Tyson, page 4
But he quickly pulls me around, a little too hard by the wrists, so that my back is to him. Then he yanks me backwards by the hips, pulling me even closer. I can feel him up against me, feel his massiveness pushing into me.
‘This is your enemy,’ he whispers into my ear, each of his words sending shivers up my spine.
He points at the red punch bag.
‘Let’s imagine your enemy is coming towards you.’
He pushes the bag hard out in front of us, and it swings back dangerously towards me, with great force. The bag’s heavy — if it hits me, it could seriously hurt. But Tyson swipes us expertly out of the way, pushing my head to the right, and holding me there while the bag swings back. ‘Punch it,’ he whispers in my ear. ‘Punch it out of the way. Save yourself.’
The punchbag begins speeding towards me again, but this time Tyson holds me rooted to the spot, unable to move. The bag flys towards my face. I yelp and hold out my hands, barely nudging the bag away. ‘What the fuck!’ I shout. ‘This isn’t helping me!’
The bag goes flying backwards, then swings towards me again. This time I punch it away a little harder, with more conviction. But I’m furious. ‘Listen, I don’t know if you’re angry at me about Cal, or what your problem is-,’ I hit the bag again, ‘-but you’re acting like a total wanker!’
Tyson's muscular arms reach out and grab the punchbag, and I notice, as he leans forwards, that he was grinds himself lightly into my groin.
Holy fuck. He’s hard. Not just hard.
Enormous.
He holds the punchbag still, and presses his body more firmly against. I’m breathing, feeling his body hold me tight, feeling that thing between his leg throbbing against my body.
And then, before I know it, his lips are on me, kissing my ears, my neck, my cheeks, his arms still holding the punchbag just inches from my face.
Then, holding it now only with one strong arm, he grabs my stomach with his free hand, and pushes me into him. He grinds his cock between my buttocks, hard and thick and warm.
I feel a hardness of my own start to throb at my groin, just as it has done all those times this week, whenever I’ve thought about his name. ‘Tyson…’ I murmur. ‘Ty-son.’
ELEVEN
* * *
Tyson's hand moves from my stomach, up to my chest, running over the tight white material of my vest, and I feel my nipples harden at his touch. His hands feel so strong, but so soft. I feel like these hands have the power to break me apart if they want to, and yet here they are, sliding all over me, gently at first, and then in big, desperate handfuls, like he wants every inch of me in his palms.
‘You know you’re fucking hot,’ he growls in my ear, with that beautiful (Scandinavian?) twang in his voice. ‘You know how much I’ve been wanting you.’
‘Then why did you ignore me all night?’ I ask. ‘You wouldn’t even look at me.’
‘I knew that if I looked at you, I’d just want to fuck you,’ he says, and presses himself deep against my tiny shorts, making my entire body tingle with pleasure.
I grab onto the punch bag in front of me, so that Tyson has two free hands. He holds me tight for a moment, demonstrating just how strong he really is, then he runs his fingers down my body, and kneels behind me. As I feel his on my back above my shorts, I worry for a moment. I’ve been working out for the last hour and a half. I must smell of salt and sweat. It might put him off me if we do this now.
But there’s no need for me to worry.
This man is wild for me.
He spins me round and in one movement, rips my shorts down so that they fall to my ankles. My cock springs up, hard and wet with precum, so desperate for his touch. I don’t have long to wait.
He’s on me like he a wild beast, putting his hungry, animal mouth over my dick and swallowing , gulping me down. He sucks and eats me like I’m the first meal he’s tasted in months, and as he does it, he growls.
A shudder of pleasure shoots around my body, the vibrations of his guttural voice making me weak at the knees.
‘Yes!’ I shout, holding onto the punch bag for dear life. ‘Don’t stop, whatever you do…’
Tyson continues to eat me, and eat me and eat me, and with each mouthful he takes I feel like I’m being taken deep inside him, like soon I could melt down his throat and slide into his body, that we’ll be one person, with the same arms, the same strong body. My cock has never felt this good. After months of only my fingers, Tyson’s mouth is driving me crazy.
He looks up at me, his clear eyes shimmering with filthy lust, and I feel like a deep well, full of water, like a rocket, red and fiery, like a lion, proud and strong. I feel like a million different things at once, but, most of all, I feel like I’m going to come.
Tyson grabs hold of my buttocks with his strong hands, pulling me even deeper into him. I don’t know how he’s taking me in this far, swallowing me up entirely. My legs are shaking, and the blood runs to my head, as well as to my hot, hard dick.
