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Saturday Detention

by Adric


“FUCK!!!” Tommy shouted, as he saw the pink slip taped inside his
high-school. Unbelievingly, he read it again: “Saturday Detention - You
are required to report to Mr. Candoli in the gymnasium at 9 am on Saturday
for detention.” It was late Friday afternoon, and Tommy had just stopped
at his locker after working out before heading home. It was too late to check with the principal’s office or Mr. Candoli, everybody else had already left for the weekend. Tommy couldn’t remember doing anything that would have gotten him detention, this HAD to be a mistake. But he didn’t have much touch. Mr. Candoli was an infamous disciplinarian. If Tommy didn’t show up, things could get ugly.
Bad news was a rarity for this plucky teen. At 16, Tommy was just
finishing up the Spring of his sophomore year. He was the proverbial
golden boy – good grades, popular, and athletic. He had made varsity wrestling in the fall and spent the winter running up an unbeaten record in
his 125 lb weight class. With his tousled blond hair and tight, trim body,
he was the embodiment of the all-American youth. Everybody liked him and he got along well with everyone in school – jocks, preps, even the nerds.
Tommy had thought about running track in the Spring to keep in shape, but he figured it would take too much time away from surfing and skateboarding, so
instead he put himself on an extreme workout schedule at home. He loved
working out and the results showed. Tommy’s six pack abs were his pride
and joy, and he showed them off every chance he got. Last weekend, in
fact, his family went to their country club and Tommy actually won a bet for his dad, doing a thousand stomach crunches in front of his pop’s unbelieving gin-rummy partners around the pool.
On Saturday morning, Tommy arrived at school to find the front door
locked and bolted, but the back gym door open. There was a note taped to
the door: “DETENTION: Suit up and meet in gym at 9 am.” Tommy went into
the locker room and changed into basketball shorts, sneakers, and a clean white t-shirt that his mom had packed in his duffel. As he came out of the locker room into the gym, though, someone grabbed him roughly from behind, almost knocking him off his feet. A beefy arm wrapped some kind of cloth around Tommy’s face, covering his eyes, and yanked his left arm behind him
in a disabling chicken wing. As Tommy squirmed and struggled, an acrid
sweet smell invaded his nostrils, and seconds later, he descended into an inky blackness.
When he slowly fought his way back to consciousness, Tommy was immediately aware of a pounding headache. As he tried to get his bearings, he felt a panicky jolt as he realized that he couldn’t move his arms or
legs. He had been stripped of his shirt, shorts, socks, and sneakers,
and stood clad in only his boxers. He was standing in the gym with his
back against one of the wrestling mats secured to the wall. Ropes had been tied around his wrists and secured to eyelets in the wall, tightly
spreadeagling him with his arms extended straight out to either side. His
legs were closer together but his ankles were tied in the same way. He
certainly made an inviting target. His broad shoulders and well-muscled
arms stuck out in veiny relief, pulled taut by the ropes. His pecs were
as round and firm as cantalopes, with brown nipples the size of nickels
squarely in their center. His body nicely tapered into a perfect V-shape,
with his highly-defined six-pack disappearing into the waistband of his Polo boxers.
At that point, three beefy teens emerged from the locker room. They were shirtless and wearing black ski masks so Tommy couldn’t see their faces, but it didn’t matter.

He recognized their brawny, well-developed physiques and realized it was Frank, the captain of the wrestling team, and two teammates, Bob and Chuck. They were seniors who wrestled at 171,
189, and 215. They were all quite a bit taller and beefier than Tommy,
haughty and imperious in the senior year, and rarely spoke to the
underclassmen on the team. Tommy realized that this must be some sort of
initiation, and Coach Candoli must have been in on it to make the gym available on a Saturday. So he figured nothing too terrible would happen, but he still wondered what was in store for him.

