Gay Bondage Fiction | Revenge of the Weaker Sex – Intro

Young athletes are rounded up and forced to fight for an audience of women in this new series by Kronmire4 with art manips by Amalaric!

Revenge of the Weaker Sex - Intro
by Kronmire4
Art by Amalaric
Series: Revenge of the Weaker Sex
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Sam Bonner rolled up his car window as the driving rain just began to penetrate the front seat of his specially-equipped, dark blue delivery truck; disgusted, Sam snuffed out his cigarette and turned to his sole front-cab passenger, Zak Lacey, and groused: "What a day! First we have to wait an extra hour at the last pickup point for Mayer and Marshall, and now with this damned downpour we may not get our chance to nab Pritzger. And we only have another couple of hours to complete the mission! Damn! Damn!" Zak tried to console his partner, saying: "Nothin' we can do about it, Sam -- that's just the breaks. But keep your eyes out -- Pritzger has regular habits -- we've watched him often enough -- he should be comin' out that gym door any minute now." Sam nodded morosely but didn't have Zak's confidence; still, both men continued their lookout -- they knew that Tim Pritzger, a sophomore at Coldwell College, should be finishing his gym workout any time now, and a little rain might not keep him from plunging headlong on his afternoon jog -- and besides, the rain seemed to be letting up. In their research on young Pritzger, Sam and Zak knew that he always used this rear entrance to the athletic building and that was fortunate for their shady purpose as it was a secluded spot and not likely to be noticed by anyone else on this part of the campus grounds.

Sure enough, luck was with them, and ten minutes later Pritzger, dressed in jeans, tee shirt, running shoes and a hooded pullover jersey, emerged alone from the building exit and began warming up; by the time he started running past the blue truck, Sam and Zak were fully prepared for him -- Zak had opened the double rear doors and activated the hydraulic lift, lowering the tailgate to ground level; Sam was standing outside the driver's door, pretending to look at a map -- as Tim picked up speed and was about to pass him, Sam yelled out: "Hey there, son! Can you help me find this place?" The polite young athlete paused in front of the door as Sam thrust the map at him and began to ask questions about campus locations; while looking intently at the street plan, Tim failed to notice as Sam reached into his pocket and brought out a cloth saturated with chloroform; he clamped it firmly over Pritzger's mouth and nose and threw the startled boy to the ground with him, holding him firmly for the precious few seconds it required for the drug to do its work. Both Sam and Zak quickly picked up the unconscious muscular athlete, loaded him onto the tailgate and lifted him into the back of the windowless truck, closing the doors behind him; jumping in, Zak just as rapidly gagged the new victim and tied his wrists and ankles firmly immobilizing him in the event he awoke prematurely. Lastly, a cloth bag was placed over the boy's head, totally obscuring his vision. If Tim had been awake, he would have noticed five other young men, all similarly trussed up, hooded and lying quietly on the floorboard of the truck. Zak then shouted happily: "Done, man! And we've got plenty of time to get them all back to The Center." With a responding gleeful laugh, Sam closed his door, got behind the wheel and put the truck in gear -- soon they were rolling merrily the few miles it would take to reach their goal -- an old restored warehouse off a little-used country road which was now called The Center.

Inside that warehouse, which had been totally renovated inside by its new owner, D. J. Burrell, that enterprising businessman was busily getting ready for the evening's events. There were two main public rooms at The Center, the first one dominated by a regulation-style raised wrestling ring, quite similar to the ones in place on televised wrestling shows, but instead of ranks of stadium-type seats surrounding it, the ring was encircled by about thirty small cocktail tables, each with four to six chairs, comfortably cushioned for guests. The second main room, adjacent to the first, was the receiving room for the club members -- ah, yes, you haven't yet learned that The Center is just a simple, nondescript name for a very special type of women's club. And although Burrell was a gay man in his fifties, with salt-and-pepper hair and a still-respectable physique, this club which he ran and which paid him handsomely, was for ladies only. But back to the receiving room -- it was like a small theater, well-lit, with a stage at one end, complete with a curtain which could be drawn back and small flights of steps at each side of which persons could easily mount and dismount from the stage itself, and a theater-type seating arrangement, but instead of regular, built-in seats, there were comfortable sofas arranged in rows on a sloping floor so that everyone could get a good look at the "entertainment" presented on stage. Both the theater seating and the tables in the other room could easily handle a hundred or so ladies in attendance. And although the club had only been in operation for a few short months, almost every opening night readily achieved that goal. The club only met once each week, on Friday evenings, and as usual this evening was a sell-out. It would be several more hours before the members arrived, so Burrell took the time to reflect on how all this got started. It really began with Lydia Cantrell, an old friend of Burrell's, who knew and accepted his gay status but who was also as randy a straight woman as D. J. had ever known. She was the wife of a prominent physician in this mid-sized community in southern Ohio, about forty-five years of age and still quite beautifully stunning in her appearance. Although she and her husband were well-suited to each other, the "spark", as she put it, had long since gone out of the marriage bed, and considering that both their children were away at college out-of-state, Lydia had been having a tough time coming to terms both with boredom and with her raging libido -- in other words, she was still hot-to-trot but tired of resorting only to vibrators!

