Bio of a Bully

I am so fuckin’ hot. I mean it, no kidding.

It’s not vanity or nothin’ like that. It’s true. Plain and simple. I am fuckin’ a-grade hot.

It’s like at school, everyone wants a piece of me, you know. The chicks giggle and gawk when I walk by and all the blokes – they all wanna be just like me. Even some of the teachers - no bullshit!

It’s great being like this. I love it. I can have anything I want. Anything or anyone. I have the look of a fuckin’ angel, all sweet and pure, and that makes everything so much easier.

If I was another guy, like a doppelganger or something, I’d grab that other motherfucker and shove him down there on his knees, shoving my cock into his mouth nice and hard, pumpin’ and thrustin’ and making him swallow every last drop. Jeeze, that’d be cool!

When I look in the mirror, especially after a steaming hot shower…I get so fuckin’ horny! Seeing myself there, you know - my reflection and all – all wet and glistening ‘cause my skins still damp - wow!

But there’s not another me. Just one. But that’s probably better, you know? No competition. I’m un-fuckin’-touchable.

So I just check myself out in the morning, or strip off at night and have a perv before hittin’ the sack. Mmmm-mmm. Man! What a bod. I am so lucky.

My Dad, see, he was a footballer. Played pro till he busted his leg in three places. Never recovered when he couldn’t go back to the game, so the ball turned to booze and he tackled that instead. My Mum, she gave up after a few years and hit the road, but I didn’t want to go with her. I like it here in Adelaide, it's my home. So I stayed with Dad. Twelve years old, I think I was. Yeah, twelve. And Dad and me, we had a blast. Two blokes living alone, doing what we want with no one nagging us.

Anyway, it’s my Dad that I take after mostly see. I’ve got him to thank for my looks. And now that I’m eighteen and filled out a bit – you know, lost all that baby fat that some people get (not that I had much – I’ve always been pretty hot) – well, I’m even better looking than I was when I was a kid.

Oh – now don’t get me wrong. It’s not all him. Can’t be – he was nowhere near a looker as me, but I can see where most of me comes from. You know, the blond, wavy hair, my height, build….you know?

Speaking of my build, man am I lucky. I work out, right? – do a bit of jogging, go to the gym, all that kind of stuff, but I don’t have to, see? It’s all there. All I’m doing is building on it, making myself even more of a stud muffin.

I love that word – “stud muffin”. Makes me laugh. Some chick at school….Chrissie?….yeah, I think so. Chrissie. I heard her use it once. I was walkin’ by, just finished my gym class. So there I was in my shorts and sneakers – no shirt – only fags wear shirts in gym class – they’re too scared that showing their flesh will turn ‘em on and make ‘em obvious, even if they already are. Anyway, so I’m walking past these chicks and I hear I them talking….whispering between themselves, like they didn’t want me to hear or nothing. But I did.

“Ohhhh,” one of them says, “Check him out, there’s Justin!”

“Oh, baby,” says another, “No shirt. I like it!”

“Yeah, he’s a real stud muffin.” That was Chrissie who said that, but I think she was being sarcastic. I know she liked me. And she didn’t complain when I broke into her bedroom her that night and had her. Ha! Not that she could with my cock rammed so far in her mouth that she couldn’t make a sound!

Anyway, she always watched me whenever I walked pasT and stuff, but she was being sarcastic that day. Tryin’ to impress her friends by being cool. Mind you, after my visit to her bedroom…she moved schools and I never saw her again, but that was cool. Didn’t want to anyway. I hate the way sheilas always rave on about love and commitment and all that crap. You bonk ‘em once and they expect you to marry them. But I think that’s why she moved schools, see? She couldn’t bear to face me again cause she knew I wasn’t interested. It was just a root, that’s it. I don’t need anyone…well, except maybe for a good fuck every now and then, and boy have I had some of them!

You see, I’m straight, right? Don’t get me wrong there. I’m not a faggot. I hate faggots. There’s only good for forcin’ them down on you and making them suck you off. But I’m not interested in girls either. I don’t want a girlfriend – they’re too much trouble, nagging all day, getting a headache at night. Nah…not for me. Chicks are for fucking and fags are for sucking. For sucking me, that is, not the other way round. Fucking and sucking. Kinda rhymes, doesn’t it! Anyway, that’s my motto.

