The Neighborhood Hero

CW: over the top, far-fetched smutty work of fantasy. Humiliation, blackmail/exposure, some rough and non-consensual elements, tons of SPH. Skip it if it's not your thing. Otherwise, enjoy.

All characters depicted are well over 18 years of age.

To say that Bruce Mitchell had been my childhood hero would not have been an overstatement. He was eight years older than me, and we grew up just a few houses down from each other on the same street. All of us neighborhood kids looked up to him. He had been the star quarterback of our high school's football team and had gone on to play successfully in the Big Ten. He was lantern-jawed and handsome, huge, built like Superman, and on top of it all a genuinely nice guy.

It was the summer after my senior year of college and I was back home, and happy to see that Bruce was in town too. He greeted me warmly, grabbing me for a big hug, ruffling my hair, putting his arm around my shoulder. I let my face be crushed into his broad pecs, relishing his comforting smell and my closeness to him. He still treated me like a little brother and not some annoying kid who followed him around with puppy dog eyes. We caught up a bit and I got him to noncommittally promise to hang out with me at some point. I walked away, smiling to myself- just being near him made me feel good, kind of tingly inside.

Hugh Wolcott, meanwhile, was a miserable old son of a bitch who lived in a house catty corner from my own. He was known for picking fights with neighbors over trivial issues. He must have been in his mid 60s or so, and his wife had left him years ago. Who could blame her? He was apparently former military, but you wouldn't have known it from looking at his pot belly. Still, he had the terrifying demeanor of a drill sergeant. Growing up in the neighborhood, all the kids knew to keep a wide berth from his house. I hadn't thought about him in years.

I had never known the two to interact, but on a Thursday afternoon a week after I got back to town, I looked out my bedroom window and noticed something strange. I saw Bruce's car parked in front of the old man's house, and he was rushing up the walk to the front door, with five huge bags of groceries in each muscled arm. I watched as he rang the bell and waited patiently while struggling to hold the bags. Mr. Wolcott opened his door but barely acknowledged him. The old man stepped aside and Bruce hurried in, as if he was late, and the door slammed shut. I figured he must have been just dropping off the groceries or helping him put them away, but as the minutes passed that seemed less and less likely. I stayed there, kneeling on my bed, head propped up on the windowsill, just as I had as a kid, strangely transfixed by this mystery.

Finally, a full twenty minutes later Bruce emerged from Wolcott's house. His face was bright red and he was moving even faster than before, as if he didn't want to be seen. His shoulders were drooped and his head hung low. He fled so fast that I couldn't be sure, but it looked like he had been crying.

I asked my parents about it and he said that when he was in town, Bruce brought the old man groceries, helped with yard work, and seemed to do other chores in and around the house. What a sweetheart, my Mom remarked, then wondered aloud why such a nice, good looking young man still hadn't found a wife. My Dad followed up with a comment of his own, musing how it was a shocker that with an arm like his, Bruce hadn't gone on to play pro, how he had instead taken a job in the city and seemed to come home every month or so.

Sure enough, that Saturday around 10:00 am I heard the whine of a lawn mower and saw Bruce, shirtless in a pair of cut off jeans operating an old push mower in Mr. Wolcott's large lawn. He had a pair of scuffed running shoes and striped tube socks pulled up his bulging calves. His shorts were surprisingly skimpy, covering just the top few inches of his thighs. I had never seen him wearing something so revealing. I couldn't help but admire his muscles, the, man could have been a fitness model. He seemed even bigger than when he was still playing ball. His lack of modesty felt very out of character and he seemed uncomfortable to be so under-dressed. His face was fixed in concentration as he drove the rumbling mower in front of him.

I had gone outside to wait for my friend to pick me up to go to the beach, so I was just standing in my driveway in a bathing suit, tank top, and sandals. It must have been 95 degrees already, and Bruce's usual ivory skin was flush and red with exertion, and I could tell he was sweating buckets. I was about to go across the street to say hi when old man Wolcott burst out of his front door like a bat out of hell.

The short little prick was yelling about something at the top of his lungs, and descended upon big Bruce like an angry bird as he pointed to a patch of grass in the corner of his lawn. His words slurred together but I could deduce that he was pointing out a spot that Bruce had missed. I gasped as he grabbed Bruce's ear and pulled the big man's head down to his own chest's level, wrenching his neck violently, and made him look at the spot in question all while spouting foul, abusive language. All the more shocking, Bruce just took it, shoulders hunched, letting his neck remain twisted painfully low. He just absorbed the tirade.

