Master Debater

By Nocti Raven
nocti.raven@gmail.com

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This story is intended for ADULTS ONLY. It contains explicit depictions of sexual activity involving minors. If you are not of a legal age in your locality to view such material or if such material does not appeal to you, do not read further, and do not save this story.

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Practice tonight, said the text message. Usual place.

It was only four words, but Colin read it through five or six times, just to make sure he’d read it right. It was Tuesday, and Warren never held practice sessions on Tuesdays. Half the team was busy most Tuesdays—and most other days. Only Thursdays usually worked for everyone.

But who am I to argue? Colin thought.

Warren was the debate team’s captain: setting the practice times was his prerogative. And since Colin himself was free on Tuesdays, he was happy oblige.

He arrived at the usual place (Room 207) at the usual time (4:30 PM), and knocked on the door.

“Come in,” said Warren’s voice, and Colin did.

Strangely, he found that Warren was the only one there.

The 15-year-old debate captain was sitting cross-legged on one of the desks. Warren wasn’t a small boy, exactly, but he was compact—sturdily built, and slightly barrel-chested . . . and just a little on the short side.

“Where is everyone?” Colin said, dropping his backpack on a chair.

“Have a seat,” Warren said.

Colin found a chair and sat in it. Somehow that felt more natural that sitting on a desk. He was a couple of inches taller than Warren, but this way he had to look up at him. Fitting, since he was captain.

Warren ran his fingers through his spiked brown hair. “It’s just you and me tonight, Colin.”

“No one else could make it?”

“No, I didn’t invite anyone else.”

“Oh.” Colin was starting to feel a little nervous. “Do you wanna . . . practice one-on-one?”

“No. I want to talk to you. About your future on this team.”

Colin fidgeted nervously with his hands, not sure what to say.

“Colin,” Warren said, “you started taking Puericil this semester, right?”

“Uh, yeah. My parents . . . uh, you know.”

“Yeah,” said Warren. “I know.”

It was public record in most of Colin’s social circle. He’d got in a fight with his little brother—a debate, ironically, that spun out of control—and his parents had stuck him on the pill for the rest of high school.

“What are the effects of Puericil?” Warren demanded.

Colin looked up, confused. “Um, hair loss,” he said. “Everywhere below the eyebrows. And there’s a chance of bedwetting as a side-effect, but I definitely don’t—”

“The mental effects,” Warren interrupted. “The behavioral effects.”

“Oh. Well, that would be . . . um . . .”

“Say it.”

“It reduces . . . aggressiveness. And makes boys submissive and compliant.”

Warren nodded. “Sounds like you’ve been reading the label.”

He’d read it a hundred times, several times each morning before he took the pill. The words were carved into his mind.

“See,” Warren continued, “that’s a problem. In a debate, you need aggressiveness. I need debaters who are dominant, not submissive. Assertive, not compliant.”

“I can be!” Colin pleaded. “In debate I’m still the way I was, it’s just—”

“No,” Warren said. “You’re different now. I can tell. I see it in practice every week. Just like you said: submissive and compliant.”

“But when it’s the real deal, I’ll—”

“You’ll submit, and you’ll comply. And you’ll lose.”

“No . . . Warren, please . . .”

“Look at you!” Warren said, “look what you’re doing right now! This is real—more real than any intermural debate. You’re debating to keep your spot on the team, and all you can do is beg.”

“But you’re the captain,” Colin said. “The best debater in the school. No one can beat you.”

Warren scoffed. “Flattery? Nice try. But I suppose you make a valid point.”

“Please,” Colin said, “Just give me a chance. I’ll prove I can still do it.”

Warren made a pensive face, and stroke his smooth-shaven jaw. “One chance,” he said at last. You can stay on the team . . . if you do exactly what I tell you to do.”

Colin nodded vigorously, his mop of hair flopping like a puppy’s tail.

“Stand up,” Warren said.

Colin stood up so fast his chair almost fell over.

“Now take off your shoes.”

He did.

“Now take off your shirt.”

Colin looked up at Warren—even standing, his eyes were still slightly lower. “Wh-what?”

“Take off your shirt,” Warren said. He used what the other debaters called The Voice. It was Warren’s deadliest weapon—subtle yet powerful, calm yet forceful. It had demolished many an amateur debater—including Colin himself a year earlier.

Needless to say, Colin removed his shirt.

