The following tale was related to me through a videotape which was found among the belongings of my dearly departed gym teacher and soccer coach, Mr. Michaels. Since my fruitful years with Mr. Michaels were before the time of DVDs and DVD recorders, the recording was done on a VHS videotape. Of course, though, growing up in the 70s and 80s, everybody and their Aunt Tillie had at least one video recorder-player in their house. That was the way it was in my father's house. But, before leaving to attend my four years of classes at the American Academy of Dramatic Arts and experiencing the groping hands and tongue of Mr. Michaels, I had gone to the neighborhood video store and, with some of my earnings as a model, purchased my own VCR, which I had lovingly packed away for the long journey from Florida to New York. I shall now relate to you what I consider to be the wonderfully delicious story behind Mr. Michaels's video.
During my four years at the Academy of Dramatic Arts, I excelled in several sports. My favorite was the one that Mr. Michaels was the coach in...soccer. In soccer, a winning game was shared by every member. But a loss was the sole responsibility of the goalie...me. I, alone, knew of the disgrace which was felt by a goalie who dared to let an opposing team's winning kick get through. Many times, this disgrace meant that the goalie was to be ostracized severely...and in the Academy of Dramatic Arts, being ostracized was like suffering a living death. That is, until the next game and you managed to keep the opposing team from ever making a goal.
During one season, we played Carle Place Boys' School...our rival for the state's top honors in varsity soccer...not once, not twice, not even three times. We played Carle Place a grand total of five times in one school year. Let me tell you this...Carle Place was one of the best teams ever to play soccer! To lose to them even once was pure hell! And, whoever was our goalie in a losing game really knew what it was like to have not only your teammates but the other students in the school talk behind your back. And the stares...they were like knives actually stabbing you in your back!
Now, this one year we had the dubious honor (or should I say dishonor) of losing to Carle Place three times in a row...and the actual dishonor fell upon me because I was the goalie for all three games. When it came time for us to go up against Carle Place a fourth time, Mr. Michaels took me aside in the locker room after I laced up my shoes.
"Blaze (that was my real name until I changed it legally), don't let us down today", he said, in a hushed voice. "I don't want to have to inflict bodily punishment upon you".
Then, he was gone...and the other boys followed him out of the locker room and gymnasium and onto the soccer field.
What did he mean by that? I wondered.
Now, Mr. Michaels introduced me to many bodily actions from the time I first met him to the day of his untimely demise at the end of a rope with his meaty legs slashed and ripped and bloodied. Did he have a special type of punishment waiting for me alone should I lose the game a fourth time for my team? I shuddered just at the mere thought of it. Then, I followed the rest of me team out of the school and onto the playing field.
The day was a little cool and I ran to my post as the breeze tasted my face and knees (the only exposed parts of my body). At the end of the first half, after forty-five vigorous minutes of play, our team was leading Carle Place by a score of 3-0.
What was wrong with Carle Place? I thought to myself.
Usually they played better than this...keeping us from trying to even score one goal. Were they toying with us...or what? After a fifteen minute rest, during which Mr. Michaels related his strategy for the second half of the game, we ran back onto the field. This time, I was stationed at the opposite net...the usual practice for the second half.
As the game progressed, my team scored two more goals. We were now leading the best team on Long Island by a score of 5-0. After Carle Place's coach called for a time-out, we resumed the game.
And, boy...did we learn a severe case of humility!!!
Carle Place's coach called in a substitute player for one of their kickers...and this boy really played the game as if he were the devil himself. Every time the ball was kicked to him, he sized me up as he approached the net...and kicked the ball with such ferocity that it was difficult to so much as try to keep it from scoring. By halfway through the second half...twenty-three minutes...Carle Place scored five goals!
The game was now tied 5-5!
That meant that, for the remainder of the game, I had to keep Carle Place from even making one goal as my teammates tried their best to get a sixth goal and, thereby, winning the game. But, every time one of my teammates even got the ball to a spot from which they could easily score a goal, Carle Place's goalie blocked it. For the next twenty minutes, with two minutes remaining in the game, the ball went back and forth. Carle Place would try to make a goal and I caught the ball, denying them the honor. So did they do as my teammates tried to score a winning goal. These last two minutes now meant the difference between life and death...and whether I was to be punished or glorified.
The cheers from the fans of both teams lowered to absolute muteness as my heart pounded in my ears. My blood throbbed inside my head as I watched Carle Place's devil-player run closer and closer to my position. He sized me up, looking me over from head to toe...then, with all his strength summoned into his very foot, kicked the ball. But, try as hard as I could, the ball sailed within an inch past my fingertips and into the net behind me as I flew to stop it, landing on my belly, my face smothered in the grass and my kneebacks facing the cloudless blue sky, the fans of the opposing team screaming out their cheers of victory as the whistle blew, signalling the end of the game.
Carle Place won their fourth game in a row against us with a score of 6-5!
