accommodate his head. There was also a lot of sausage on show. He caught a load of one monster tucked down the leg of the lycra suit worn by one of the six-foot-plus lads, but thankfully he turned away before Mikey could start to feel really down about himself. And the outfits. Mikey was just amazed. There was no way he could ever imagine wearing something like that. It was like they were naked, you could basically tell who had an anteater and who had a mushroom from across the room. One piece short-leg and short-sleeve skintight outfits in royal blue with silver side panels curved over their contours, bulging over quads and biceps, tight over flat stomachs and vanishing into dark cracks. An authoritative voice rang out: “Good practice, guys, get changed and see you back here early on Monday.” Mikey recognised the voice from his maths class, a shrimpy guy with a very serious demeanour, they hadn't ever spoken to each other. Must be the thingy, the one who tells them all what to do. Mikey’d never bothered to learn his name, all he knew was that he hated the skinny guy’s high, grating, posh-as-fuck voice. Right across from Mikey's hidey-hole a baby-faced freckled redhead turned and asked his neighbour for help undoing the zip at the back of his lycra suit. He got unzipped and helped his neighbour in turn, and as he did so, appeared to lock eyes with Mikey. Mikey thought there was no way he could have been seen, the crack between the lockers was only a centimetre wide and the redhead was right across the room. He froze anyway, aware that the consequences of discovery would be dire. The eyes were still apparently on him and he saw the ginger lad's mouth opening when he heard a deep voice that silenced the room: “Here, Coxie, Nick's getting a hard-on.” The redhead's gaze was broken and he turned to face his accuser. “I bloody am not,” he replied. His voice didn’t even sound like it had broken, although his body told a different story. His pale features reddened from the cheeks outward. But even as Mikey watched, a tent grew in his lycra and his cock caught on the restrictive fabric. The cox, who was more conservatively dressed in school trackies and lightweight waterproof, came over to inspect the offending article. To Mikey's growing amazement he grasped the wood firmly with one hand and gave it a good feel. Did he really just...? Is that the kind of thing they...? Well, yes, and there was more to come. “Oh, Nick,” said the cox. “I'm quite disappointed. I thought you had this under control.” His hand hadn't stopped massaging the growing member through the thin lycra and it was by now fully stiff. “Well, you know what's going to happen now, don't you?” Nick, red to the tips of his ears and some way down his upper arms, nodded unhappily. “OK, first explain to everyone and then apologise.” “Uh, Coxie, could I, I mean, can I just tell you first. I'm really sorry. But then you can tell me what I should do after?” Nick was fighting back tears, apparently. It was hard for Mikey to watch such a fit, built young lad being grabbed at by a little shrimp and doing nothing to defend himself. Not as tough as it was for Nick, though, maybe. Nonetheless, Mikey found himself riveted to the scene before him, the two principals surrounded by the silent giants. Better than Saturday morning telly by far. Nick whispered into the cox’s ear for some time, and started to leak a bit from the eyes, but held back on the sniffling and sobs. When he was done, the posh cox said in a much kinder voice: “OK, Nick. But you still have to apologise to everyone and you're still going to be punished. Yah?” Nick nodded, the worst of his redness now starting to fade away. “Go on, then.” And Nick began, stammering at first: “I... I'm sorry everyone, I've let you down. I've lost focus again. I'm really sorry and I accept my punishment.” Another voice spoke up: “Should we take him down to the ergs, Coxie?” “No, we'll do it up here,” replied the cox. “Dan, zip him back up,” he told the one next to Nick, who complied. “Rob, Dan,” he beckoned to the two tallest boys, “hold him.” They took up station one on either side of Nick, and held him firmly by the arms. Everyone was watching closely, Mikey most of all. From his vantage point his view of Nick was a bit obstructed as he was flanked by six foot lads with the skinny cox in front. But he could see Nick's face clearly, and glimpses of what was going on down below, where the short cox was now tugging at Nick's dick rhythmically through the thin lycra of his uniform. “Remember Nick,” said the cox, “it's OK to enjoy this part.” Nick nodded, and bit his lip, his freckled nose scrunching up with what could have been pleasure. It didn't take long, no more than a minute or two for Nick to screw up his eyes and announce: “I'm...unh!” At which point, his feet lifted from the floor as his muscles contracted. Mikey could see his biceps bulging, his hands clenched, his pecs twitching under the tight lycra suit. The cox took a step back, his hand still on Nick's cock, and Mikey could see the damp patch spreading on the front of the lycra suit as Nick unloaded inside it. Mikey found himself with his hand on his dick, massaging a rock hard erection through his trackies. As the cox kept wanking him off, Nick started to struggle, then to whimper. The lads on either side of him had to hold him tightly. “Get the gag,” the cox ordered one of the lads in the audience. “You remember how loud