Tyson sucks the tip of my cock, his tongue circling one way, and then the other, like he’s moving in on his prey, and then, all of a sudden, I feel him push a long, slim finger into my hungry ass. My muscles tighten around it — so much longer than my own fingers. The pleasure of having something so slender and so strong inside me, something that made up part of a fist that was capable of punching a man — two men — to the ground, pushes me over the edge.
I grab onto the punch bag and I shout, a growl of pleasure so loud and powerful I surprise myself.
The waves of ecstasy flood over me. I tremble and I shake, and I drop, slowly to the floor.
Tyson holds onto me tight as I shoot my load into his willing mouth, and he pulls me deeper into him. He swallows me down, looks at me with those big blue eyes. ‘You taste amazing,’ he says quietly, and then, lying me down on my side, as I feel far too dreamy to stand up, he kisses me full on the lips, and then says: ‘I have to go now.’
‘Go?’ I ask, with a slightly slurred voice, the effect of the most incredible orgasm I remember ever having. ‘Go where?’
‘It’s not right,’ he scowls, pulling on his vest. ‘I’m your teacher. This isn’t meant to happen.’
And then he stands up, taking his massive, still hard cock, and leaving me lying there in a heap on the floor, thighs shaking, desperately wanting more.
TWELVE
* * *
Back at my apartment, I don’t know what to do with myself. I am angry - very angry - but I am also confused. How could he do that to me? Ignore me one minute, bring me to orgasm the next? And, even worse than that, even though he’d given me the best orgasm of my life, rather than satisfying me, it had left me hungry for more. Much more.
I feel like between my legs I have a hunger, and I desperately need to satiate myself.
I need Tyson to fuck me. Really, truly fuck me, and I need it fast.
Does it sound tacky? Well, it’s true.
He’s worked me up into a frenzy.
I try doing normal things. Make a cup of tea, watch some TV, have a cold shower, but nothing can take away this ache.
At that moment, as if trying to help take my mind of the situation, my phone buzzes, and I see I have a text message. It was from Hunter.
Honestly — fuck Neil. Fuck fuck fuck what a piece of work. Have you eaten yet? I want big burgers and thick, juicy gossip, Giles.
I look at my phone, almost angry that it’s not Tyson — not that he’s got my number or anything, of course. But then I think about Hunter, and how he somehow always make me feel better. I decide to go for it. It’s Friday night. No work tomorrow. Why not?
No, I haven’t eaten yet. Been at kickboxing. Remember how you were meant to be there with me? What time shall we meet? You owe me a burger, I reckon.
I’m only trying to tease him, hopefully he’ll know that I’m not actually annoyed with him. He obviously had to see Neil, and it’s no problem really.
Hunter texts back immediately.
I knew you’d be hungry after kickboxing. Half an hour. I’ll pick you up. Dinner’s on me, don’t worry. Can’t wait to hear all about the weird world of Tyson’s kickbox class.
As I get ready to go out, I feel super grateful for having a friend like Hunter. Even with all the drama he brings to my life, there’s something reassuring about how consistent that drama is.
I slip into a simple outfit — a tan suit with a white t-shirt underneath, summery and lightweight. I can still feel my body warm from the work-out earlier. Both of the workouts that I’ve put myself through.
And as I keep waiting, I feel a strange tingle in my body. Like something strange and exciting is happening to me, and I don’t know what’s going to happen next.
THIRTEEN
* * *
Outside, a car approaches me.
It’s a car I’ve seen before. A grey four-wheel drive. A Subaru, with huge alloy wheels, a sports grill, and blacked-out privacy glass in the rear windows. It’s a car that says: don’t cross me - you don’t stand a chance.
The car’s engine revs and growls as it moves along the kerb, up to my front door, and the window hisses down. Tyson is wearing a greasy t-shirt and his kickboxing pants. His hair is even slicker than usual, and his eyes are wide between his thick, dark lashes. He looks filthy, and unbelievably handsome. ‘We need to talk,’ he says.
I smooth down my tan suit, awkwardly, thinking how strange it is that just a couple of hours ago he had been touching me in a grimy gym, his mouth engulfing my most sensitive parts. And now here I am, in an expensive suit, so obviously waiting for someone else. What must he think of me? I wonder for a moment if he might think I’m waiting for Cal…
‘Well?’ he asks, his voice impassive. ‘Are you getting in?’
I look up and down the road, wondering where Hunter is, if he’s about to appear around the corner any minute, and see me with Tyson. For once, I feel good about the fact that Hunter is always late.
‘Fine,’ I say. And I find myself getting into the car - but this time into the back of the car, behind the safety of the privacy glass, and we drove away.
I don’t spot Hunter as we head for the motorway, but I send him a message so that he knows I’m not gonna be around. He’s probably decided to see Neil again or something equally dumb. Who knows what he’s up to?
