Wilderness Paradise Pt. 05

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I too had wanted her to go out with someone; anyone but damn, not the local stud! She went from Gorilla Grodd to Mr. GQ! He was, subjectively, the prototype for every woman's fantasy. Six feet seven inches tall, light mocha skin, big, hazel eyes, baby face and built like a gazelle. And, he was arguably the best high school basketball player in the state – a premier shooting guard molded after the likes of Michael Jordan. The colleges were tripping over themselves trying to recruit him.

But his notoriety predated his basketball fame going back to his turbulent childhood. It was stuff that Hollywood movies are made of. His father, who had been a semi-pro basketball player, was black and his mother, Swiss. They had met while Dennis' father was playing in the B-leagues in Europe. But this ending was far from happy. One night, in a fit of jealous rage, his father shot his mother and then turned the gun on himself. Dennis was only two. When the cops arrived, they found him next to his mother's body. No one knew if he had witnessed the macabre incident or whether he had crawled out of his crib on hearing the gunshots but for a while it was headline news.

There was a brief and bitter custody battle between his white grandparents from Switzerland and his black grandmother from Chicago. The city was split along racial lines; a hot topic around water coolers and coffee machines. White's, almost unanimously, felt that the maternal grandparents could afford him a better life and the blacks adamant that the boy, despite his light skin, was black felt that he should stay with his black grandmother. In the end the courts caved in and ruled in favor of his paternal grandmother. My father was of the opinion that it was a grave injustice to the little boy. He felt strongly that the child should have gone where he would have been afforded the best opportunities, irrespective of color. But then, Dennis may never have become the star basketball player he was now. He might have ended up as some unhappy kid working in a chocolate factory! It must have been karma – I was sure of that now.

I never understood why Dennis did it but one day about a year ago he sauntered into the gym and challenged me. We had never had any problems and I was actually a fan so it was odd. Maybe it was some macho need to prove his toughness or an alpha-male drive to kick ass, who knows? High school has its gauntlet, one that is rife with personal challenges and not necessarily the physical kind. This just happened to be about confrontation. It was 'mano a mano' - a man to man, hand to hand challenge.

I was working the heavy bag when this unfolded. He had watched from the side for a while and then during a lull when I was catching my breath, he stepped behind the bag.

"Hey, man, do you want to spar?"

I looked at him a bit surprised. Not many guys wanted to mess with me especially if they had seen me work the bag. I'd been training in martial arts since I was five and my kicks were pretty intimidating.

"Are you sure? Do you know how to fight?" I asked.

"Do I know how to fight? I grew up in Cabrini Green, dude, the kids thought I was white! Yeah, I can fight." He replied with obvious sarcasm.

Mike, one of the troglodytes, was with me and offered some advice.

"Stick to basketball, man, you can get seriously hurt in here ..."

"I wasn't talking to you, Cochise, so unless you want to step up, mind your own fuckin' business!" was Dennis' terse reply.

Mike was a hard-ass and not easily intimidated but before it could escalate, I got in between them, "Okay, let's do it then."

He wanted to go bareknuckle but that wasn't happening.

"No way, amigo, we'll use these." I threw him a pair of MMA fighting gloves, "I'm not risking breaking my hand."

I had to show him how to wrap his hands and once we were taped up, we were ready to go. By the time we stepped into the ring there was a good sized crowd including several members of the basketball team. So, it was obvious that this little soirée had been preplanned. I loved the adrenalin rush before combat and got off on it so that too was okay by me. I could feel the electric buzz, the air, thick with anticipation and filled with enough testosterone to zap half of China. If nothing else, this was going to be interesting.

Fighters will understand this and I don't mean professionals, I mean guys who have it in them. It's the need to test yourself and your skills; to pit yourself against others like you. And, not backing down - it wasn't only about Ass Kickery!

He was good but lacked the technical aspects of striking. His punches were loopy, not straight and he telegraphed them, something a lot of street fighters do. He also had the bad habit of dropping his hands just before he threw his shots. But, he hit like a mule, harder than anyone I'd fought – it was his leverage. Being six-seven was certainly an advantage. However, he didn't know how to kick or check kicks and that was a huge problem.

