Youngster Arenas

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This story is intended for adults only. It contains depictions of forced nudity, spanking, and sexual activity of preteen and young teen children for the purpose of punishment. None of the behaviors in this story should be attempted in real life, as that would be harmful and/or illegal. If you are not of legal age in your community to read or view such material, please leave now.

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Youngster Arenas
[Alpenhorn 2017]
[based on a scenario by Negishi Yonegisho]

How did you find me? OK, if you buy me a bowl of rice, I will talk to you. Yes, you may use your audio recorder.

I was a fighter at Arena K. That was one of the big five Youngster Arenas in Tokyo. Actually, “Youngster Arena” was the stupid English translation of the real name in Japanese. But of course the English was commonly used so that it could be understood by the equally stupid foreign tourists. My name was often listed above the marquee in front of the main entrance. That was simply an inexpensive perk that Mr. Yamasaki, the manager (we called him Mr. Yama), gave to the top boy of the week. It did not actually attract the rich foreign clients, because they could not read Japanese characters. But still we competed to have our names posted.

[Excerpt from a history book audioed many years later.]
In the Summer of 2066, the Japanese economy collapsed. It had been expected for years, but 2066 was when foreign loans could no longer be obtained, even at exorbitant interest rates. The Collapse led to the demise of thousands of employers (including most provincial governments), and the unemployment of millions. There is no way to estimate how many died during the privations that followed.

The only source of operating capital that remained was: foreign tourism. Rich North Americans, Europeans, Australians, and especially Chinese visited Japan. They provided desperately needed cash. Venues of all kinds sprang up throughout Japan to attract the tourists. Sightseeing, restaurants, Zen weekends, brothels. Some of the most successful attractions were the Fight Arenas. Other countries considered such fighting barbaric, and had banned it. So citizens of the rich countries flocked to Japan to attend the brutal fights in these arenas.

In many arenas, men fought in mixed martial arts, often leading to serious injury. There were arenas where women fought. Or where men fought against women. For some reason, teen-aged fights never became popular. But finally there were the “Youngster Arenas” (YAs), where pre-pubescent boys fought each other before large audiences of foreigners. The most successful of these YAs were five arenas in Tokyo, known as the “Big Five”. Perhaps they originally had Japanese names, but today historians only know them by the Latin letters B, D, K, M, and P, which were used for easy identification by tourists.

The five YAs ruthlessly competed against each other for customers. When one of them had an advantage, the others desperately tried to match it. Examples included: “Attend nine days in a row, get the tenth free”; padded American-width seats in the bleachers; drugs illegal in your home country available for purchase.

Much of the YA activities were technically illegal even in Japan. But no remaining government official would stop them. The loss of foreign cash would harm Japan more that those illegal activities ever could.
[End of excerpt]

The Collapse changed everything for me. Before, I was just a schoolboy. I had competed in mixed martial arts at the national level, and was hoping to open my own dojo when I grew up. But after: schools were closed. There were no more organised competitions.

My father had been killed fighting in the last war. My mother was a drunk. Before the Collapse, some government payments sufficed to support me and my younger brother and sister. But after the Collapse, those payments ended. It fell to me to support us.

I tried many things. The best was maybe trash sorter. Rich countries would ship their trash to poor countries, which now included Japan. Kids like us would search through the mountains of trash, hoping to find anything valuable that we could sell. A hard life. But my little family survived.

It was great for me when the YAs were formed. With my background in martial arts, I was recruited. At Arena K, in a good week I earned ten times what I could earn sorting trash.

*

OK, let me tell you how the YAs worked. Every night Arena K staged a series of ten bouts. Clients paid for admission. It may have been easy for foreigners to afford, but few Japanese had the cash to attend. In each bout, two of us boys fought it out: few rules; no holds barred. There was a computerised scoring system that counted things like: good hits, knock-downs, take-downs, strangle holds, other crowd-pleasing moves. The scores determined which boy won the bout. But more important: how much we got paid.