he got last time.” They fitted Nick with a simple-looking ball gag that effectively muffled his increasingly loud moans, all while his cock was wanked continuously, rubbing a layer of smooth lycra over his hyper-sensitive post-cum cockhead. Nick was quickly fully hard again, though clearly not happy about it. Drooling around the gag, sobbing and sniffling, his body jerked and spasmed under the cox's expert touch, but he was held helplessly between the two much bigger lads. He was soon a fetching shade of red all over, from his ears to his toes, which clawed uselessly as he spent most of his time swinging on the arms of his captors. The cox started to use his other hand to explore the space between Nick's legs, behind his nutsack. From the higher pitch of the moans escaping around the gag, Mikey could tell that the cox was hitting some kind of spot that was doing the trick. Nick tried to squirm and keep his thighs together, but the lads in either side hooked his knees with their spare hands and kept him spread out. Mikey could see that Nick was very nearly out of control, but that he was fighting his natural responses, trying to surrender to the continued attack. Fuck, he must really want to be on this team, Mikey was thinking. Soon Nick's whole body tensed as he spunked for a second time, his pecs bulging out with rock hard nipples that Mikey felt the urge to tweak. Soon enough, the cox was at it, one hand still ministering to Nick's cock, while the other pinched savagely at his nipples through the thin lycra. Nick was by now exhausted but his body couldn't help but fight on. Mikey knew that the second spunk in a row was usually on the border between pleasure and pain, and he'd rarely had the juice for three in a row himself. When he had tried it, it was more like having his prostate beaten by a lead pipe from the inside than actual fun. Mikey wasn't quite sure what a prostate was, but he knew there was a sensitive lump in there behind his balls. It took some time for Nick to come for the third time, and Mikey (and presumably the other lads watching less covertly) could almost feel his pain, growing like a headache between the legs. Any thought of pleasure had now been banished from Nick's mind but Mikey found himself harder than ever watching the show. He came explosively in his trackies when he saw the cox reach around behind Nick with his spare hand. He could almost feel a finger at his own arsehole, probing and tickling the sensitive tissues there. He could only imagine how out of it Nick must be right now. Mikey shuddered to a silent climax and hoped like hell he hadn't made any noise. He was hard again almost immediately as the show went on, but was unsatisfied when Nick came for a third and final time with a groan and a shudder, nearly doubled over in the arms of his captors and chief torturer. The punishment being over, the other rowers got back to getting changed. Nick was parked on the bench outside his locker and helped out of his messy lycra. “Well done, Nick,” the cox told him. “You know the rules. No washing that for a week to remind you.” “Yes, Coxie. Thank you, Coxie,” Nick could barely whisper in response. Mikey was stunned. Seeing the fit redheaded lad broken and abused by the cox had left him horny and confused. What kind of a lad would willingly take that kind of shit? What could possibly be worth it? With that kind of body, and that cute freckled baby face he could have had any kind of sex he wanted any time he wanted, and that was what most sixteen-year-olds wanted, wasn't it? And why had the whole thing left Mikey feeling somehow incomplete? Resolving to think on the topic at his leisure (translation: wank himself silly) once he was out of imminent peril, Mikey watched as the rest of the lads got their street clothes on and headed off. Nick didn't glance his way even once, and he was reassured that his original impression, that in his dark corner he was totally invisible, was the correct one. Nick had just got hard because he was new to the team and couldn't control his dick yet when it was inside his tight lycra uniform, being rubbed and tugged as his thighs moved past each other. Urk. Mikey was thinking himself into another uncomfortable hard on. He sat back and waited a full ten minutes after the light had been turned out and then proceeded to extricate himself from the corner between the lockers, trying to make as little noise as possible just to be safe. With one pocket of his trackies full of petty cash and the other full of his unscheduled spunking, he thought it had been a pretty successful day. Of course, the cox was waiting for him right outside the changing room. When Nick whispered to him what he had seen in the corner of the changing room, the cox – whose name was Jamie, but his crew weren’t allowed to call him that – immediately saw the opportunity to get his claws into the scally lad that had been cockily swanning around the school, encouraging all kinds of cocky pseudo-Cockney wit to flourish and oblivious to the crushes he was generating just by being cute, blonde and vivacious. Jamie wasn't having any of that. He was going to train the scally to bottle his spunk up inside until he was so full it hurt to think about anything but obedience, then he'd display him in tight lycra in front of the biggest audience he could find. He was pleased that the crew had been able to ignore the muffled thumps of the scally lad’s immature and hardly