"I can't believe I ever considered helping you," Cyrus said through clenched teeth.
Ryan Standish had tried apologies, and he had tried pleading, but his usual smooth charm fell flat coming as it did from a jockstrap constructed of a few ounces of cotton fabric and elastic straps. He had only wanted to convince Cyrus to lend him a hand, so to speak, in a bad situation. Now the scrawny teenager raged and swore at him.
"You're going to be sorry you ever called me a fag," Cyrus said, zipping up his jeans and imprisoning the jockstrap beneath a heavy layer of denim.
"Don't you think you're over-reacting?" Leave it to Ryan to say precisely the wrong thing.
Cyrus swiped the back of a hand over his face to dry his eyes. He wouldn't give the homophobic jerk the pleasure of seeing him waste any more tears. He walked out of the school and got onto his bike for the ride home.
Ryan felt his jockstrap body stretch and contract as Cyrus pedaled his pack with an intense fury. During the ride, Cyrus replayed every snide remark, every cruel, cutting remark, and ever humiliating action that Ryan and his jock friends had ever perpetrated on him. Ryan was forced to watch the images, stunned at the clarity each and every event retained in Cyrus's mind.
He hadn't meant it. How could he convince Cyrus?
"It's just what jocks do, man," Ryan said. "If I'd known you better, like I do now, do you think I would have said all that crap?"
Cyrus leaped off his bike and let it slam into the side of his garage. He saw red as he strode toward the front door. "Do you even hear yourself?"
Ryan should have known better, but he lost control. "You think you have problems?" Ryan banged against Cyrus's efforts to shut him out. "I am a fucking jockstrap!"
"Not for much longer," Cyrus said. After a quick check of the house, and finding he was alone, Cyrus stripped off all his clothes except for the jockstrap. Ryan noted that Cyrus's cock remained semi-hard, pushing against the confining boundaries of the jockstrap's cotton pouch. Cyrus stalked through the kitchen and into the fenced backyard. His step-father had enclosed the yard with an eight-foot-tall security fence, so Cyrus felt perfectly at ease walking through the yard in nothing but a jockstrap. He stopped at the rusty metal barrel located near a barbecue pit. Looking inside, he smiled. His step-father had filled the barrel with household refuse.
Picking up a lighter and shredding some scrap paper, Cyrus soon started a roaring fire as he did an obscene dance around the firepit, making sure that he stretched out Ryan's cotton body to the utmost. As he cavorted around the fire like a demon, he worked up a sweat. "How you liking that gay sweat now, big guy?"
Ryan felt the heat radiating from the rusty metal barrel. "Jones, what are you doing?"
He "smelled" smoke. "What are you doing?" Ryan demanded.
Cyrus reached down and tore the jockstrap off, dangling the helpless collection of plastic and cotton cloth. His eyes reflected the flames roaring inside the barrel as he dangled the jockstrap over them.
"I should just reduce you to a little pile of ash," Cyrus threatened.
Ryan screamed and tried to grab hold of Cyrus's fingers, but the mental effort to move his cotton body proved too much. He felt the flames warming his cotton pouch. The flames felt so hot he worried about the cohesiveness of his plastic straps. "Are you nuts?"
Cyrus dangled the jockstrap closer to the flames. Ryan screamed.
"This is murder!" Ryan broadcast desperately.
Cyrus heard him and hesitated.