He caught me once on the top of my shoulder with a right and I thought my toes were going to explode. But that was it, a lot of power but no accuracy. I kept him guessing and at bay with push-kicks and straight punches, mainly left jabs that snapped in his face. And I stayed close to neutralize his reach. It wasn't long before he was bleeding from his nose and his left eye was swollen shut but that was the least of his problems. His lead leg was the predicament; it was done, badly hurt from the repeated kicks at the knee and he was hobbling around unable to put any weight on it. Take away the legs and you're nothing: he had lost his power and he was getting hit a lot but I had to admit, he was a gamer.

I could have taken him down and submitted him, I was sure of that, but my machismo wouldn't let me. Instead I stood and traded. It wasn't a strategy I would recommend unless you knew what you were doing. There's a saying in the gym: Brawl the Boxer and Box the Brawler. He was a brawler, a hard-court, tough guy used to short, wild-swinging melees. This was different; each time he swung and missed he got punished. He made too many mistakes and even his quick reflexes couldn't save him. I faked a front kick, saw him flinch and drop his right, creating an opening for the left hook. It caught him flush on the point of his chin and that was it. He fell face first and lay prone for a good half minute.

There's something about a KO that is curiously fascinating. I don't know a single guy who doesn't get a primal thrill from watching a fight and especially a knockout. This crowd of gym rats was no different. There was a hushed buzz as soon as Dennis hit the canvas.

But, there was no quit in him. He struggled up to his feet and though his legs were rubbery he wanted to continue. He staggered drunkenly across the ring and almost fell grabbing the ropes for support. His eyes were still glassy and I could have punished him, put a serious beating on him but I didn't and I'm not sure why. Maybe it had something to do with his parents and his childhood but I let him off the hook.

Some of his buddies had to help him out of the ring. And, before he left he mumbled something barely comprehensible, about coming back to even the score, but I was used to the braggadocio – it was just nonsense. I think his coach got wind of the fight because the next day the assistant coach, Jack Riley, was at home talking to my father when I walked in.

"Hello, son, Mr. Riley was just telling me about your run in with that kid, Dennis."

Really? My run in? Where the fuck do these stories come from? I knew Jack from when I played football. He was a part-time trainer and a prick mainly because he was one of those wannabe jocks but lacked the prerequisite speed and coordination. So he decided to train athletes except that he confused sadistic tendencies with intensity.

I looked at Riley and shrugged, "Hey, he asked for it and he's lucky I didn't hurt him, I mean really hurt him."

"Hurt him? What do you call what you did? He's our star player. You should know that, Luke!" Riley blurted out, "He's knee is shot and his eyes are swollen shut! We have a game on Friday!"

"Then keep him on a leash. If he ever comes near me again, I'll break both his fuckin' legs." I snarled. I wasn't in the mood.

After Riley left, I got a lecture from Dad about the virtues of being a real man. He knew I loved the challenge of combat and went about dismantling the basis of my beliefs with myriad reasons why fighting was primitive and barbaric. He separated constructive skill from destructive propensity with the ease of skimming cream from milk. His ability to debate was far superior to mine and as a result, I listened to him denigrating the Martial Arts, reducing it to a discipline that was non-constructive and bringing out the worst in people (as evidenced by my behavior). I had half a mind to remind him that his hero, Hemmingway, was a notorious tough guy but I let it go. Dad lacked perspective; he's never had punks get up in his face. He was an academician and in his world there was a negative connotation to the very term 'machismo' and where the ugly reality of violence was rare. And he was a gentle soul who couldn't hurt a fly. In his own way he thought he was helping me but what he achieved instead was to drive a wedge between us; a disconnect that kept getting wider.

In hindsight, I should have fucked him up! I mean Dennis - I should have put a real beating on his sorry ass so he would have never considered my sister. He was the last guy I wanted Rachael to go out with. He was one of those blokes who possessed a certain 'cool', a studied indifference that along with his basketball notoriety had the girls throwing themselves at him. The only reason Rachael picked this Lothario had to be because she was attracted to him, why else would she now decide to go out with him?

