This story contains mature content, adult themes, nudity, clothes and sneaker destruction and WAM play. If you object to any of this, or it is illegal for you to read such things under the law of the country you are in, then read no further. Ben would like me to remind you that this story is based on a fictionalised version of Ben and that his life really isn't very exciting. Any resemblance to any other person past or present is purely coincidental.

We kick off Season Two of The Ben Bronx adventures with a trip to a typical village Bank Holiday fayre, with Ben bribed into taking part in the Best Dressed Male competition very much against his better judgement. What could possibly go wrong?

The Adventures of Ben Bronx: Fayre Game

"Oh dear, I shall be too late!" Ben muttered to himself as he glanced at his Apple watch. Normally he'd be mortified at being late—it was a deeply unpleasant trait—but today it was a deliberate ploy. He had no idea why he had agreed to this. Well, in reality, he was well aware of why he was hurrying to a place so out of his comfort zone. It was greed and weakness. And Dan.

They had known each other for what seemed like a lifetime. Dan always referred to Ben as his ‘little brother’, partly born from that he saw a lot of himself in Ben and partly that he always wanted a little brother. Ben never commented on it but secretly liked the idea of a big brother watching out for him. Although right now, Ben had a nagging fear that he wasn’t being looked out for. Dan loved pushing Ben's boundaries but this time it felt like a pat on the back turned into a violent shove.

His reward would be a new pair of Nike Tns and tickets to the Star Trek expo. Ben had really wanted to go but couldn't afford the ticket.

His current destination was the Town Fayre. The yearly event was certainly a curious thing, filled with traditional English fayre things. There were cakes as far as the eye could see, white elephant stalls, tombola and other such games. There were also strange pageants which were peculiar to this parish. And peculiar was definitely the operative word. The one Dan had shamelessly bribed Ben into taking part in was ‘The Best Dressed Male’ pageant.

Ben rushed through the entrance partly hoping he was too late. An expertly timed show of looking like he really tried but just failed.

"Final entries, please!" called an exceptionally well-dressed older gentleman with an exceptionally impressive moustache.

Ben grimaced. He was disgruntled that, while being late, he wasn't quite late enough. The two hours he had practised the line “Oh gosh, I am too late! How upsetting!” had been entirely wasted. With no other choice, he hurried over and added his name to the list. He could have sworn the man's eyes had lingered a little longer than they should have on his Hollister jeans. He could also have sworn the man licked his lips but dismissed it on the grounds that no-one would do that at him.

The man pointed to a podium. "You best hurry, they will be starting almost immediately."

Ben almost pointed out how something cannot be 'almost immediately', in the same vein that something cannot be 'almost unique' but decided against it this time.

He joined the group of men who also were taking part in this strange custom. They either ignored him or stared too long at him; it was the most unpleasant experience. Soon, he was cursing Dan and regretting his own greed. He glanced around at the other men with a feeling verging on shock. There appeared to be very little effort on show; old trainers and tees that had seen better days. One was even wearing a football kit!

A well-built person approached him. Ben was a tall lad but had to look up to meet his eyes (which he only did briefly).

"I like your style, man," the stranger purred.

Ben was immediately uncomfortable. Oh god! he internalised. Just when he thought it couldn't get worse—compliments!

The lad leaned into Ben's ear and whispered, "Nom nom nom."

A look of confusion and horror appeared on Ben's face. "Um, okay, right. Haha!" he stammered in reply.

"Gentlemen! Please step up!" called out someone wearing a blazer and holding a clipboard. Officiously, he ushered the contestants onto a makeshift podium. Ben distracted himself from being on display by looking up and down the line. For the first time in his life, he had just a tiny creeping suspicion he might actually win this! His white/grey Nike 95s were on point, his Hollister polo faded from white at the top down to blue which blended nicely into his jeans. In between, a hint of the neon green Under Armour boxers Dan had lent him peaked out.

“Oyez! Oyeeezzz!” the town crier shook Ben out of his thoughts. It was then he noticed the mysterious tarpaulin in front of him. Maybe it was for a later event, he thought.

“Welcome ye all!” the town crier continued. “It is time for the bachelors of this parish to do battle!”

Ben thought he was rather over egging the pudding.

“Let the wrestling begin!”

‘Wrestling?’ Ben mumbled in alarm. He suddenly remembered that one of the other weird events at this fete was gravy wrestling. The blood drained from his face; he hadn’t actually signed up to the wrong event? Surely the well-dressed man was an indication that the clipboard was for the Best Dressed Man competition? Surely?

No sooner than Ben had completed the thought, the tarpaulin was drawn back to reveal a deep pool of dark liquid.

