Spike woke up the next morning feeling pretty pleased with himself.

The jocks’ costume fittings had been an undoubted success.

Admittedly Mr Hung had taken rather longer than necessary to adjust just a few skimpy square inches of material.

In fact, he’d made rather a meal of the job - though thankfully not in the literal sense.

That really would have given the game away, even to a bunch of jocks whose collective IQ was unlikely to run as high as double figures.

And, in any case, Spike intended to reserve the pleasure of being the first to dine heartily between their juicily muscular thighs for himself.

But, he was forced to admit, the wait had been well worth it.

The boys were all now meticulously - and very tightly - hand-fitted with Mr Hung’s gold lamé posing pouches, each with its not-so-discrete red tassel right in the middle.

The only disappointment was that the supply of gold lamé had run out early, so poor Kenny Taylor had to have his pouch specially made.

Sadly the only material available at short notice turned out to be an old duvet cover of Mr Hung’s which was not only of a particularly hideous floral design but also had several highly suspicious white stains on it.

Kenny - who, Spike was rapidly beginning to suspect, had a rather more sensitive and artistic side to him than the others - was mortified and only pacified by Spike’s promise that he’d get first choice of the props to use in the act.

Ah, yes, thought Spike.

The props.

Mr Hung had certainly come up trumps there.

As Spike had anticipated, Mr Hung’s old favourite, the “Big Black Bobby special edition latex dildo”, had made a predictable yet welcome reappearance, along with several similar models. Spike wondered whether maybe Mr Hung owned shares in the manufacturers - or maybe they just paid him to plug the product…

Ah yes, plug… That reminded Spike of even more gizmos of all shapes and sizes that Mr Hung had also pressed on him. He’d certainly need to exercise a bit of creativity and think of some way of explaining to the jocks exactly what these accessories were used for and how exactly they were going to fit into their act (let alone their butts

Although it was Sunday, Spike had managed to persuade the school football coach Mr Passage (known inevitably to generations of students as “Back” Passage) to authorise the opening of the gym that afternoon for the jocks’ first rehearsal.

Everyone was there on time and, once they had changed into their pouches, Spike sat them around him in a circle as he explained their act and what they would have to do.

Of course, the fact that they’d already seen the movie The Full Monty made things a little easier for Spike. At least the basic concept of stripping in public wasn’t going to faze the boys too much now - although the “refinements” which he had in mind might well, Spike suspected, be a different matter…

With a dramatic flourish he produced a large black case from which he proceeded to pull out a variety of equipment.

First was a small cassette player into which he inserted a tape.

“We’ve got to have a theme boys. Something that’ll get the ladies going. Something to…”, Spike gulped, “…wet their pussies.”

Yet again that phrase seemed to act as some sort of magic mantra. For all that it meant to him, Spike might just as well have said “wet their rose gardens”, but the effect on the jocks was as electric as it always was on those Barrack Butt Buddies in his favourite video.

At Spike’s words all four gold pouches stirred noticeably and, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that poor Troy LePhlegm was having particular problems keeping everything securely in place and concealed within his frighteningly tight fitting garment.

“Our theme”, continued Spike, “is the jungle.

“You guys are the big cats prowling through the jungle.

“Tigers.

“Tough. Sexy. Hard.

“Kings of the beasts.”

And, as he pressed a key on the cassette player, a somewhat scratchy version of Survivor’s Eye of the Tiger - dubbed off from Spike’s dad’s Rocky soundtrack LP - filled the school gym.

Next out of the case came all sorts of pieces of material. Spike had kept his mom up at her sewing machine virtually all night working on pieces of fake fur, mostly taken from grandma’s old clothes stored in the attic.

After all, it wasn’t as if grandma was ever likely to need them again. For the past eight years she’d been one of the more demanding and troublesome residents of Mother Teresa’s Home for the Terminally Incontinent on the other side of town and the likelihood of her ever coming back home again was, by general consensus, pretty remote (as, thank goodness, Mother Teresa’s place was too).

Spike passed various pieces of “tiger” costume around.

There were small furry rings made up from the cuffs of grandma’s coats - at least, the ones she’d worn before the bladder problems got too acute. Those, Spike explained, were to go around the jocks’ ankles.

There were wider pieces of material which were to go around their upper arms.

There were also pairs of thick oven gloves to which the fake fur had been sewn.

“They’re, like, your paws”, explained Spike.

“But because they’re so loose, once you’ve got them on I’ll have to tie them on real tight so they don’t fall off when you’re dancing.”

There were also oddly shaped bits of cloth with rough pieces dangling down from them. These, Spike explained, would cover the boys’ heads and, along with orange, black and white face paints and a few carefully applied whiskers, would create the illusion of tigers’ faces.

The final pieces of costume Spike produced were the boys’ tails.

“The problem with the tails”, he explained, “is how to hold them on.

“If I just tied them round your waists, then they’d get mixed up with the band holding up your pouches and we could have problems when you need to get rid of them quickly for the finale.

So I’ve worked out a way to get your tails on and off real quick between scenes.”

With that he pulled an enormous length of fake fur tail out of his bag.

At one end it looked perfectly normal.

At the other it was carefully and securely attached to the blunt end of one of Mr Hung’s butt plugs.

Once Spike had explained how the tail was to be held in place the jocks sat in stunned silence.

But that lasted only until he produced the next prop from his bag.

Big Black Bobby.

Spike explained what it was.

And all hell broke loose.

“Man, you can’t expect us to go on stage with that thing” exclaimed Billy Hopkins, usually the quietest and most undemonstrative - or, as some put it, the most brain-dead - of the boys.

“We’d be laughed off the stage.”

“And then thrown out of town” added Gary Elliott.

Spike quietened them down.

“Look guys”, he said. “Millions of chicks own these things.

“It’s just like them vibrator things your moms keep in the back of their bathroom cupboards.

“They don’t use them to whisk omelettes, y’know.”

“As soon as the chicks see you with them on stage, those pussies will be so wet that I’ll be up all night after the show mopping up the floor.

“But you’ll have better things to do.”

The boys quietened down.

Maybe they thought they’d already committed themselves to far and it would look chicken to go back

Maybe the thought of all that “wet pussy” had done the trick.

Or maybe, Spike secretly hoped, the details he’d given them about what they might have to do on stage had suddenly opened up a whole new and previously unimagined world for them.

And so, as the tape loop of Eye of the Tiger began yet again, Spike awarded himself a small smile of secret satisfaction.

Copyright: HMBoys.com/ Rob Maynard 2001 - 2007

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