In the Ring

by James Lear

  “Local leagues.”

  “And you two?”

  “Boxing,” said Joshua.

  “Kickboxing,” said Dakota, “and a bit of judo.”

  A few more questions established that they were all unemployed, all worked out at least five times a week in a gym, two of them lived with family while the third (Dakota) was in his own apartment. Their ages ranged from eighteen (Jared) to twenty-one (Joshua). Yes, they all wanted to work for Mr. Vaughan, they’d like to be managed as fighters or used as trainers, and they all liked their chances as models. They had, they said, sent in photos, as requested. Presumably Brett was keeping those to himself.

  “And what about school? Any of you still in education?”

  They shook their heads.

  “Any qualifications?”

  There was a lot of glancing around. “I got some GCSEs,” said Joshua. The others said nothing.

  “Well, there’s only so much you can learn at school. I learned everything worth knowing in the marines. Think you can learn?”

  They nodded eagerly. I saw an eagerness for orders, a hunger for attention, that I recognized in my younger self.

  I waited till Brett was out of the room before asking, “Have any of you been in foster care? Or come from broken homes?”

  “Yeah,” said Joshua. “My parents left me with my nan. I still live with her.”

  “I live with my mum,” said Jared. “I never knew my dad. She doesn’t talk about him. If I ask her she goes fucking mental.”

  “I was in care till last year,” said Dakota. “My father was in prison for most of my life. My mum’s a junkie.”

  My hunch was correct; all three from broken homes, emotionally vulnerable, easy to manipulate. Coincidence? Probably not.

  Brett was back, his ears practically waggling. “We’ll continue this conversation at another time. I think our cameraman is ready. Brett?”

  He didn’t like the role I was pushing him into—a service provider, a technician. He was obviously used to running the show.

  “We’ll take you in order of age, oldest first. That’s you, Joshua. Leave your bag there, and take off that hoodie. Bill, are you shooting stills or video or both?”

  “Both. Now if you could just . . .”

  “So, stand over there, Joshua, in front of the backdrop. Let your arms hang by your side. You look terrified, man. It’s just a camera. Bill’s not going to bite you. Get into stance.”

  Once he was taking orders, Joshua was a lot more relaxed. He dropped into a boxing stance, bouncing on the balls of his feet, hands up protecting his face.

  “Now I want you to go through a shadowboxing routine. I’m going to call out some sequences and I want you to follow them. Okay?”

  “Yeah.”

  Bill tried to put his foot down. “This isn’t how we do it. Mr. Vaughan wants . . .”

  “We’re doing it my way today, Bill.” He glared at me, looking for the courage to fight. “Okay?”

  “He’s not going to be happy.”

  “Ready, Joshua? Give me jab right, jab right, hook left, jab right. One-two-three-four.”

  He was quick and responsive; the technique was good, not perfect. “Keep your elbows up on the hooks, and turn in on the back foot. One-two-three-four. Now switch stance. Hook right, hook left, jab left, uppercut right. . .”

  We carried on with a few changing sequences until Joshua was sweating, and very much at his ease. Brett, I was glad to see, was snapping away. No more complaining.

  “Good. Now, skipping.”

  “I haven’t got a rope.”

  “Fake it.”

  Joshua took direction well—that, surely, would be of interest to Bill Brett. He mimed skipping, simple jumps, then some fancy footwork, even pretending to cross the rope over.

  “Let’s get your shirt off. See what you’re made of.”

  Joshua grabbed the hem of his T-shirt and pulled it up over his head. What he was made of, it seemed, was solid muscle, no fat, and a smooth skin that gleamed where it was wet with sweat. Not content with a six-pack, Joshua had an eight-pack.

  “And back into stance . . .”

  I took him through the shadowboxing and skipping again, shirtless. Under the heat of the lights he was getting even sweatier, streams of it running down his chest, dripping off his nose.

  “That’s enough. What kind of underwear have you got on?”

  “Trunks.”

  “Okay. Take your pants off.”

  “Huh?”

  “Your trousers, I mean. Sorry. I forget I’m in a foreign country sometimes.”