But enough of that shit. Suppose you want to know more about what I do and stuff, huh? Well, I’m a high school student. Year 11. I won’t tell you the school though – don’t want any queers reading this and showing up at the gate hoping to catch me in my gym shorts. Fuck the lot of you, I say. If you’re a queer and reading this, then fuck off. Stick your nose up someone else’s arse and leave my business to myself.

As for the rest of you, you’re probably wondering how I can be eighteen years old and in year 11. Well, you see, I’ve never been that smart. Study is for pussies. I’m like my Dad, you know – an action man. I get full grades in stuff like gym, and electives like metalwork and carpentry. But the other stuff? I mean, who gives a fuck about the American civil war? They got the whole fuckin’ thing wrong anyway, fighting for freedom and all that crap. What a load of horseshit! Let the bastards do what they fucking want, alright? Who the fuck were the Yankees to push their views onto the south anyway?

Personally, I think the southerners got it right. Not about blacks and all that. I don’t have any problem with niggers, so long as they’re not queer. But slavery? Hey – I like it, you know. Get some pissant little fuckwit to do all the work and leave me my time to do what I want. They got fed and sheltered and stuff, so what’s the problem? Most of them probably didn’t have that much brains between them anyway. Let them free and they would’ve starved without help.

I’ve gone off again, haven’t I? I do that, you know. My mind races so fast sometimes that I can’t keep up with it. Too much to think about see, like who I’m gonna take next or what I’m gonna do after school….you know how it is.

So anyway, I’m in year 11. Got kept back see, once in primary school and once in high school. Fuckin’ year 7. Can you believe it? They kept me back in grade 7 ‘cause they thought I wasn’t ready for high school. And then the cunts kept me back in year 8 too. Boy was I pissed about that! Two fucking years in a row!

But it's okay. I got my own back. That bastard, Mr Green, my homeroom teacher – fucking faggot, he was – he didn’t know what hit him. I waited for him after parent/teacher night and got him in the car park. It was dark, see? Most people had gone. He didn’t fuckin’ know what had hit him but I tell ya, we were calling him Mr Blue after that.

I waited till he came out, see? Watching him in the classroom through the window. When I saw him pack up, I went over to his car and hid and when he got there I fuckin’ pounced, man. It was brilliant. He went down faster than a prostitute’s undies. Broke his nose on impact. Then I kicked him a few times in the gut, stomped on his face and that was it. Short and sweet. The prick lay there bleeding and groaning, and I took off before anyone came along. Served him right for keeping me back.

So anyway, that’s why I’m so old and still have a year to go. I hate school, except for the fact that everyone fucking drools over me. My old man won’t let me leave – it’s the one thing we disagree on – but I guess it’s not that bad. I hate school but at least I get my way there. I’ve got the freedom to do what I want, when I want and being in school gives you the advantage of people putting bad stuff down to the exuberance of youth. Not that I’m caught out too often! And like, when you make someone suck cock and stuff….they’re not gonna tell. They’re too scared about what other people will think of them, and they know that if they ever dobbed on me, their fuckin’ life wouldn’t be worth living.

The other good thing is that, being eighteen, I’m older than most of the other kids. A few of them in their last year are eighteen, but they don’t really count. They’ve got nothing on me anyway. In my Junior year like I am, the other kids look up to me, like I’m the oldest and stuff.

I’m a natural leader anyway, you know? My friends follow me blindly, doing what I tell them, scared of making me upset. That’s pretty cool. I like them being scared of me. I like being in control and one look from me can make them pee their wimpy little pants. It’s cool.

There was this one guy once who tried to stand his ground. He came to our school from St Clair’s, a private Catholic school. Thought he was hot shit. Did lots of weight lifting and stuff; thought he was tough. I showed him though. It was one of them times when it was really worthwhile, you know? He wasn’t no faggot - he could take down nearly anyone if he wanted, but not me. I like a good challenge and he was one of them, though not as much as that other faggot’s big brother. Now that was a really cool challenge. I almost lost that one – thought I was going to, too. But that’s another story for later.

This Catholic boy. His name was Fab, short for Fabio, an Italian guy. Good bod. But he had all these poofy ideas about humanity and pacifism and stuff, you know? Like the stuff they teach in Church.

