THE RAIDERS AND THE FORTYNINERS

Author: lithium500mg
Title: THE RAIDERS AND THE FORTYNINERS
Date: 08 February 2016

THE RAIDERS AND THE FORTYNINERS

We spelled out 4-9-E-R-S on our painted bare chests at the Raiders football game. I was painted gold from neck-to-shorts with a thick red “9” just inside the nipples. The bottom end of the nine formed an arrow towards my dick, my idea. After the game, and a Raiders loss, the five of us split up. The other four went to celebrate while I was due for wrestling practice. I was tenth in the Pac 12 Conference at 157 pounds, about 57 kg. We had all lost our shirts, no doubt to some Raider fan that nicked them during one of the many 49-ers scoring plays. I was headed to the BART train half naked.

I didn’t get far. As I walked through the dark parking lot a bag went over my head, a rope around my neck, and four guys dumped me into the back of their car. In the struggle, the rope got tighter and tighter, and I had to use my hands to fight for breath. Rope around my legs and ankles reduced my thrashing. Punches to my stomach weakened my resolve as I had to focus some on tightening my abs. Pretty soon my hands were tied behind my back. While I was still choking, they loosened the rope on my neck, removed the bag, and pushed a Raider bandana into my mouth and then sealed it with duct tape, what we in Germany call Klebeband, what I call Panzerband.

“We’ve got something in store for you, you fucking Frisco queer.” Two guys in the back seat held me down while the car left the parking lot. My head was more or less on the floor and one guy was sitting on my legs. As soon as we got on the highway, one guy pulled off my shoes and socks and threw them out the window. Then, using a knife, cut off my khaki cargo shorts, discarding them out the window after a search and removal of my wallet and keys. I was naked except for my thin red wrestling briefs, what we wear under our singlets.

They reoriented me to a normal sitting position in the middle, and I could see that they were dressed as Raider fans, silver and black face paint, black T-shirts. With my hands behind my back, my chest stuck out as if I were showing pride, but I was actually just uncomfortable. “You’re in good shape, Muscles. Put up a good struggle. The last guy we got was a real twink. Maybe you won’t cry before we let you go.”

“I’ve got paint all over my fists. Let’s punish him a little.” The one on my left, a wiry middle-aged guy, started twisting my nipples, like a middle-schooler. “Let’s see if we can make these a little more prominent. When we dump you oiled up and naked in the Haight-Ashbury, they’ll attract plenty.” To jump ahead, they weren’t bluffing, and I ended up in the park at 3 AM with hands and feet hog-tied with those police-type zip ties and a mixture of corn oil and Crisco covering me head-to-toe.

As I tried to pull away from the twists, the guy on my right pushed my chest back into the seat and grabbed by groin. Unfortunately, it was swelling and my briefs did not hide anything. “You like this Frisco boy,” he said as a statement, not a question. It didn’t matter that I shook my head “no” as he followed, “You’re gonna suck Raider dick, and you’re gonna get drilled by Raider cock. What’da you think about that, Muscles?”

In wrestling, there is no orgasm for eight days before the match. I hadn’t cum for six days, and the rough stuff these guys were pulling on me wasn’t enough to calm me down. Hazing at the fraternity and among the wrestlers was just as rough. Getting ducttaped to the goal posts, naked except for a jockstrap laced with wintergreen, just before cheerleader practice, was memorable, and painful. Gut punches and choke holds during wrestler’s hazing was much more intense than what just happened to me.

This wiry guy had a little more fun at my expense. He leveled his arm into my Adams Apple forcing me to defend by using all my energy to lower my chin to expel or at least control it. With his other hand he pulled and twisted and rubbed my nips big time until they were ultrasensitive, and then he worked them more. Had my neck not been under attack I could have head-butted him to stop, but this was no option now. The guy on the right kept punching me in the abs. “These are fucking hard. You an athlete, Muscles?” I didn’t answer as I was just trying to resist and endure the abuse. All the time he and his buddies were chanting “Raiders, Raiders” and “Fuck the 49-ers.”