We wore the traditional judogi uniform: Loose-fitting white shitabaki (trousers); a loose-fitting white uwagi (jacket) worn over the shitabaki; a coloured obi (belt) around the waist. The colour of the obi signified a boy’s level of expertise. The judogi (unlike the related karategi) was strong enough that it would not tear if your opponent grabbed you or even lifted you by it.

Boys who were kick-boxers before the Collapse tried kicking. But we were barefoot so they had to be careful or they would injure their feet. Boys who used to be boxers tried to use their fists. But again, we wore no boxing gloves, so they sometimes injured their own hands more than their opponent’s face. Boys who used to be wrestlers tried to grab their opponents with body holds. And some boys invented their own methods, now that we had no rules. Grabbing the clothing. Grabbing by the ears. Choking. Twisting arms or fingers. The tried-and-true “kick in the goolies” was generally not used, however, because we did wear protective cups under our uniforms. Drawing blood from an opponent could get us extra points. Nosebleeds and facial cuts were the easiest way to do that.

Our arena had an “exit bonus” system. Near all the exits were small computerised kiosks. As they left, clients could if they wished pay a bonus to a fighter or fighters of their choice. They just chose the fighter from the menu on the screen, stuck the finger with their credit chip into the slot, and transferred the money. We boys got to keep that cash! With a good bonus I could sometimes buy meat for my little family to eat.

True: Most of Japan didn’t have electricity. Inside the arena building we did. It was provided by our own generators. Electricity provided many things, such as lighting in the arena, power for the scoring computers, and power for the payment system. Without the ability to stick their finger in a slot and pay, the tourists would have been useless to us. The rich countries don’t use paper cash any more, only electronic transfers.

[Excerpt]
The first salvo in the “Battle for Paedos” (as we now call it) fell in early May of 2067. The YAs noticed a drastic reduction in attendance over the course of a week. Except for Arena M. When the other arenas investigated, they found the reason. The boys in Arena M were fighting without the jackets of the uniform. The tourists were attracted by the muscular toned torsos of the fighting boys. Of course, the other arenas quickly adopted the same modified uniform.
[End of excerpt]

When Mr. Yama returned from his secret mission to spy on Arena M, he wearing a big smile. We had been worried that our attendance was going down. No attendance means no money. And my siblings depended on the money I earned.

‘It’s simple,’ Mr. Yama said. ‘They fight without their uwagi.’

‘That’s it?’ one of the boys said.

‘The silly foreigners like that. We can do the same thing.’

So we did---no more jackets. And he was right: our attendance gradually came back to normal.

There was one problem, though. We now no longer had big numbers on the back of our uwagi, so that the clients could identify us for exit bonuses. We tried painting numbers on our bare backs. Or putting smaller numbers on our shitabaki. But those did not really work. Finally Mr. Yama settled on including a face photo of each fighter next to their names on the screens of the exit kiosks.

Of course, now that we had so much bare skin, we began to apply oil to our torsos before a fight, to make it harder for an opponent to hold on to us.

*

Later it seemed obvious, but back then it wasn’t. It took a few weeks for the next escalation. One of the arenas figured that if no uwagi was good, then no shitabaki was even better. So their boys wore trunks like prize-fighter boxers used to wear (back when there were prize-fighters). This time Arena K caught on in just a day or two. The entire jodogi was gone.

And then it was a race to shorten the legs of the trunks. We started with real boxing length, almost to the knee. We ended a week later with trunks so short they barely went below our bum-cracks. If we had not been wearing athletic supporters inside, our willies would have been hanging out the leg holes!