On the evening of their date I was beside myself and when he came to pick her up, my heart sank. He looked like a model out of pages of GQ, except bigger and better looking. He was wearing a light, off-white, linen suit with a blue silk shirt that was in startling contrast to his copper-brown skin and hazel eyes. His saddle wingtips and tortoise Wayfarers gave him the look of a fifties movie star and when the M6 BMW Convertible rolled in, he had managed to impress Rachael. Fuck! He had impressed me! I had no idea who he borrowed it from but those were a sweet set of wheels.

With each passing hour my anxiety increased exponentially. I kept imagining him taking her to his apartment using his vaunted charm and to spite me, once he was done with her, he'd have his friends come over. It's crazy what your imagination can do when it's running wild. I had the basketball team and every other guy in school pulling a train on her; even the Grodd! I could picture him stroking his dick, waiting his turn:

"It's my turn next! Yeah, it's my turn ... finally!"

I was losing it. I had to exert the utmost self-restraint to stop myself from calling her. That would have been too uncool, even for me.

"Who's that?"

"Oh, it's my stupid, jealous brother!"

"Really? Why's he calling you, Rachael?"

"Because he thinks you're fucking my brains out!"

Yeah, that wouldn't go over too well.

They got back late and when I heard the soft growl of the M6, I went to the window and drew the shades aside, just a tiny crack. They stood by the door talking and laughing and I couldn't believe it when I saw him kissing her. It was too much; I couldn't bear to watch so I scuttled back to my room and waited for her.

After a few minutes, I heard her go into her room and lock the door. I knocked, several times, but she didn't open. At first I tried our code but that didn't work and as my frustration grew, I knocked longer and louder. I didn't care anymore. She was going to talk to me. I needed to know why I was getting the cold shoulder and what took place on her date. It was only when I heard Mom that I stopped.

"You'll wake your father." Mom said, "Your sister doesn't want to talk to you right now. It's her prerogative and you need respect that."

I turned and looked at her, "But why, Mom, what did I do?"

She came over and took my hands in hers and looked up into my eyes, "You didn't do anything, darling. It has nothing to do with you and everything to do with you. I went through this so I know. She's confused and needs to sort things out. Trust me, she'll figure it out and things will be fine. Go back to bed and get some sleep. You look terrible."

*****

Lisa Cernik

Well, things weren't fine. Three days later and she was still avoiding me and to make matters worse, she went over to Kyla's place to spend a few days. What the fuck was going on? Things had been normal; we were fine, fucking like bunnies before the great Dennis Stolle turned up and now? Now I was a leper! I couldn't figure it out. So, using my crazy, fucked-up logic I was going to wait her out; determined to break her will. Sooner or later she would have to talk to me. So, I skipped classes telling Mom I had study leave and waited. And that was when it all went down - as in downhill.

That day Rachael was at volleyball practice. They had a big game coming up with their crosstown rivals who they had lost to the previous year. This was the game the girls had been waiting for all year - revenge. She was the captain of her team and was also one of the better outside hitters. My sister was tall (almost six feet) and had some serious hops. To see her leaping up and spiking the ball was a sight – golden hair flaying wildly, eyes focused, up above the net, a blond Amazonian ready for battle. In any case, to get back to the story, Lisa, her study-buddy, had come over and was a bit early.

I was the only one at home and when I opened the door, I could see the surprise on her face; she hadn't expected me.

"Hi! She's not home. She at practice and should be back in an hour or so," I said.

Lisa Cernik was cute in a mousey sort of way. She was petite; a small, perfectly proportioned package with soft brown hair, large, brown eyes hidden behind glasses, little button nose and a full sensual mouth. And, if you looked carefully enough though you'd notice that she had a killer bod. It was amazing because this girl didn't work out or play anything – I guess it hard to beat good genetics.

I gave her a quick once over: decent rack, nice ass and legs that you dreamed of spreading.

"Oh, hi Luke, I thought you were away," she said shyly, without making any sustained eye-contact and then asked, "Can I wait for her?"

"Sure, come on in. So, what've you been up to?"

"Nothing really, just studying. How's col ..." she stopped when she realized I had disappeared down the corridor and into the kitchen.

She followed me, half running to catch up and put her books and laptop on the table before sitting down.

"We usually study in here ..." she said, straightening her skirt.