  This made the boys laugh, and they all looked rather starry-eyed. I was learning that British guys are impressed by Americans with a service background. Comes from all those movies and games, I guess. I intended to exploit it for all it was worth. Joshua, at any rate, found me easy to obey. He was pulling his tracksuit bottoms over his trainers. His underpants were lime green with an orange waistband and piping. The look was completed by white tube socks and white trainers, as if he’d bought the outfit direct from a gay porn website.

  “Now we’re going to do some stretches. Shoulders first—arm across your chest, that’s it.” I took him through a full body stretch, showing off his muscles to the camera; he was relaxed now, and enjoying himself, moving his hips to the rhythm of some music in his head.

  “You’re a natural, Joshua. You done any modelling before?”

  “No, man. Not me.”

  “I think we can safely say that you’ll get a good deal of work out of this. What do you think, Bill?”

  “Yes, now if he could just . . .”

  “Okay. Stand with your hands behind your head. And flex the abs for me. Crunch ‘em down. Good man. Getting this, Bill?”

  The photographer grunted in reply, but kept shooting.

  “Now hook your thumbs in your waistband and pull it down a couple of inches. That’s it. Right down, just above your dick. You’re smooth. Do you shave?”

  “Yeah. That okay?”

  “It’s fine. Now turn around. Show us that ass. Great stuff. Very nice. Just pull ‘em down a bit, perfect. Right. You’re done.”

  He stood up. It was impossible not to notice that he was getting hard inside those lurid shorts, but that could wait. I don’t know what Bill Brett’s method was, but I was not going to risk scaring these boys off. They were already making themselves vulnerable to exploitation. Could I protect them as well? Or would that blow my cover? If I turn out to be one of the good guys, will Vaughan dispense with my services—or, worse, figure out who I’m really working for?

  “Dakota, you’re next. Kickboxing and judo, right?”

  “Yeah.” He ambled into position, ran his fingers through his hair, every inch the cocky pretty boy he was. But scratch that surface, and he was the most vulnerable of the lot. “Want me to strip?”

  “All in good time. You seem very relaxed in front of the camera.”

  “I am. Done it loads.”

  “I see. What sort of stuff?”

  “Bit of modelling. You know.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Er . . . like fitness stuff, body stuff . . .”

  “Nudes?”

  “Yeah, once or twice. It was a laugh.”

  “I see. What else?”

  “Bit of webcamming.”

  “For money?”

  “Yeah. Why not?”

  “Nothing wrong with that. I’m very much in favor of nudity.”

  “So what do you want me to do?”

  Run away from here and never come back. “Take your shirt off. Show us your body.”

  He stripped slowly, making sure that Brett was capturing every angle, finally scrunching up the shirt and throwing it on the floor. He had a wiry body, the pale skin covered in tattoos.

  “That’s a lot of ink for someone your age.”

  Dakota ran a hand down his chest and stomach, looking at the camera all the time. “I started young.”

  “Tell
us about them.”

  “I got that one,” he said, pointing to a badly-executed bird in flight on his left pec, “for my fourteenth birthday. This”—a date in Roman numerals over the ribs on his left side, must have hurt like hell—“was the date that my mum tried to kill herself.”

  “And what about the name down your arm?”

  “This?” He pointed to something in curly script on the inner part of his left forearm. “This is my daughter’s name, okay?”

  “I can’t read it.”

  “Kayleigh. She’s two now.”

  “Okay. And how’s she doing?”

  “I don’t see her.”

  The air was leaking out of his balloon, so I changed the subject. “So, kickboxing. You done many fights?”

  “Yeah, at club level.”

  “And you want to go further?”

  “Of course. That’s why I’m here, right?”

  “Show us some moves, then. No, no, take your pants off . . . I mean your trousers off first.”

  “I’m not wearing anything underneath.”

  “Okay. I’m sure we can find you something. Bill—do you have a jock or a thong or something?”

  “I expect so.” Brett was more compliant now that I was getting results for him. He grabbed a holdall and started rummaging through what looked like someone’s laundry: vests, T-shirts, underpants, socks. All clean, I hoped. “Here you go.” A classic Bike jockstrap in black. “Try that for size.”