Frank walked up to Tommy and poked his index finger into the boy’s gut. Tommy winced as Frank slowly traced the outline of Tommy’s
well-defined six pack with his finger. “We hear you think you’re hot
shit,” Frank spat into Tommy’s face. “Well, we’re gonna find out. We’re
gonna see what those pretty abs of yours are made of.” Bob came from
behind and handed Frank a pair of lightly padded workout gloves, the kind a
boxer would use to work a heavy bag. Frank slipped on the gloves, and
then ground one fist into Tommy’s belly button. Chuck walked up and
slipped a rubber guard into Tommy’s mouth. “Bite on that,” Chuck said.
Tommy silently nodded his head in understanding. “Tighten your abs,” Frank
said. “We’re gonna start now.”
Frank set himself up about a foot in front of Tommy’s outstretched torso, planting his feet in a classic boxer’s stance. Then he cocked back his right arm and threw a jab into Tommy’s midsection. Tommy’s steel hard abs absorbed the blow easily. Frank cocked his left arm back and did the same thing, harder this time. Tommy’s body rocked against the matted wall
but the boy said nothing. “Pretty good,” Frank said, smiling. “Let’s go.”
Now he started punching in earnest, one two, one two, slamming his
fists into the center of Tommy’s abs. By the fourth blow, Tommy could
feel the punches kneading his muscles. The fifth caused him let out a
muffled gasp. On the sixth blow, Tommy lost the tension in his abs. No
longer able to keep them flexed and hard, Frank’s punch buckled the boy’s body and he convulsed in his restraints.
Frank turned to Bob and Chuck and smiled. “Now it gets fun,” he said.
Frank tugged at Tommy’s boxers, lowering them down on his waist so the
top of his pubes popped out from the waistband. Frank targeted the lowest
row of Tommy’s abs and let a combination of six punches fly. Each punch
collapsed Tommy’s gut and caused the teen to recoil his body. Frank
stepped back and looked at his handiwork, as Tommy, now drenched in sweat, desperately tried to suck in much needed oxygen.
Frank took off the gloves and handed them to Bob, who at 171 was even bigger and huskier. Bob slipped on the boxing gloves and walked over to Tommy with a huge grin. “Let’s see what your obliques are like, puke,” he
growled, and threw a roundhouse right into Tommy’s left side. Tommy spit
out the mouthpiece and let out a scream as his body bucked, and Bob followed up with a roundhouse left into Tommy’s right side. This continued for several minutes, with Tommy wracked from side to side, letting out sobbing cries of pain with each blow.
Bob stopped and stepped back. Tommy sagged in his restraints,
barely able to stay on his feet. The room swam in front of him as his
sweat-slicked hair fell in across his face and his eyes stung from the salty
sweat pouring off his forehead. He sucked in air and tried to regain his
composure as Chuck took his turn putting on the gloves.
At 215, Chuck was the heavyweight on the wrestling team, a bruising bull of a man with a thick mane of black hair splotched across his massive
chest and heavily muscled midsection. Tommy couldn’t imagine what a punch
from this goliath would feel like, but Tommy could imagine his ribs snapping like toothpicks.
Chuck stood toe to toe with Tommy and, through his mask, looked deep into the boy’s scared eyes. “Got your breath?” he asked. Tommy nodded.
“Good. Tighten your abs again.” Tommy did his best to flex his bruised ab
muscles. Chuck threw a very light punch that bounced off Tommy’s hard
belly. Then another. More quickly, two more. The punches weren’t hard
enough to hurt much but they started coming in rapid flurries. Tommy
realized he couldn’t flex and relax as he’d been doing with the harder
punches, he just had to try and tighten his gut and keep it that way.
Chuck continued to flutter light punches at Tommy’s midsection, like he was swatting a punching bag. Tommy grimaced as sweat poured down his face.
Finally he couldn’t hold it anymore and he had to relax his stomach muscles.
Now Chuck’s light punches were being felt. Tommy’s belly started to
turn beet red from the relentless slapping of the leather gloves. He
started flinching with every blow, then involuntarily letting out stifled grunts of pain. “Ow! Ow! Ooof! Ow!” Chuck slowly increased the strength
of the blows and kept up the pace. Tommy desperately tried to suck in air
as the punches keep compressing his solar plexus and forcing needed oxygen
out of his lungs. Tears welled in Tommy’s eyes, mucus dripped from his
noise, his mouth filled with bile as he turned his head upwards to try and suck in air. Stars started to flicker in Tommy’s upturned eyes as the lack
of oxygen affected his brain, and he gave one last heaving gasp. Chuck
stopped and pulled back and Tommy collapsed in exhaustion and passed out.
When he came too, he was laying flat on his back, stark naked, in
the gym’s shower room, warm water gently falling on his body. Tommy
climbed to his feet and rubbed his wrists, where the rope restraints had scraped into his skin. He looked down at his belly and saw that his abs were a bright red from all the pounding they had taken. They were sore too.
But other than that, he seemed to be all right.
He finished showering and walked back to his locker. The gym appeared to be
completely empty. On his locker door was a taped note. “Let yourself out.
You did well.” Tommy opened his locker to dress, and found, to his great
surprise, that something had been added to his clothes. There was a letterman’s jacket in his size, with the words “Co Captain” stitched on the back. Tommy knew his junior year would be a good one.