Many of Lydia's wealthy, jaded women friends were in the same boat. So five months ago, at lunch with Burrell, Lydia blurted out her needs and an idea to ask if he would be willing to set it all up for her. In essence, she wanted to form a club to meet for an evening of safe but daring sexual fantasies involving handsome, muscular and unknown young men who would be placed totally under the women's control for that evening! It would be a sort of revenge for the weaker sex, as she laughingly put it to D. J. At first her gay pal couldn't see how to provide such a service, since the crux of the turn-on was the use of UNWILLING male victims. But the more he thought about it, the more he knew he could make the idea work --and the more he knew he himself wanted to run the operation! D. J. hit upon the idea of researching and then stalking and trapping young, healthy athletes at the various community colleges which existed in large numbers within a fifty-mile radius of The Center. Reaching out to that sizeable number of possibilities would seem to provide an unending supply of anonymous lads for the exclusive use and abuse once a week by the lust-crazed female club members!

Burrell also remembered two trustworthy comrades, both also gay, who were strong and not overly blessed with scruples nor averse to using physical force, and who would no doubt be happy to provide their services as "recruiters", so to speak, of the male talent needed, all for a reasonable price. This was going to be kidnapping, pure and simple, but the key to success lay in using young college men only once -- men who would later be ashamed to confess to whatever might be done to them by strange women, and who also would be required, after their exhausting hard use by the wanton ladies, to sign releases before themselves being taken back to their regular lives. It was also important that the abused lads be taken and returned all on the same day so as to allay any suspicions raised by their schools, friends or families -- a longer absence would be too hard to control. Each club member was willing (even eager!) to pay five hundred dollars to The Center for each evening attended, and that money easily made Burrell very rich, with plenty of money left over for all expenses in running the place. The women received a safe retreat for their perverted pleasures; they wore attractive Mardi Gras-type half masks to disguise their identities from the boys, and finally each lad was given one thousand dollars cash when he signed his release at the end of the evening -- everyone was happy (well, the boys were not, but that was part of the fun, and they were in no position to complain!).

Burrell's daydreaming was interrupted by the appearance of Sam Bonner. Burrell said: "Ah, Sam. No problems today, I trust?" Bonner replied: "None we couldn't handle, Mr. Burrell. All six of them are in the back room for your inspection." Rubbing his hands together, D. J. followed his employee into the back room, a largely empty chamber with a few chairs and tables and six man-size iron cages ranged against the far wall. The still-unconscious recent captives were lying lengthwise on the concrete floor in front of him. Zak was just finishing removing the last lad's shirt, and now all of them were clad only in their jeans or other long trousers, their torsos and feet now bare. All were of a similar type -- different hair colors but fine muscle tone; only their sizes were different -- two were deliberately chosen in the 150-pound weight class, two in the 175-pound, and the last two weighing in at about 200 pounds, all solid muscle. Short lengths of chain were fastened to secure each boy's ankles, long enough to allow him to walk but not run; and each boy had his wrists secured behind his back with a set of metal handcuffs. A leather collar was placed around each victim's neck with an o-ring for use with a leash. Zak and Sam next began slapping the men's faces, arousing them from their stupors, and as they gradually returned to life, all of them struggled to get to their feet. At last they were arrayed in a line in front of Burrell, poked and prodded into place by Zak and Sam; the lads were still puzzled by their new circumstances, but before any one of them could speak, Burrell commanded: "STAND UP STRAIGHT, GENTLEMEN! I MAY CHOOSE TO ANSWER YOUR QUESTIONS, BUT WE HAVE LITTLE TIME, AND I HAVE SOME IMPORTANT RULES TO GO OVER WITH YOU. FIRST AND FOREMOST, KNOW THAT FOR THE REMAINDER OF THIS EVENING YOU ARE SLAVES!" All six prisoners looked stunned at that announcement, but before they could protest, Zak and Sam had fixed ball gags around their disbelieving mouths, preventing any outcry or question. Burrell smiled with pleasure, knowing that the rest of the evening, just the same as so many of them in previous sessions, would be sheer terror for the boys -- and great amusement for himself and the ladies!