He was in his own world now; the sounds outside his head dimmed as he thought through the situation. The dots joined in his head and he realised he had made a very grave mistake. It was time for action. It was time to excuse himself from the nightmare and go home and watch The Next Generation. He steeled himself and leapt into action.

He boldly put his hand up—

Just as the man with the clipboard completed his preamble and said, “I need a volunteer.” He grinned enthusiastically when he saw Ben’s hand. “Okay, we have a keen one here! Thanks, Ben!”

Before Ben could protest, two of the other contestants promptly scooped him up and began counting down. He looked up at the one who had him by his arms to find it was the big lad from earlier. He was leering down at him in a way that unnerved Ben. He knew he really should say something but he was frozen in terror by the firm grip the brute had on him and the lewd look on his face. “Nom nom nom!” kept running through his head.

"Three . . . Two . . ." rang out as they gently swung Ben over the pool of gloop. "One!" And with that they let go, sending Ben spinning across the brown liquid. One of his trainers came off in the process, immediately leaving one of his white socks covered in gravy. A second later, he could already feel it soaking into the seat of his jeans.

"And just to remind you, we are playing by Obminbeur rules. When you're down to your underwear, you're out!" added the compère usefully before bellowing "FIGHT!"

The crowd went into a frenzy as the other competitors piled in. Ben could only watch in horror as they made a beeline for him. Frozen in panic, he was soon surrounded. Three of them grabbed his collar and pulled. It gave way under the assault and ripped apart, baring Ben's shoulders to the world. A second later the remains of his shirt were roughly removed from his body and thrown in the air to a huge cheer from the crowd.

A second huge cheer went up as his remaining trainer was removed and thrown to the crowd. A young lad wearing a white England shirt caught it and victoriously thrust it into the air, splattering himself and all those in the immediate vicinity with globs of gravy. Once Ben’s trainers were gone, another competitor began trying to pull his jeans off. Ben hung on grimly to the top of them to try to prevent any further embarrassment.

Several of the lads had become involved in their own battles with each other, switching from defence to attack as the situation allowed. There was a loud ripping noise as one of them lost the leg of his trackies, ripped from the rear pocket down to his battered Adidas Superstars. The perpetrator's success was short-lived, though, as he was wrestled to the floor with a tackle to the midriff. The two gravy-covered gladiators rolled around, grabbing randomly at each other's clothing, occasionally being rewarded with the sound of stitching popping or a shred of torn clothing coming away in their grip.

Ben still had the attention of two competitors, one of them the big lad that seemed to have an unhealthy interest in him. His clothing suggested he was something of an expert in this. The denim shorts were tight and stretchy and he'd even gone to the trouble of removing the back pockets, something Ben was fast realising was a serious weak point. On his feet, completely sodden in gravy, were a pair of tightly laced Converse Chucks which would take some prising off his feet.

He soon had a closer view of those Chucks as the big lad flipped him over, his face momentarily submerged under the brown surface. Ben spluttered gravy as soon as his mouth broke the surface again. He was less worried about the gravy up his nose than he was about the two firm hands that had gripped the rear pockets of his expensive Hollister jeans.

He felt a sharp tug and heard an awful rending sound. He then felt the gravy swamping his legs where the fabric of the jeans once was. The big lad roared in celebration and the crowd joined in. After a few more pulls from him and his co-conspirator, all that was left of Ben's jeans was the waistband and small amount of fabric. At least it was over now, Ben sighed, he was out according to the Obminbeur¹ rule. He briefly wondered what Obminbeur had done to have a rule named after him—especially one that prevented the game proceeding before it got to serious humiliation and just stopped at plain old humiliation.

His thoughts were interrupted as he was suddenly hoisted up into the air by his underwear. He gasped as the fabric tightly squeezed his testicles and penis. As he was lifted higher, he heard stitching pop, and then as the big lad bounced him up and down his cock slipped out of the taut boxers. A huge cheer went up from the crowd.

“Obminbeur! Obminbeur! Obminbeur!” Ben started screaming in panic when he realised his penis was fully erect, squeezed out of his underwear and definitely on display to everyone in the crowd. Ben couldn’t believe this was happening.

And then . . . with another tremendous rending sound the boxers gave way. Ben fell into the gravy gloop with a splash, leaving the big lad with a fist full of rags. Ben quickly got up, now completely naked in front of everyone from his village. He darted off towards the changing room for the sports field, unsure which bits of him he should cover from sight. He really wanted a big sheet to cover himself (which was, in fact, his normal state of thinking) but all he got were cheers and laughter.

*  *  *

Ben sat on the bench inside the changing room. He was completely naked due to him not packing another set of clothes, mostly because he was not expecting the ones he’d been wearing to be ripped off him in public. Or indeed private. At least the shower had cleaned all the gravy off him. Without any shower gel there was still the whiff of onion about him, but at least the event had moved with the times with vegetarian gravy.