Just then I heard a voice to my left and saw that our next door neighbor, Mr. Donaldson, was standing beside me on his side of the fence. He was about Wolcott's age but nowhere near as frightening, just a goofy old slob. My parents regularly complained about the state of his yard, or his tendency to tie one on for loud, late nights with his poker buddies. He made me uncomfortable, but compared to Wolcott, he was Santa Claus. Come to think of it, Mr. Donaldson kind of looked like Jolly Old Saint Nick's sleazy, hard-drinking cousin.

"Yup. Wolcott sure is a harsh taskmaster. He'll be riding that poor kid's ass for the next couple hours, and I doubt he'll even thank him." He observed with a laugh. I looked at Mr. Donaldson with wide eyes, unable to respond, and then turned back to the demeaning scene across the street.

I just continued to watch the old man berate Bruce in public, unable to look away from the spectacle. Wolcott had released the younger man's ear but was following him close behind, continuing to yell at him as he returned to mowing the lawn. Bruce seemed to flinch at each word. Mr. Donaldson got closer and spoke in a lower voice.

"Say Stewie, you ever wanna do chores for me there's plenty here needs doing, and I'll even give you a couple a dollars. I'm tough but nowhere near as strict as that old bastard Wolcott. Unless you want me to be, of course." He chuckled and winked at me, leering at me with a kind of mischievous grin. I tried to say something but my throat felt dry. Mr. Donaldson took another half step towards me, his hand rubbing the hairy belly that his Hawaiin shirt failed to conceal, and I smelled his unique cologne of cigars and scotch. Just then my friend's car pulled up, and he honked his horn gratuitously, shaking me out of my reverie.

"Well, you just let me know, boy." He said, laughing wheezily as I waved goodbye without looking at him and hurried to the car.

"What the fuck is all that about? Is that Bruce Mitchell?" My friend asked as I buckled into the passenger side seat behind him.

I just lowered my head and shook it vigorously. Confirming that it was Bruce would have felt like an inexcusable betrayal As my friend sped off I looked out the window once more, out at Bruce, and our eyes connected. His face blanched with shame as he recognized me. I looked at his big, well-muscled body. His six-pack and obliques, his bulging thighs, his huge domed pecs, almost like a woman's breasts. Slick and shiny with sweat, his big muscles on display like that looked almost lewd. I had never seen him wearing something so skimpy, it almost felt provocative. Maybe he was under-dressed due to the heat.

As we drove to the beach I remembered something. I had seen Bruce shirtless before, and he always had a tuft of black chest hair between his pecs, which continued down into a happy trail. I had always thought it looked really cool while I was growing up. A decidedly masculine appointment of hair but not the grotesque carpets of our fathers and grandfathers. And I remembered that once I started growing the same trail and got sprouts on my chest, I had been excited because now I had man hair like Bruce. But seeing him just now, I realized he had been completely hairless. His once proud pectorals were bare. Even his exposed legs and thighs looked smooth. Even his forearms, pink and baby smooth! Bruce had gotten rid of his manly body hair.

I couldn't shake the thought and at the beach I found my eyes drawn to men's bodies, young and old. Even guys with hairless chests had some body hair, usually on their lower legs, on their calves, and forearms. Most all had pit hair except for a few body builder types. Almost all had a little bit below their belly button, too. I rubbed my own happy trail, the little thicket on my chest. I looked over at my friend, who was rubbing in suntan lotion to his chest, matting the impressive pelt he had grown while at school. I thought about it and realized that for Bruce to be as completely hairless as he was, either he or someone else had to have consciously taken that hair away from him.

Late that same Saturday night I walked home from my friend's house. I was still thinking about what I had seen that morning when I saw a tall, wide-shouldered man walking ahead of me. He was wearing our high school's varsity jacket. As I got closer I realized it was Bruce. In the muggy darkness it felt strange for him to appear like this, out of my thoughts, as if I had evoked him. I was almost going to call out to him when he turned onto Hugh Wolcott's lawn, walked up to the front door and knocked. Why would he be going there, what business would he have with that mean old bastard at nearly midnight?