We ended up somewhere in Oakland and pulled into a two-car garage, one bay being empty. After the door closed, they pulled me out of the car and put me on my knees. One guy held me so I didn’t fall over while another re-tied my hands behind my back with thicker rope. He wrapped a rope around my back and neck and chest to which my wrists were fastened high on my back. He then cut the ropes on my legs and ankles, allowing me to balance on my own. I was still gagged but I not blindfolded. Three guys began to strip, the fourth with his hand on my head so I couldn’t get up. When the three were naked, the fourth followed suit.

A few notes on what these naked bastards looked like. They were all about six feet tall and well built. I’d guess the ages between 25 and 40. I am just under six feet tall but, at 19 years old, not yet filled out. I’m quite tall for a 157 pounder, which can be a disadvantage in wrestling.

They called it a “49-er,” giving it in the mouth and the butt at the same time, twice. I had never sucked or been fucked except for church camping trips with the Monsignor in the Black Forest. In those cases (three summers running), I was fulfilling God’s wishes. At least that’s what I was told. And I was pre-adolescent anyway, so it doesn’t count. These guys were much more fit than the soft and portly Monsignor Schmidt, and all were bigger than my 157 pounds.

Before the gag was taken out, they spread me over a metal trash can with my legs spread and strapped down on the smaller side, opening up my butt wide. My head was near the edge of the larger-diameter end. With my hands tied hard behind my back, I was in an awkward position. My abraded nips felt on fire when they touched the can. “Do you understand what you are to do?” the tallest one (I’ll call him Tower) said. Still gagged, I nodded a “yes”.

Action started at the rear. My briefs got cut off, I got lubed, primed with the end of a garden rake, and then mounted by the one I thought of as “Triceps.” Tower removed my gag and wasted no time offering his dick to my mouth. “Taste Raider cock, Frisco Boy.”

I took it. I worked the end of this cock with my tongue, digging down into his piss hole. I didn’t want him thrusting and choking me, so I did my best to satisfy him with my lips and tongue. At the same time Triceps was working me hard. The “priming” had been gentle, just a steady twisting pressure to open up my hole. Triceps was well lubed, it hurt, but I had to focus to the front. Triceps injected his semen deep into my butt with his long slim cock in a couple of minutes. After he withdrew, he cleaned me up, re-lubed my hole, and inserted the stub of a garden tool to keep me loose and open for the next guy.

I focused on Tower. My plan now was to make him cum as soon as possible, and to spit. This was a flawed plan. I worked and worked, but his dick must have been partially numb. When he finally got ready to shoot, Triceps grabbed me by the head, pulled it back, and forced me to accept Tower’s load deep in my throat, and to swallow it. I then was forced to lick his dick dry and swallow again to insure a 100 percent dose of Raider cum.

I had barely caught my breath when the second half of the 49-er began. This time it started at the front. This guy I call “The Model” as he had thick wavy blond hair and otherwise was completely shaved. I couldn’t help notice his unusually shiny balls. Again I took it, giving the end a good tongue workout before working my lips. He withdrew and offered my mouth his smooth hanging balls.

As I started to lick, the wiry guy, I call him “Mr. Nipples,” began completing the fourth leg of the 49-er, removing the plug and drilling me with his normal size dong. This didn’t hurt much as Triceps had opened me up some, and Mr. Nipples was well lubed. He was into slow moves, so it was not too difficult to multitask to The Model’s balls. He stood over me and I took the sack into my mouth. I stroked his testicles with my tongue, and sucked hard until a little pain made him pull out fast.

I accepted Nipples’ load into my colon after which he held my head up to that I couldn’t spit when The Model shot. Again, I swallowed and then licked him clean and swallowed again. The 49-er was complete and I was full of four loads of Raider cum.
They released my legs and moved the rope around my chest down to my waist. My bound wrists were reattached, this time lower. My hands were still behind my back but it was a little less uncomfortable.