Anyway, Fab came to our school and like all new kids, I had to check him out, and he was hot. Not as hot as me, but still hot. He was in my English class, looking like a right nerd – glasses and a tie. Made a few of the girls look twice. I remember the first day I saw him looking like that. I thought, “Oh yeah, he looks easy pickings. Could be fun seeing how much those huge fuckin’ lips of his can take.” And that fact that he made a few of the girls – not all of them – look at him instead of me, well….that just made my blood boil, you know. So I knew I had to take him on.

He was really rakish, I thought. He wore baggy clothes and I thought he was hiding skin and bones, not muscle. Man, was I wrong! Not that it mattered in the end.

I cornered him after school and told him that he owed me for stealing my thunder. Well…not exactly. I told him some other crap, but said that I would meet him in the park on Saturday, one-on-one, to teach him a lesson. He said that he wasn’t going to fight me and that he didn’t know what he’d done wrong, but he didn’t look scared or nothing. I told him he had no choice and if he didn’t show up then I’d kick his arse on the Monday after school in front of everyone.

So he showed up on Saturday like I told him. I’d picked a secluded part of the park where no one went, hidden behind trees and things, so no one could see him giving me a head job. Not that there’s anything wrong with forcing a guy to do that, but sometimes people don’t understand, you know. Don’t want them thinking that I’m a faggot.

The grass was wet from the rain the night before, but it was an okay day. The sun was out but there was a cool breeze, so I wore my gym shorts and no shirt. I like a cool breeze touching my skin – it turns me on big time. So Fab shows up in a tracksuit, right on time like a good little Catholic boy.

“Fuckin’ pussy!” That was how I greeted him, lookin’ at him decked out in all his clothing. “What’s the matter? Afraid to meet me like a man? Are you a faggot or something?” I knew he wasn’t, but it was good saying that, just to piss him off.

“What’s your problem?” he asked. “I haven’t done anything against you? Why do you want to fight me?”

“’Cause I hate you, that’s why,” I said. I crouched down, as though it were like a serious wrestling match or something and said, “Come on.”

He looked at me for a minute then sighed and peeled off his top.

“Fine,” he said.

I tell ya, man, it threw me for six. Looking at him standing there – his body was nothing like I’d imagined. I thought he was like a weed or something, but when he took off his top it was like, wow! And I knew he’d be tough, but that just excited me even more. I couldn’t wait to shove my cock in his mouth and make him take it. The tougher they are, the harder they fall – isn’t that what they say?

I checked him out, looking him up and down to size him out. Fab just stood there, waiting for me start, which was the dumbest thing. Never let your opponent get in the first swing. Puts you at a disadvantage if he tackles you first.

So anyway, I sized him up and was impressed. He was thin, but it was all muscle, with a nice, light coat of hair on his chest. His skin was pale, like it hadn’t seen much sun, but that didn’t shock me. It’s like I said earlier about fags and Catholic boys being scared to take off their shirts and be a real man.

I liked the chest hair he had. I didn’t have any but I always thought it made you more of a man to have a bit of hair, you know? Not that it bothered me being smooth and muscular. At least I had the muscles. That made me just as much a man as anyone

Anyway, I looked him over and he stood there waiting. When I was done, I stepped towards him and was impressed that he didn’t take a step back. Most guys back off, so I knew he was confident and that made the fight even more exhilarating.

“Time to eat dirt,” I said and I jumped forward to grab him. But instead, the bastard caught me around the wrists and took me off guard. I wasn’t used to anyone being ready like that and before I knew it, he had twisted my hands so far back that I fell to my knees. My hands were pinned together above my head, my back arched as he held me there, looming over me like he was some kind of undefeatable God or something.

I gritted my teeth, straining against his hold, but he held me fast, determined not to let me get up. Then suddenly, he stepped backwards and let me go, making me fall face first into the wet grass. He sat on top of me before I could turn around and grabbed my arms, pulling them up and back, pinning me to the ground. I gasped in surprise. I couldn’t move. And I could feel the ground, all soggy and stuff from the rain, rubbin’ into my chest and making me all wet and dirty. It was kinda a nice feeling, really, now that I think back on it, but at the time, I was too fuckin’ pissed off to notice.

“Give up,” he said. “I don’t want to hurt you. Let’s just call it quits and no one will know what happened.”