"Can I get you something to drink? Coke, Pepsi, water, beer ...?" I asked, and noticing her expression, I added, "... I'm kidding about the beer!"

She tittered nervously. Rachael swore that the girl had a major crush on me.

"Thanks but no, I'm okay." She replied so softly that I had to strain to hear her.

Under normal circumstances, she was a quiet, shy girl but I could sense her attraction and it was making her more nervous and self-conscious. I felt badly for her.

"Alright then, you study and I'll finish what I was doing, okay?" I said and turned to go, "I'm upstairs. If you need anything – holler! Or just help yourself."

She watched me leaving, a wide-eyed doe in headlights.

I guess it was destined to happen because when I passed Rachael's room, I did something I normally don't do. I stopped and opened the door. I try not to intrude on her privacy but there was something at work here that was beyond my control. I walked in and saw her panties lying on top of her bed which in itself was unusual. Rachael was a neat freak and I don't think she ever left anything on her bed unless she wanted to. It had to be the ones she had worn today and when I felt the crotch, it was damp – not just damp but slick and wet through with her juices.

The first thought that went through my head was 'Dennis fuckin' Stolle'! She's creaming because of that asshole? Anger and frustration welled up inside me in waves, brimming with fury, threatening to bust me open. But as soon as I pressed my face into her panties, there was an instant transmutation: rage to ardor. I was overcome by the heady aroma of her sex, that spicy nectar I was so addicted to. Suffused by her scent, I sucked the satiny fabric into my mouth, tasting the remnants of her and reacted to the potent stimuli - I felt my cock hardening.

That's what I needed, a long, drawn out 'pull on the old pud' to abate the jealous edge. So, I took her panties and slipped back to my room. I had several revealing pictures of Rachael hidden in one of the drawers of my dresser. I had taken them after one particularly intense lovemaking session when she was in a playful mood. She was wearing a skimpy bikini that she modeled for me, posing suggestively and she even allowed me to take one where she was topless. But the best of the lot was a picture of her, lying on her back, one knee raised and her hand stuck into her bikini bottom. She had her fingers buried inside her cunt – the suggestive expression on her face got to me every time I looked at it. It was a real beauty. These coupled with her undies would more than suffice.

It should have ended there, I mean, with me jerking off in to her panties, achieving the relief I so badly needed. And then I could have calmly waited for her to come home. But life has a way of throwing you a curve when you least expect it.

So there I was, in my room, lost in my fantasy with images of my sister buzzing in my head: her mouth, her tits, her boobs, her thighs, the sensual swell of her tummy down to the triangle of her sex spiced with the allure of the pictures spread out on the dresser. All of it kept dancing in my head, an incestuous collage resurrected from recent memories.

I was so busy pleasuring myself with my sister's panties, thrilling to its velvety feel, that I didn't notice Lisa come into the room. She was standing there, mouth open, eyes wide, watching me in the mirror; peering at me jerking off in front of my dresser. It was fortunate that my hand covered most of Rachael's panties and the photographs were lying flat, at too great of an angle for her to identify but clearly she seemed uninterested in anything but my cock. Her eyes were glued to the bloated, angry head and my fingers riding over it.

We stood motionless with me looking at her while she looked at my dick. What I did next was totally out of character; I swear it wasn't me but some lecherous reprobate that had crawled out from the feculent realms of an X-rated movie and had taken possession of my soul. I dropped the panties and turned towards Lisa and motioned for her to come to me. I took a few steps and knelt on the bed, my cock still in my hand, throbbing, dribbling threads of sticky treacle from its Cyclops eye. There was a part of me that was surprised by my overt exhibitionism but it seemed like I was two people: voyeur and actor, one watching with calm indifference while the other played the concupiscent role.

The whole thing was strange and surreal. She seemed like she was in a trance walking towards me with small, robotic steps, her face pale and the tip of her tongue snaking nervously out to wet her lips. Her eyes were wide and intense, made oddly huge by the myopic lenses of her glasses. When she was finally by the side of the bed, I took her hand and placed on my shaft and felt the electric thrill of novelty, the sensual charge that accompanied the unfamiliar.

u06la14b
u06la14b
311 Followers