He felt very awkward, standing there shirtless. In some ways Colin the opposite of Warren: Warren was compact, but Colin was diffuse. He was taller and thinner than average, but there was nothing sturdy or strong about his physique. He felt soft compared to the debate captain.

Though he didn’t often think about it, he was suddenly very aware that Warren was a year younger than him. He’d learned long ago to ignore the self-consciousness of hailing a younger boy as captain, but now it was rising to the surface.

“Now drop your pants.”

“Wh-why?” Colin asked.

“Do it.”

He unbuttoned his jeans and slid them down.

This didn’t make sense. Why did Warren want to see him like this? Was he gay? Of course not: Warren was the only member of the team with a girlfriend. And his razor-sharp flirting always gave the team an edge when they went up against a girls’ school.

Nonetheless, Colin found himself standing in the middle of a classroom in nothing but his light blue briefs.

He looked down at the briefs and reddening with shame. If only he’d picked boxers today!

“Those too,” Warren said.

Colin didn’t argue this time. He pushed the briefs to his ankles and stepped out of them. He covered his crotch with his hands, but that didn’t make him feel any better. Surely Warren had gotten a peek. Surely he knew Colin was relatively small, as well as hairless.

Colin found himself imagining Warren’s naked crotch. Probably huge. Lots of hair. Balls like tennis balls.

He winced, and rebuked himself for the disgusting thought. He’d been having those thoughts more and more often, lately—ever since he started Puericil. Before the pills his mind was full of bouncing tits and smooth pussies, but now guys had begun to invade his thoughts. As he realized how little manliness he really had, the manhood of his classmates became impossible to ignore. His jealousy had grown even more obsessive than his restless sex drive.

Warren hopped down from the desk, and was suddenly standing very close to Colin. A little smirk tugged at his lips, but he shooed it away. He was all business.

Colin was looking straight ahead, off into space. If he looked Warren in the eye, he’d be looking down . . . and that didn’t feel right.

“Here,” Warren said, tapping on a desk. “Bend over this.”

Bend over? Warren thought. What’s he gonna do?

He started to wonder if it was really worth it; did he really want to stay on the team this badly?

“Do it,” Warren said. There was a hint of emotion in The Voice this time. Annoyance? Or was it glee? It was impossible to tell.

Colin shuffled over to the desk, keeping his crotch beneath folded hands, and leaned over.

“Hold the sides,” Warren said. “Prop yourself up. You’ll need the support.”

Gingerly he uncovered his insignificant manhood and grabbed the sides of the desk. Given the position, he needed to reassert some very important truths:

I’m not gay, he thought. I’m not gay. I’m not gay. I like girls. I like tits and cunts and girls’ asses. I want to fuck girls. I like to think about fucking girls.

Oh fuck . . .

He’d just given himself a conspicuous almost-four-inch boner.

Fortunately—but also painfully—Warren didn’t seem to notice.

Warren opened up a supply cupboard in the corner of the classroom. This room was usually for math classes, so the cupboard was full of spare calculators, protractors, little geometry figures—

--and yardsticks.

Three-foot rulers, notched and marked by decades of use. Thirty-six inches of smooth, soft, flexible wood.

Incidentally, Colin hated math class.

Warren drew a yardstick from the corner of the cupboard and brandished it like a sword. He slashed it through the air a few times, and even the flat face of it sliced through with a remarkable swooshing sound.

Colin gulped.

Like almost all Puericil users, Colin was no stranger to bare-bottom spanking, but this was new in several ways. He’d only ever been spanked by hand . . . and only in the privacy of his bedroom . . . and by his parents.

A strange weapon, a strange place, and a strange spanker.

But no . . . Warren wasn’t a stranger. He was a friend.

He was a friend.

Colin looked up, but he couldn’t see Warren in front of him anymore.

Swooooooooooosh!

CRACK!

He heard the sound a microsecond before he felt the impact.

For the first time in his life, he actually cried out from the pain. The force of the blow pushed his whole body forward; he would have fallen over if he wasn’t holding the desk.

He could practically feel the yardstick’s little indentations marking inches across his backside.

Warren swung again, and Colin let out an even louder wail. He’d never realized how colossal Warren’s upper-body strength must be; that barrel chest was mostly muscle.

Again he struck, and again, and again. Each time the pain lingered even longer, like a sunburn when someone touches it. Eventually the blows seemed to overlap—each one hit before the sting of the last one had faded.

When it finally stopped, Colin had run out of voice to scream with. He was just panting, wheezing, sobbing. His cheeks were cold with tears, his lip wet with snot.