“Cunt!” I cried out. “I’ll fuckin’ kill you!” But there was nothing I could do to break free. The bastard knew it and he twisted my arms harder behind me, making me cry out in pain, riding me like I was a fuckin’ surfboard with handlebars or something. It was the first time I had ever started to lose a fight and no one had ever made me yell before like that, so I got really angry and was even more determined not to let him win. I was the undisputed champion. No one could touch me. And now he was making me the wimp and I hadn’t even handled him in the slightest.

I gritted my teeth harder and held on. He would get bored with the move quickly if I did nothing and then he’d let go and I’d get him. But it seemed to last forever.

When he finally let go, I twisted around underneath him but he quickly grabbed my hands again and pinned them to the ground above me.

“Give up,” he said again. “This is pointless. Give up and we’ll call it even.”

“Fuck you!” I growled. My back arched as I tried to raise my hands, but he pushed me down with his body weight, holding me there still. My chest was all wet and covered in bits of grass and I could see him trying to make sure that none of it got onto him, ‘cause he wanted to stay as clean as he fuckin’ could, probably so his old man or fucking mother didn’t find out what he was doing.

And then I remembered the moves I’d seen on the WWF and I kicked up my knees, hitting him in the back with them. He lost his balance and I pulled my hands free, throwing him off me.

Before he could get up, I leapfrogged off the ground and landed on him, slamming my elbow into his stomach. He doubled over and cried out in pain. Now that was a sound I liked to hear.

I jumped on top of him fully, pushing him from his side onto his back, but before I could grab him, he swung an arm up and hooked the motherfucker right under my throat, pushing me over and off him. Then he rolled away from me and got up onto his knees, just like I did.

I could see that he was really angry now. He’s eyes were wide open and I could almost see the adrenaline pumping through his veins. He tried to attack me this time and when we caught each other in a power vice, I made sure I pushed my chest into his so he’d get all the fuckin’ wet grass over him too, like it was on his back now.

We held each other hard, both of us pushing against each other trying to see who was the strongest. He didn’t have the advantage this time of catching me off guard, but he still held fast. I was fuckin’ pushin’ and straining, trying to force the bastard back, but he wouldn’t’ budge, trying to do the same fucking thing back at me.

So we stayed there pressed against each other in the power vice for ages, man, muscles ripping at the seams and it was a real endurance test to see who could hold out the longest. I knew it would be me. It always fucking is – I’ve got a real good tolerance for pain – kinda enjoy a bit of it really – and when it comes to inflicting it on others, there’s nothin’ that’s gonna stop me.

So eventually, I could see he was beginning to weaken. Bit by bit, I could feel his arms starting to move backwards and felt his chest pressing harder into mine as his back started to arch. I could feel the hair on his chest, all soggy from me, tickling me a bit and I liked that feeling, knowing that it was me making him press his bod into me.

And then, when I felt him give way a bit more, I twisted around, bringing his right hand up over his head and forcing the fucker to the ground. He was still on his knees, so when I let go of his hands, they hit the ground first followed by his head. How cool was that – making him head butt the fuckin’ ground?!

I didn’t give the prick a chance to get up again. I dropped on him real hard with my elbow in his back, making him flatten out completely on the ground. We were both covered in wet grass now and the cool air was making my nipples as hard as my cock. I sat on his back, bringing my knees up and hooked his arms back over them. Then I grabbed the cunt around the throat with my arm and held him there, choking him. I think on the WWF they call it a Boston Crab or a Camel Clutch or something like that, but it’s a fuckin’ cool move, whatever it's called, ‘cause there’s fuck all they can do to get out of it, and if they stay in it for long enough, they pass out. How fuckin’ cool is that?!

Anyway, I didn’t ask him if he wanted to give up. It wasn’t an option I was gonna let the fucker have. So I held him there for a while and then with my free hand I reached around and started hitting him in the chest too, just to make him suffer a bit more. They weren’t that hard, the blows, ‘cause it's hard to get any force into your fist when you’re hitting someone from that angle. It’s kinda awkward, you know? But that was okay – it didn’t need to be hard. I was only doing it for effect, to make him suffer that little bit more. Shit – I wasn’t trying to kill him or nothing, just make him see who was top dog.

I got bored after holding him there so long, so I finally let the fucker go. He didn’t move much, laying there under me all limp, head to one side, arms outstretched, breathing really heavy. I knew he was a goner so I got up and walked around him, circling like a vulture.