Tower left the garage and came back with some food and water, which they fed me like I was a baby. I was naked, tired, thirsty and hungry, and, now sitting on a chair, I downed everything with relish. When I finished Tower asked “Did you taste the Viagra?” I was still a little groggy from both the 49-er and the food so this question passed over me at the time.

It was late night/early morning on a Sunday after the game. After the four donned their clothes they put cable ties on my wrists (in addition to the ropes), and similarly restrained my ankles. They taped my mouth without a stuffing, wrapping the tape fully around my head. I got loaded into the hatchback, now with one of the rear seats folded down. After two guys left the garage, Triceps jumped in the driver’s seat while Nipples sat in the remaining rear seat looking over me, now covered with a blanket.

We headed for San Francisco via the Bay Bridge. They drove through the toll booth with an EZ Pass so there was no chance that a toll taker would see the captive. Immediately after the toll booth, Nipples pulled off the blanket and began his torment. He began by edging. My dick was soft and I wasn’t too horny, but the Viagra had done some work. Nipples teased my cock upright, teased it to imminent orgasm, then tapped my balls and viciously squeezed, twisted and pulled my tits. The severe cock-nipples-cock-nipples torment lasted until we arrived in Haight-Ashbury.

We stopped at a dark part of the park. Nipples removed the ropes on my wrists, leaving the inescapable cable ties. The two pulled me out of the car and dumped me on the grass where they completed a hog-tie with another cable tie. The “coating” began. Using a wide brush they painted me head to toe (except my face) with a mixture of corn oil and Crisco. I had little bits of white Crisco all over my oily body. They worked the brush hard into my butt crack and on my balls and dick. They then put a bag with my wallet and keys around my neck and drove away. I was naked with a stiff dick, wondering what would happen next.

The oil and Crisco delayed my rescue and recovery. In a few minutes, two passersby saw me immediately came to help. Not surprising for the area, they were gay guys, not twinks but just two guys in their twenties. They carefully removed the duct tape around my head and freed my mouth. I could tell that they were experienced with duct tape. They couldn’t remove the cable ties and didn’t want to touch me as I was now picking up grass and debris with my sticky body coating. They may have thought that the remnants of the red and gold paint on my chest was evidence of a disease. I could talk, and I told my rescuers that I was fine and healthy and not in any distress. I couldn’t get rid of the erection as the Viagra was working, but I was basically too tired to be really horny.

One of the guys flagged down a cruiser that held two cops as is the case late at night. The first one came over for a look, saw that I was calm and only needed a rescue. He returned to the cruiser to get tools to cut the ties, and took his sweet time. When he came back, he cut me loose, and I stood up on my own, still hard but covering my groin with my oily hands. His partner eventually, and slowly I thought, joined us carrying a blanket than covered me, finally.

I got home about five in the morning, my body aching from the awkward restraint during the 49-er and my butthole sore from the abuse. I had had worse for the latter from Monsignor Schmidt. I had recovered my physical and mental strength enough to understand that this event was over and my next activities were school and the wrestling match in 36 hours. That meant I’d be absolutely incredibly horny until the match was over.

At the Cal/Berkeley match I performed the best and most violent wrestling match of my life. It got me into the regular rotation and, at the end of the wrestling year, I moved to second in the Pac 12 Conference at 157 pounds. At the end of the match when the referee held up my arm for victory, my erection nearly burst out of my singlet. I’ll never be able to eliminate all the photos from the Internet, but I credit the kidnapping and the 49-er for kicking up my wrestling intensity.

Back to Haight-Ashbury, after some preliminaries like where did I need to go, the cops asked about what had happened. They were smirking the whole time. I didn’t want to admit to any part of the 49-er so I concocted a story. I told them I was kidnapped at Stanford University but I didn’t see my tormentors. I told the cops that I thought they were from a college undergraduate fraternity that I shall not name here (their motto is In hoc signo vinces). These guys like conformity, which I don’t.

My guys and I recently did a 49-er on The Model. He cried like a baby. Raider fans aren’t so tough.