I slowed down to stay out of view and watch what happened. Bruce stood in front of the door, shifting his weight from side to side nervously. He had his hands clasped behind his back. After several moments, Hugh opened up. He looked Bruce up and down, scowling like usual. Then to my surprise he reached over, grabbed Bruce by the back of the head, and dragged him inside.

If I hadn't been buzzed and a little stoned, I would have just minded my own business. But my curiosity got the best of me, and the hours of partying with my old high school buddies emboldened me. As quick as a cat burglar, I snuck onto Hugh's lawn and found them in the living room, which faced the old man's backyard. I crouched in the bushes, keeping low.

When I saw them I gasped again. They were standing perpendicular to me, and Hugh was lecturing Bruce, yelling at him, wagging his finger in his face. The bigger man just cowered, flinching and trembling, taking it all like a wimp.

I slowly crawled forward, trying to stay out of sight. I was still too far to hear what he was hollering about, but Hugh looked genuinely furious, his face tomato red, his eyes and neck veins bulging, spit launching onto Bruce's neck and chest. Again, I was astonished to see Bruce just standing there, enduring the dressing down without protest. They both stood at a profile so I could see the right side of my idol's face as he accepted the abuse. Bruce was blushing, his cheeks scarlet, his eyes were lowered and his head was bowed slightly.

Bruce was wearing what must have been his old high school varsity jacket - it looked tight around his broad shoulders. He also had on a t-shirt, a pair of jeans and just his socks. Hugh was wearing a wife beater that showed off his hairy chest and shoulders, with green camouflage pants and combat boots. I could see dog tags around his chest. He had a cigar in his mouth, and I could smell the acrid smoke from here. I got closer to the open window, staying low.

Then Hugh did something that blew my mind. Whipping back his hand, he slapped Bruce right across the face. It sounded like a thunderclap, and the force of it unsteadied the big man, knocking him to his left. My mouth hung open - surely Bruce would retaliate, stick up for himself. I braced for him to take a shot at this crazy old man.

Instead, to my shock, Bruce just stooped down to bring his upper body closer to Hugh, thrusting his face out while turning his head. His eyes were locked on the floor. He was offering his other cheek to Wolcott. The old man snorted at his victim's abject obedience, chuckled once cruelly, then quickly wound up another blow with his right hand and slapped Bruce's left cheek. This blow was equally hard, as now Bruce stumbled to his right. The old bastard was strong.

It was so strange. Hugh was no pushover, and I was sure he weighed a lot with his big belly but he couldn't have been taller than 5'8 and maybe 190 lbs, tops. Meanwhile, I knew for a fact that Bruce was 6'5, maybe 250 lbs, built like an Adonis, a successful college athlete. Even with his boots on, the top of Hugh's bald head barely came up to Bruce's chest. Here he was letting this nasty little old man slap him around like a bitch. Instead of breaking the old man's jaw, he was just bending forward at the waist, lowering himself like a servant, hobbling himself over, so that his head was at Hugh's level.

I could see Bruce's huge chest pumping - his whole big body was quivering with fear, shame or both. He looked absolutely pathetic, a big strong man wearing his old varsity jacket, getting slapped around while cowering before a pipsqueak. Then I heard the words. They were faint through the open window but clear.

"Thank you, Sir." His voice lacked the easy, resounding confidence I had always known. It was the whimper of a punished child, a cowed wimp.

Hugh cackled evilly and then began to wallop Bruce's handsome face, back and forth, open palm then the back of his hand, over and again. These were lighter slaps than the first two but the speed was sickening. The former quarterback just stood there like a goddamn punching bag, wobbling back and forth with each smack but keeping his footing. It would have been almost funny to see, like something out of an old-fashioned cartoon, if it wasn't so brutal.

Over and over again Hugh whacked Bruce across the face, slapping his cheeks, occasionally clipping him across the back of his head, the sharp slap sound replaced by a duller thud. A few of the times Hugh cracked his palms against Bruce's big ears. I winced at seeing that, knowing how much that hurts.

Bruce only groaned out another miserable-sounding thank you, and Hugh roared with laughter, purposefully boxing Bruce's ears in with both hands, clapping them over the big man's head several more times.

When the walloping finally stopped he held onto Bruce's head, cupping his cheeks. There was no tenderness in this embrace - with the stogie in his mouth, Hugh looked like a mob boss tormenting a doomed man, or some vicious heel out of professional wrestling gloating at his victory over a powerless jobber.