He heard the yardstick clatter as Warren dropped it on a desk.

“Turn around.”

Colin straightened up, wincing with every motion. His back was stiff from bending over, and standing straight up formed a little crease between his butt and his thighs, cutting right across bottom of the inflamed region.

He turned to see Warren reclining in a chair, his legs spread and his hands resting at his crotch.

“Come here,” he said.

Colin approached him.

“Closer.” He adjusted the fabric of his jeans. “Come on, closer.”

When Colin was standing just two feet from him, Warren raised a hand to say stop.

“Now get down on your knees.”

Colin knelt; the rough classroom carpet was itchy against his bare skin.

And, he realized, he was kneeling between Warren’s legs.

He knew what was coming.

The zipper was lowered, the denim parted, the waistband of the boxers pulled down . . . and there it was.

Warren’s dick was like Warren himself: not huge, but quite thick. And at least five inches, by Colin’s estimate. Average had never looked so big.

“You’ve never had a girlfriend, right?”

Colin shook his head.

“But I imagine you’ve seen plenty of blowjobs online.”

Colin nodded weakly.

“Then you know how it’s done. Do it.”

As he leaned into Warren’s crotch, he was overwhelmed by the smell. It was the musty, salty, familiar smell of dick, of dick sweat, of dick essence. He’d smelled it many times before, on his own hands, but not in a while.

Not since Puericil.

He masturbated no less than before, but that smell, that manly aroma, was gone from his body, washed away in the same torrent of chemicals that robbed him of his hair.

He hadn’t noticed it was gone until just now—until smelling its incredibly potency on Warren.

A strong hand grabbed the back of his head and brought it forward. The blood-bloated organ advanced past his lips and into his mouth.

“No teeth, remember,” Warren said.

Colin breathed in, feeling the air swirl around the presence in his mouth.

I can taste it, he thought. That same smell . . . I can taste it on his dick.

He began to move his head back and forth, caressing the fleshy mass with his tongue, massaging its length with his lips.

“Not bad,” Warren said. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were queer.”

Colin let out a plaintive grunt, and Warren laughed.

“Keep going. You’re doing good.”

Eventually Warren’s member was so wet with saliva that Colin began slurping on the tip, like when a popsicle’s melting too fast. Warren leaned forward, inhaling sharply. His barrel chest loomed over Colin’s head.

Suddenly there was another taste.

Colin almost gagged when he realized what it was. But he knew Warren wouldn’t like that, so he stood his ground and kept on slurping. He slurped it all up until there was nothing left.

I just sucked the cum right out of his dick.

Warren relaxed, enjoying the continued sensation, and his dick slowly softened. It didn’t get that much smaller, but it got so floppy that it slipped right out of Colin’s mouth.

He leaned back from Warren’s groin; several strings of saliva stretched between mouth and dick, but they broke as Colin wiped his mouth on his forearm. But hairless forearms make poor napkins, so his face was still a bit slimy.

He looked up at Warren

“So . . . can I stay on the team?”

Warren laughed.

“No. You’re officially cut.”

Colin felt tears welling up again.

“But . . . but you said--”

“This was all a test,” Warren said. “I was testing how submissive and compliant you really are. You didn’t object. You didn’t refuse. You didn’t even complain. I beat you, Colin, and I made you suck my dick. And you just . . . let it happen.” He gave Colin an affectionate pat on the head. “I’m sorry, buddy, but you failed.”

Warren stood up, and Colin fell back; his savaged butt landing right on the scratchy carpet. The captain stuck his dick back in his boxers and zipped up his jeans, then headed for the door.

“Oh,” he said, as an afterthought, “even though you’re off the team, feel free to come to practice this Thursday. You can serve drinks or something. And this week’s topic is ‘The Ethics of Puericil,’ so I’m sure you’ll find it interesting.”

He left, and Colin was alone. Alone, crying, red-assed and naked, sitting on the floor of room 207. He picked up his clothes and dressed as quickly as possible, then headed out as well.

The walk home was hard; every single step made his underwear chafe against his butt.

He looked back on the last half-hour of his life . . . and at first he couldn’t believe it. And then, as he thought about it more and more, he could believe it. It started to seem less absurd, more . . . reasonable. In fact, the more he thought about it, the more he realized that everything Warren said was right.

He didn’t belong on the team.

Warren’s “test” was actually pretty smart.

I am totally submissive and compliant.

The End