[Excerpt]
Over the course of the Summer or 2067, the Battle for Paedos intensified. The YAs battled for clients by reducing the clothing worn by the boys. When one YA came up with an innovation, the others would send spies in to find out what it was. Then they would copy it. Not only were they competing for the existing clients of the other YAs. As word got back to the rich countries, more tourists began making trips to Japan. These included the infamous “paedos” who came not to see violent fighting, but rather to see near-naked (or, in the end, even totally naked) boys. Strange as it seems to us today, at that time the rich countries had puritanical laws requiring all children to be covered “neck to knees” in public. The paedos thirsted to see even a bare thigh. By the Autumn of 2067, the YAs were bringing in more foreign cash than any other tourist attraction in Japan.
[End of excerpt]

The next change was interesting. It was in one of my fights.

There was some blood during our fights almost every day. And (unlike our old judogi) when the blood got on the trunks, it was impossible to wash it out. (One of the other arenas had red-coloured trunks as their uniform, so we could not do that.) But Mr. Yama solved the problem. The amount of material used was so small, and the number of girls eager to sew for a pittance was so large, that Mr. Yama just had new trunks made daily to replace any bloody ones. (Even my sister got sewing work from us.)

And Mr. Yama made us some extra money by selling the used blood-spattered trunks to the gullible tourists.

Here’s how the change happened. I was fighting against my friend Kenji. I guess there was a fault in the sewing in his trunks. When I grabbed them (in one of my usual wrestling moves) they tore. And came completely off! Leaving him with just his supporter and his cup. Kenji got a red face, and ran out of the arena as fast as he could. I had won the match in under a minute: record time.

But unexpectedly Kenji got lots of money in the exit bonuses. More than I did.

That is how we discovered another thing those crazy foreigners liked.

So Mr. Yama got the sewing girls to purposely make the trunks with seams that would easily rip. This time Arena K got the big influx of clients. Until the other arenas figured it out.

Every time one of us boys had his trunks ripped off, the audience cheered. When I would lose my trunks, I didn’t mind, because it usually meant a bigger exit bonus for me.

Pretty soon Arena B found a way to avoid replacing the trunks: no trunks at all. The boys of Arena B would fight with just their athletic supporters (we called them “jock straps”) and their cups (a sort of armor to protect the goolies). Soon, to remain competitive, we at Arena K followed their example. So my sister got no more sewing money.

At that stage, my bonuses were great. The other boys said it was unfair. The jockstraps covered our willy and goolies, but our bums were bare. They said I had cute dimples on my bum. Before that, I never paid attention to my dimples. But now they were raking in the bonuses for me. I did not apologise. My siblings and I needed the money.

*

After a week or two, our attendance started dropping in a familiar pattern. Mr. Yama used some of our dwindling cash to pay his admission at Arena P to see what they were doing to steal our clients.

This time, when he came back he was not smiling.

‘What is it?’ we asked.

‘At Arena P, the boys are fighting in the nude. No clothing at all.’

We couldn’t believe it. But we could see what would come next. So we refused in advance. The boys of Arena K refused to go into the arena to fight naked.

‘I know,’ Mr. Yama answered sadly. ‘I am not a tyrant like the manager at Arena P. It seems he just fired any boys who would not do it.’

‘And Arena P is taking our clients,’ one boy said.

So we continued fighting in jockstraps and cups. Our audiences got smaller and smaller. We tried lots of gimmicks, but they did not compete with Arena P. Arenas M, B, and even stuffy old D switched to nude boys fighting.

Mr. Yama called us together. ‘I will allow it. It’s all we have left. Any boy who wishes, may fight naked. But it is not required. To be fair, when your opponent is nude, you must fight without your cup. But you may still wear your supporter.’

Three of our bravest boys did it: fought naked. Our decline in audience was reversed. But Arena K still lagged behind the other, all nude, arenas.

Soon someone remembered the “kick in the goolies” trick. It worked against the nude boys, and also against their opponents without cups. We had some serious injuries in those days. So then we had to learn to defend our goolies at all times.