  “Should I change somewhere?”

  “It’s okay, Dakota. You’re among friends. Brett won’t take any pictures till you’ve got it on.”

  “I don’t mind.” Dakota pulled his light gray pants down and kicked them off. He was semi-erect, and he had a lot to show. He must have been making a good income from the webcams. Brett, Joshua, and I stared openly. Only Jared seemed uncomfortable, looking at his feet, at the ceiling, anywhere but at Dakota’s big prick. After what seemed like about a minute, Dakota stepped into the jockstrap. It framed his ass beautifully. I was hard now as well; that made at least three of us. Brett was crouched over his camera, and Jared had his bag in his lap.

  “You show that ass on webcam?” I asked.

  “Course I do. People pay to see it.” He turned to show his butt to the camera. Brett got busy.

  “Worth every penny. Now do some squats for me. Deep ones.”

  Dakota executed a perfect squat, and in the process showed the camera his tight pink hole.

  “Very nice,” I said. My voice sounded gruff, and I had to clear my throat. “What do you think, guys?”

  Joshua was sitting with his legs stretched out, massaging the bulge in his pants; he hadn’t bothered to dress again. Jared, on the other hand, had his knees clamped together and a look of panic in his eyes.

  “I . . . I think I’m in the wrong place . . . I just remembered . . . I’ve got to . . .”

  “You got an appointment elsewhere, buddy?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry.”

  “Off you go. Hey, thanks for coming. Don’t worry. It’s not for everyone.”

  Jared scampered out of the room as quickly as his feet would carry him. Brett looked furious; I wondered if Jared now posed a security threat. But I didn’t think he’d go to the police. No offense had been committed.

  “And then there were two,” I said. “You guys both cool?”

  “I am,” said Dakota, his hands on his hips. “What about you, man?”

  “I’m good,” said Joshua.

  “Enjoying the show?” I asked.

  “Yeah. Nice.” Joshua rubbed his cock. Brett was having trouble deciding which way to point his lens.

  “Okay, Dakota,” I said, “let’s see that ass again. Push it towards the camera. Hold it open. That’s it. Now, run your finger around it.”

  Dakota did exactly as he was told while Brett snapped away. The tip of his finger slipped inside his ring, which got a “yeeeah” from Joshua. Dakota knew exactly how to turn men on.

  “Now stand up. Let’s see how hard you are.”

  Whoever invented the material that Bike jockstraps are made out of deserves a Nobel Prize; the mesh fabric of the pouch is soft and stretchy enough to allow a hard cock to stand straight out from the body. Dakota was not only fully erect, he was also oozing precum right through the pouch, a messy silver patch on the waffled black cotton. He posed like a professional, pushing his cock this way and that, tensing his muscles, running his hands up and down his tattooed torso.

  “Okay. Lose the jock.”

  Dakota peeled it down over his hips and thighs, and a big, meaty cock bounced free, with a pearl of precum dangling from a silvery thread.

  “Rub that over the head.”

  He did as he was told.

  “Now taste your fingers.”

  There was no longer any pretense that this was a fitness shoot. Dakota had taken it straight into porn territory. Brett moved in for close-ups, while Joshua got his dick out of the leg of his underpants.

  “Shall we get the two of you together now?”

  “Why not?” said Dakota, licking his lips.

  Joshua stepped back in front of the camera and slung an arm around Dakota’s shoulders. He was a good six inches taller. Dakota rested his head against Joshua’s neck.

  “What you want us to do?” asked Joshua.

  “Take hold of each other’s cock.”

  They crossed arms over their stomachs, black hand grasping white dick, white grasping black.

  “Just hold it there while we get the photos. Come on, Brett, do your thing. Try and get it in focus.”

  Brett hated me for my snotty attitude, but loved me for getting the boys to do things he could only dream of. If he’d asked them to get hard or fool around they’d have kicked his ass. But some of us inspire obedience. Joshua and Dakota stroked each other, staring intently down at their cocks.

  “How about kissing?”