As I rose to my feet and wiped grass and dirt from my knees, the opposing team lifted their champion upon their shoulders while my teammates glared at me, walking past me towards the gymnasium doors and the locker room within. Mr. Michaels approached me and, warmly, placed his arm around my neck, his free hand grasping my right wrist rather painfully as we walked together through the gymnasium doors and into the locker room. Mr. Michaels then shoved me over to the captain of the team.
"Tie him face down on the bench and prop his knees", he replied, as he entered his office.
The captain of the team signalled to his second to bind my hands together while he knelt and bound my ankles. When they were finished, the entire team carried me to the nearby bench where they placed me face down. The captain of the team and his second pulled and stretched my arms and legs, knotting the cords underneath the bench and taking the remaining strands and running them up and over my waist, knotting them once again.
"Bring something to place under his knees!" the team's captain snapped as he finished busying himself with knotting the cords.
One of the other boys came over to the bench with a stack of at least five bath towels which he had folded twice and forced under my knees, stretching my kneebacks until the very meat was tight. Then, when they had completed their work, the boys stood back, looking down at my naked kneebacks and admiring their work.
"Losing one or two games for the team can be overlooked", Mr. Michaels replied, emerging from his office with a filled hypodermic needle in his hand. With the point facing skyward, he tapped the syringe, forcing bubbles towards the needle. He then ejaculated the bubbles out by pushing the plunger and squirting some of the fluid out.
"Even three can be pardoned", he continued. "But, losing four games to our adversary is something that cannot be tolerated!"
He bent over near my head and, quickly and deftly, plunged the needle into the nerve center in the back of my neck just below the base of my skull. Soon, blackness enveloped me as I lost consciousness and fell into a deep sleep.
From here on, I can only relate what Mr. Michaels captured on his camcorder...
The video started with a close-up of my unconscious face with a serene, almost pleasant, look on it. Looking closely, I could see that I was definitely smiling. Why? Because laying on my belly with my kneebacks facing towards the ceiling, dressed in my soccer shorts and knee socks, was a position that, after meeting Mr. Michaels, I totally relished.
Then, Mr. Michaels slowly moved the camcorder down the length of my back, stopping when only my kneebacks filled the screen. Suddenly, something else came into the shot. As Mr. Michaels pulled the camera back, I could see that it was the team captain's tongue lovingly licking the smooth skin of my kneebacks.
One by one, each of my teammates extended their tongues, licking and slobbering upon my tender kneebacks, each smiling as they did so. I must say, they certainly appeared to be enjoying the taste of my meat! And, who could blame them? My kneebacks, as well as my thighs and calves, have developed as I got older. And each time I laid face down upon my bed, glancing at the reflection of my kneebacks in a mirror, I could see that my kneebacks obtained their full, meaty adulthood early.
As I watched the video, contentedly smiling, the camera appeared to have been jostled...yet still remained focused on my kneebacks. Soon, I found out why. Mr. Michaels handed the camera over to one of my teammates in order to partake in the pleasure of extoling his own brand of "punishment" upon my kneebacks. Looking at the camera and opening his mouth wide, Mr. Michaels placed his upper teeth upon the soft, tender meat of my kneebacks. Then, forcing his mouth down, he ran his teeth along my kneebacks, leaving red welts on the sweet meat. To finish his punishment, Mr. Michaels puckered his lips on the direct center of each kneeback and, as he inhaled deeply, produced two dark red hickies which, because of their proximity to certain blood vessels just below the skin, would remain visible on my kneebacks for days.
As I continued to watch, I smacked my lips. Then suddenly, a smooth, white liquid pulsated onto my very kneebacks.
As the camcorder was pulled back, I could see that it was sweet cum that Mr. Michaels was vigorously ejaculating from his manly penis. He moved his penis back and forth, drenching my meat with his smooth, white cream. As the last of his cum petered out from his penis onto my kneebacks, Mr. Michaels exalted in the fine itch, giving a loud "Ahhhh" and smiling as he turned away from the camcorder, replaced his penis back inside his briefs and zipped up his coach shorts, stiffening his kneebacks.
Then, the camcorder was jostled once again as it was moved in a tight close-up of my kneebacks. As I watched, Mr. Michaels's ejected cum glistened upon my meat, rolling down the sides and drenching the towels upon which my beautiful knees were placed. Then, the camcorder was pulled back to show the entire team standing behind the bench, smiling...and occasionally glancing down to gaze at my cum-soaked kneebacks. Then, the focus of the camcorder turned to show a close-up of Mr. Michaels announcing "The End" to the video.
As I turned off my VCR, I chanced to glance at the time on the face of the machine. The tape lasted the full two hours in Standard Mode. I held the tape and looked at the face. There, in the dead Mr. Michaels's own handwriting was written the tape's title upon the label: BLAZE'S KNEEBACK PARTY.
As I replaced the tape within the box, I smiled.
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