An odd thought came to me - maybe because I was back here in my hometown. I thought of a childhood friend's dad, a rather intimidating guy, an Italian man's man. Stocky and dark-featured. Foul-mouthed, gruff, and prone to anger. So different from my father, an easy-going WASP who never raised his voice. I was both frightened and fascinated by the man. One night I was over at their house and we were watching an action movie. It must have been a sleepover, four of us lying belly down on the floor while his father sat in a recliner. The hero was letting a bad guy go, but slapped him across the face to humiliate him. Without turning from the screen, my friend's Dad spoke.

"See that? That's how he shows everyone that the other guy's a bitch. And look how the dipshit just takes it. Doesn't fight back. He don't got any fucking balls." His swearing scandalized me. I remember he was drinking a nightcap, and he belched noisily before continuing.

"Men get punched. Men punch men, but men slap bitches. If you don't respect someone at all, you slap 'em." He jerked forward and swept his big hand through the air, and I watched, rapt. I imagined what it would feel like to accept a blow like that. He continued, musing to himself.

"He just got ruined for life. All his minions saw him get treated like a bitch by his worst enemy. He might as well have killed him. Now everyone knows that he's just a bitch, a bitch with no fucking balls. Better to die like a man than live like a bitch." Though I said nothing and kept watching the movie, I was riveted by this idea. Strangely thrilled by it. What would that feel like, to be exposed as a bitch, as gutless and so spectacularly weak in front of all the other men?

For some reason, then, as now, I was left with an insistent hard-on in my pants. As I kneeled down beneath the window sill, just as I had in Bobby Turino's darkened den, I discreetly rubbed my crotch, fondling my erect penis through my pants.

Hugh kept squeezing Bruce's face roughly, shaking his head, as he whispered some menacing words to the captive man. Bruce was blushing, sweating like crazy, and I could tell that tears had fallen from his eyes, but again he did nothing to put an end to the mistreatment. His whole body was trembling. Hugh took the smoldering stub of his cigar and jammed it over the chest of Bruce's jacket, smearing a blotch of ash on the white leather, then stuffed it into one of the jacket's pockets. He whipped out another big stogie and lit it, then grabbed Bruce's jaw with his left hand. Clasping it tightly, he brought his victim's face up close to his as he smoked, blowing several plumes of thick gray smoke right into the athlete's mouth and nose.

Hugh must have subjected him to this particular abuse before. Bruce just relaxed in Bruce's vise-like grip, eyes closed, breathing in the foul-smelling smoke. Struggling not to cough. Allowing himself to be polluted. It sickened me and yet I felt a woozy thrill at the sight.

"Drop your pants, sissyboy." Hugh growled his order and released Bruce's chin, pushing him back and blowing more cigar smoke into his face.

I watched as he pulled down his pants, quickly stepping out of them and taking off his socks while he was at it. I was surprised to see that he wore tighty-whities instead of boxers or boxer-briefs.I had stopped wearing those well before I got to junior high, and I remember the few classmates who wore them past puberty being teased mercilessly. With his jeans off, cowering in his tighty-whities, his muscled, conspicuously hairless white legs exposed, the big football hero looked quite boyish.

I looked at Bruce's big bulge, the one I hadn't been able to help but admire for years when I saw it in his jeans or gym shorts. In just his underwear, there was something off about its shape.

Hugh stepped forward and shook it. As I saw his bare hand squeeze Bruce's package, shake and wrench it around unnaturally, I gasped. I couldn't believe it.

"Oooooh-ho-ho-ho. Big man! Mr. Big Pecker, huh?!" Hugh shouted derisively, laughing and coughing cigar smoke. #9 just stared at the floor, his face frozen with humiliation.

"Show and tell time, boy me! Show me and tell me!" Hugh's eyes glimmered and he leered at the shame-faced younger man with a psychotic, toothy smile.

Bruce whimpered, and opened his own waistband. He pulled it back to reveal a large, rolled up tube sock.

"I stuff, Sir. I stuff my crotch with a tube sock. Just like you showed me how." His voice warbled with embarrassment.

"Damn that's pathetic boy! Why the fuck do you do that?" Hugh roared with delight.

"I stuff my crotch with a sock to make it seem like I'm packing a real man's cock instead of a little boy-sized penis." He warbled through the words Hugh must have taught him.