  I expected this to be the line they wouldn’t cross, but far from it—it seemed, from the eagerness with which they locked lips, that they had been waiting for permission. They made out with a passion that went far beyond porn, turning to face each other, chest to chest, their cocks pressed between their muscly abs, buttocks clenching as they thrust, hands everywhere. Dakota was on his tiptoes.

  “That’s enough, now. Take a break.”

  They unglued themselves unwillingly, and stood there not knowing what to do with their hands, their cocks. Brett occupied himself with lights and lenses.

  I took Joshua and Dakota back to their seats, gave them bottles of water.

  “You’re doing well, guys.”

  Joshua wiped his mouth. “Thanks, man.” His cock, like Dakota’s, was still hard.

  “Is this what you were expecting?”

  He shrugged. “Kind of. Maybe. I don’t know.”

  “What about you, Dakota?”

  “Fitness modelling usually means porn.”

  “Ah. The voice of experience.”

  “I don’t mind. It’s good pay.”

  “And what about your family and friends? What will they think?”

  “I don’t fucking care,” said Joshua. “They won’t see it anyway.”

  “And you, Dakota?”

  “Bit late for me to start worrying about that. My girlfriend doesn’t exactly like what I do, but she’s happy enough to spend the money.”

  “You got a girlfriend?” asked Joshua, scowling. “Shit, man, I thought you were gay.”

  Dakota shrugged. “I’m up for whatever. What about you?”

  Joshua grabbed his hard dick and squeezed. “What does it look like?”

  “Want me to suck it?”

  “Yeah. Course.”

  Dakota got down on his knees, and was about to make a start when Brett interrupted. “No, no, no! For God’s sake, what are you thinking? Get them in front of the lights!”

  He had a point; I’d been so absorbed I’d temporarily forgotten my role as exploiter and abuser of emotionally needy young me
n.

  “Come on, guys. Let’s do it for the camera.”

  “I’ll suck,” said Dakota, “but I won’t fuck.”

  Joshua looked disappointed.

  “Not on camera, I mean. If you’ve got a place . . .”

  “I live with my nan.”

  “And I’m not allowed visitors after ten o’clock. It’s . . . well, you know. One of those hostel type places.”

  “You’d better come back to mine, then,” I said, but not loud enough for Brett to hear. “Right, Joshua, you stand there. Dakota, get on your knees and make love to that thing.”

  He did as he was told, with enthusiasm and efficiency. Joshua’s knees were buckling. “Are you about to come?” asked Dakota, squeezing Joshua’s tight balls.

  “Yeah.”

  “Right.” He stood up and wiped his mouth. “That’s your lot.”

  “But . . . but . . .” stammered Brett, obviously hoping for the money shot.

  “This is an audition, right? You already got more than you expected, didn’t you? If you want more, we need paying.”

  “But if we’re pleased with what you do today, you may get a chance to . . .”

  “I’ve heard it all before,” said Dakota. “A chance to what? Be one of Vaughan’s fighters? Get some legit modelling gigs? Pull the other one, mate.” He started dressing. “This is porn, and if you want it, you pay for it.”

  The situation was getting tense. Time for Captain Cooper to take control. “You’ve got what you need, haven’t you Brett? Good. We’ll be in touch. Put your clothes on, boys, and I’ll take you back down to reception.”

  We were out of the studio in less than a minute, leaving Bill Brett, the foremost camera artist in his field, swearing under his breath.

  “Meet me in half an hour in the pub at the end of the road,” I said. “And try,” I said, pointing to the still-huge bulge in Joshua’s pants, “not to get yourselves arrested.”

  “Mr. Vaughan’s not going to be pleased when I tell him about this,” Brett said when I went upstairs to say goodnight. “He likes the way I do things. We have a good little operation going here.”

  “If you don’t like the way I work,” I said, “that’s fine. I’ll just make sure we’re not put on any jobs together in the future. I’m sure I can find another photographer who does. I’ll ask Vaughan to keep a lookout.”

  Brett flinched when I moved. I had established the power of fear over him—fear and lust. Perhaps he wasn’t interested in me, but he was interested in what I could make the boys do.