How was he going to get out of this situation? Wait until dark and sneak back home? He eyed up the unattended sports bag to his right. Maybe he could ‘borrow’ the gear in it?

He chastised himself. That would be stealing. And it wasn't his competitors’ fault he was in this predicament. Well, to be strictly accurate, it was, but he was the one who signed the wrong clipboard, he was the one who couldn't stand up and just say, "I shouldn't be here."

It was, as always, entirely his fault. Maybe it would be far easier if he didn't exist, he wondered briefly.

His senseless navel gazing and self-admonishment was interrupted by the door opening. He didn't need to quickly cover himself with his hands to spare his ‘modesty’; he already was. Even in an empty room it was an automatic gesture for him.

The big lad walked in, looking crestfallen. Apart from his briefs that only made his thighs look even bigger, and the odd ripped thread of clothing, he was naked.

"Bastards ganged up on me! Obviously saw me as a threat," he mumbled in a defensive tone.

He seemed genuinely upset about his defeat. Ben couldn't help but feel sad for him.

"Oh!" the big lad said, finally noticing Ben. "You're still here." He glanced at Ben's state of undress and grinned. "Mhmmm. And not dressed either!"

"Oh, um, I didn't bring, umm, spare clothes?" Ben winced at the upturn in inflection that made the statement sound like a question.

"What?! You must have been confident!" he laughed. "How are you getting home?"

"Um. I don't know . . ." Ben answered in a pathetic voice.

"I could spare some clothes to help you out."

Ben looked him up and down. It could work; they were both tall guys. His mood brightened and he stared at the big lad with hopeful eyes. "Yes?"

"Of course!” the lad answered. Then a wicked glint crept into his eyes. “If you help me out."

"Um, yes?" Ben agreed. He didn’t really see what other choice he had.

Ben gulped as the big lad slid down the briefs that had been doing a particularly bad job at hiding his raging boner.

*  *  *

It had only taken five minutes of Ben sucking on the big lad's onion gravy flavoured penis before the lad let loose with "Oh fuck! Yes!"

Before Ben knew what was happening, he pulled out of Ben's mouth and coated his face with seemingly endless ribbons of cum. He put a hand on Ben’s shoulder to steady himself and grinned at the mess in front of him.

"Fuck. You really do suck."

That was a statement Ben could take two ways, so, true to form, he chose the most negative connotation.

The big lad reached into his sports bag and tossed Ben a sleeveless tee. Ben's eyes widened in horror; he would look ridiculous in that! He settled his nerves, concluding it was better than nothing. He waited for more clothes. And waited some more.

"Sorry mate, that's all I can spare,” the lad said. “Don't worry. The other players will be back soon—I'm sure they will be able to 'spare' something too! I’ll pass the word." He smirked while rubbing his deflating cock as if to underline his statement.

Ben gulped. Nom nom nom, indeed. This predicament was going to be hard to swallow.

The Adventures of Ben Bronx: Fayre Game by sneaked666
Edited by sz1415sneakers

¹ Wenzel Obminbeur (1899 – 1944) was born in Trento, then part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. After the Great War he travelled extensively across Europe documenting customs and traditional games/sports, releasing two volumes of books: Obminbeur Guide to Traditional Pastimes and the Such.

He visited England in the early 1930s, and witnessed an event which he described thusly: ‘A curious activity, but one that is carried out in all seriousness and vigour! Grown men wrestle in gravy, ripping off each other’s clothes. One by one the competitors are excluded when their last remaining vestiges of clothes are freed from their body, until only one is left as the victor.’

Even as an Austrian, he was ‘shocked at the casual nature of the nudity displayed in public with such gay abandon’. He suggested a rule that competitors were ejected from the competition when only their underwear remained, and this was codified as an alternative way of playing as the ‘Obminbeur Rule’. It was not universally popular, with people commenting that it was akin to only allowing the lion to lick the Christians in the Roman Arena.

Obminbeur was travelling in America at the outbreak of World War II and did not return to Europe. In 1944, he was watching a St. Louis Cardinals baseball game at Sportsman’s Park when an errant throw by the Brooklyn Dodgers shortstop flew into the stands and struck him in the forehead. He fell to the ground, never regained consciousness, and died the next day. He had the ignominy of being only the second and last fan in Major League Baseball history to be killed by a ball leaving the field, the first being Clarence Stagemyer the year before.

It is believed Obminbeur was working on a third volume of his series at the time, but the manuscript was never found, thus robbing us of his unqiue insights into Pig Lassoing in Idaho.