discreet self-abuse while they'd put on that little display, but they knew they were supposed to pay absolute attention when he was teaching one of them a lesson. It was surprisingly easy. Although the scally boy was an inch or two taller than Jamie, and his mouth told one story (mostly beginning and ending with Fuck Off and Fuck Right Off, You Queer), his eyes told another. Jamie slowly backed Mikey into a corner, and Mikey retreated before him. Partly, he knew that if Jamie were to grass him up, he'd get kicked out of school and the comfy new life he was having would end. But he also wanted to do what Jamie told him. He couldn’t help himself, he’d been bred by the telly to be obedient to their posh braying voices, he could never sound like he was in charge of anything with his inner-city accent. “Did you see what we did to Nick?” Jamie asked him. “How he squirmed? He was begging behind that gag, begging me to hurry up. He was hurting but he knew what he had to do to stay on my crew. Wouldn't you like to be part of something like that?” Mikey took another step back as Jamie advanced. “They fucking love it, all of them. They need a firm hand, or they'd just be wanking themselves and each other all the time. Once a week, we all blow our loads together as a team. Any hard-ons outside that time are punished. They soon learn some self control, and they pull harder for me.” Mikey's back was up against the lockers. “I bet you'd look so fucking good in our kit. A few weeks of weights and training and you'll be so fit. We'll zip you into some tight lycra and you'll pull an oar and feel the burn, like you've really done something.” Jamie’s hand had found its way to Mikey’s bulge. He flattened himself up against the locker, trying to get away, but only succeeded in spreading his legs wider as Jamie leaned in, increasing the pressure. Jamie opened the locker next to them with his free hand. “Here, Nick's left his kit in here. You can try it on now. Feel what it's like, it's fucking lovely. And it looks so good when we're all in uniform together.” He pushed the damp lycra at Mikey, brought it up near his face and rubbed it on his cheek where he could smell the powerful mixture of sweat, cum, and that distinctive odour of nylon lycra fabric. All the while, his other hand took Mikey's breath away, drained his will, crushed his resistance. All by careful squeezes of his dick, promising so much more. Mikey was soon suited up, rock hard in Nick's wet spunky lycra suit. Jamie led him over to a mirror and showed him. He was much skinnier than Nick, but still heavier than Jamie. The lycra was still tight on him, however. He loved how it looked. Jamie led him downstairs to the thankfully empty gym and began his training on the rowing machines, encouragement peppered with threats, promises and dire consequences, all delivered in a non-stop gush of yawning posh syllables that echoed through his scally brain. A few weeks later, thoroughly brainwashed to respond to Jamie’s command like one of Pavlov's dogs, but in a subtly different way to the rest of the crew, Mikey was carrying the boat out for his first race. He had replaced Nick on the crew. He caught sight of the crowd of spectators, mostly other crews of boys and girls of all ages who descended on this part of the river once a year for a series of races. Jamie thought the time was right, and said the magic words: “Oh, Michael! Why’ve you got such a stiffie?” Mikey turned bright red all over, and suddenly realised he was wearing nothing but a thin, revealing, spunk-stained lycra suit in front of a huge crowd. The conditioning that Jamie had put him through made him instantly hard for the audience, and the next step he took with the boat made his lycra rub over his hard dick, which unloaded a fortnight's worth of pent-up spunk. Jamie had kept his lads dry for an extra long time before the big race day. He released the boat, to the consternation of his team mates, fell to the ground, and tried to curl up into a ball. Jamie was over next to him immediately, pretending concern, knowing that as he put his hand on Mikey's leg, he would react as if stung, for that was the reflex he had trained into the unruly scally lad. Mikey uncurled and his body bucked on the ground as another orgasm ripped through him, the huge wet patch on the front of his lycra getting so big some of the further observers though he’d pissed himself. On cue, Nick appeared from the boathouse and took Mikey's place in the crew. Jamie stood and walked off with them, turning his back on the scally lad, leaving him on display in front of everyone in a pool of his own spunk. Mikey brushed off any offers of assistance and crawled back to the boathouse on his hands and knees, every movement sweet agony on his cock, spunking again on the way. He curled up behind the door and wept. He’d thought the posh boys had accepted him. He cursed himself for being so stupid. He knew, he’d known that posh boys didn’t really think lads like him were proper humans. He hadn’t been able to resist the attention, though. Still wanted it. Hated himself for it. A blond lad from another school wearing a silver and black lycra suit came in and knelt down in front of him. “Aw, mate,” the lad said, in plummy tones. “Aw.” The lad started fumbling at Mikey’s cock through his lycra. Mikey let him.

Awesome story again! Keep on writing champ!

loved it…great story yet again please keep it up!

amazing!!! thanks!