The amazing thing was in the exit bonuses. Boys who fought naked got great bonuses. Even if they did not fight very well. So more boys disrobed. My friend Kenji and I were the last hold-outs. We did not want to be naked in public. But in the end the lack of bonuses forced us to change our minds. And Arena K became the last of the Big Five to go all-nude.

There is a funny bit that goes with this. The exit kiosks had face photos of the boys to help a tourist find the boy he wanted to reward. But some boorish Americans were complaining, ‘All Japs look alike to me.’ If they could not find the right choice on the kiosk, they would just not award a bonus to anyone.

Mr. Yama found a solution. Next to each choice, he replaced the photos of the boys’ faces with photos of the boys’ willies. Apparently all willies did not look alike to our clients!

From the start of the YA system, we have had a little ceremony at the beginning of each match. The two boys would enter from opposite sides, come to the center, then bow to each other. Then they would turn to each of the four sides of the arena, and bow to the ‘honoured guests’ seated there. Only after that would the fighting begin.

What about fighting in the nude? Now, when we faced the four sides of the arena, we paused to make sure that our willies were clearly seen by everyone, before we bowed, After all, that is how a tourist would choose when paying a bonus!

Some of the boys had bigger willies than me. So now I was on the other end of the “unfair” bonuses. It seems cute bum dimples do not compete with cute naked willies!

Some kid in one of the other arenas reasoned: if grabbing an ear is a good hold, then so is grabbing a willy. So, of course, we made sure to be well-oiled down there. For this, my smaller willy was an advantage---harder to grab than a big one.

[Excerpt]
Near the end of 2067 the YA system came to an end. Most of the boys disappeared and were never heard of again. Historians have debated the cause of this. Some think that the infighting between the arenas turned deadly. Some say it was drug overdoses. One theory says the boys were kidnapped and taken to one of the rich countries. But we just do not know.
[End of excerpt]

Some of those foreigners, especially the Chinese, would bring their kids with them when they visited Japan. Our arena had a big “R-18” over the entrance. It means “Adults Only”. But of course no one was enforcing that restriction.

I began to notice some young Chinese girls, maybe 12 years old (about my age), sitting the the front row. Every day they seemed enthusiastic to see me. I wondered if they were leaving me bonuses. I was uncomfortable to be seen nude by any female, but especially girls my own age! But I endured it for the sake of my siblings.

One day they surprised me. Those Chinese girls had learned enough Japanese to shout some rude but colourful comments about my willy. At that my willy stood up. A giant stiffy. Embarrassing.

But (you are nodding, so you probably guessed it) I got great bonuses. The boys all found that stiffies made for bigger bonuses. After that stiffies were sought by the boys. The other arenas began to try it, of course.

Kenji and I developed our own system. Just before I was scheduled to fight, Kenji would tenderly apply the oil all over my body, and then give me a deep, long-lasting kiss. That gave me the stiffy I needed. But in the fight I did not do well, since my mind was on Kenji and not the fight. Still, it helped with my bonuses.

*

We had a one-week break at the end of the summer. Kenji went with his mother to visit his grandparents. They lived in a remote mountain village in Hosanawa. Kenji brought back something that helped us a lot. It seems that, in that village, when the old men would have trouble getting an erection, there were certain berries they would eat to help them out. Kenji brought back a large box full of the berries. At Arena K we prepared a tea from the berries. If a boy drank a cup of that tea just before his bout, he would get a bigger, better, longer-lasting stiffy. Which meant bigger, better, bonuses.

Now it seemed there were always shrieking girls in the front row.

We managed to keep our special berries secret for many weeks. During that time Arena K became the top arena in Tokyo. It was a long time before the spies from the other arenas found our method. But they did. And copied us, regaining their lost share of the clients.

*

You ask how it ended? It seems that overuse of the Hosanawa berries can lead to stroke or heart attack, even in boys as young as us. There is now a cemetery just behind the building that used to be Arena K. The boys are buried there. I am the only one who survives. And I may not have much longer.

Thank you very much for the rice.

(End of File)