Tyson doesn’t say much during the journey, except to tell me again that it’s best we have a chat, and that we’ll be going back to his place. He doesn’t fancy the noise of a crowded bar, he says, and besides, he desperately needs a shower. Can’t force his stink on poor, innocent people in a public place.
But you’ll force it on me, I think grumpily, smelling the manly, post-exercise scent in the confined space of the car, and feeling less angry when I realise that I’m becoming turned on by it.
FOURTEEN
* * *
Tyson pulls into the driveway in silence, and I have to admit that I feel a little disappointed he doesn’t live in some kind of luxury apartment block at the riverside.
His apartment block, at the wrong end of town, is an enormous hulk of concrete, with wire fencing around it, and threatening signs on the sides of the building, warning the kids: NO SKATEBOARDING, NO BALL GAMES, NO GRAFFITI. It’s certainly not a part of town I’m used to spending time in.
We get out of the car, and I follow Tyson up some concrete steps. ‘No lift here,’ he says gruffly, running a hand through his hair, and I follow him up two flights of stairs, then three, then four, desperate not to appear like I am flagging in front of him, as he just seems to glide effortlessly up, his strong legs barely even straining under the effort.
Finally, on the fifth floor, we stop. ‘This is it,’ he says, and opens a door painted with the number 247.
As soon as he opens the door, I notice a bizarre mixture of smells greeting me inside. There’s the unmistakeable musk of incense, something heady and strong like patchouli. But there are other, stranger smells too. Spices, exotic like cardamom, tangy and sweet like aniseed and liquorice, and hot, like pungent chilli. It’s like I’ve stepped into one of those crammed-to-the-brim supermarkets I’ve come across in Chinatown near Covent Garden. It’s so overwhelming that I even feel a little dizzy as I walk through the corridor into the living room.
My own living room window looks out over a small park and a primary school; it’s an almost quaint and countryside-like view, despite being in the middle of the city. Tyson’s view is all city. I forget about the monstrous concrete block on the outside of this place, and know immediately why you’d want to live in a flat like this. The evening sun is glowing with its last embers, as it sinks beneath the horizon, drenching the city in a deep, dusky pink. Office blocks, skyscrapers, the gherkin… you can see it all from here. It’s magnificent.
‘Take a seat,’ says Tyson, and I look around for the most appropriate place to sit. I’m ashamed to discover how pristine his flat is - there’s no drying laundry in here, no stacks of paper and rubbish strewn about the place. I perch on a black leather sofa, facing the window, feeling incredibly over-dressed in my suit. Tyson looks amazing just in his simple kickboxing gear, of course. ‘I’ll get you a drink,’ he says, and I watch his tight, muscular ass, in his low-slung martial arts pants, disappearing off into another room.
I take the opportunity to take a good look around the space I’m in. I’ve never been in a flat anything like it. The most striking thing I notice, is that every wall, instead of being full of paintings, like mine, is full of hanging weapons. And I’m not talking country gents’ shooting rifles. I’m talking Samurai swords. They have ornate, engraved handles, in deep blues and pearlescent whites. Almost elegant in their slender beauty, until you notice the the sharpness of their long, curved blades, and realise how easily they could slice through flesh — probably even bone.
Rather than feel scared surrounded by all this weaponry, I actually find something stirring inside me. The same sort of aggression I’ve felt building up in me during my two kickboxing sessions. That feeling of wild abandon at being able to let go, to express myself through the power of my punches.
Tyson walks in holding a bottle of wine and two glasses. Interesting. I wouldn’t have taken him as a Chablis sort of a guy. Maybe he’s more refined than I give him credit for.
‘You like the swords, I see,’ he says.
I nod. ‘They’re beautiful,’ I reply, and I think I mean it.
He sits on the sofa beside me, and pours us both a generous glass of the wine. He hands one to me, and then - without saying ‘cheers’, I can’t help but notice - he begins to drink. He drinks like he’s parched, like he was in the desert, drinking from his first cup of water in days.
I lift my own glass to my lips, and I follow suit.
‘They’re such beautiful weapons,’ he says. ‘Imbued with such a deep-rooted sense of magic, and folklore. The Samurai used to name their swords, believing that within the sword lived their warrior spirit.’
I thought about those words. Warrior spirit. Is that what Tyson has been unlocking in me?
He points at one of the swords, hanging over the fireplace, with an indigo handle, studded with tiny, iridescent crystals. ‘This one reminds me of a Masamune sword. Masamune was one of the most talented craftsmen, who began the tradition of Soshu sword-making. See those crystals, set in that deep, pearly material? They were thought to resemble the night sky.’
I look out of the window, at the real night sky, feeling disappointed for a moment that the lights of the city hide the stars from view. I’d love to sit under the stars with this man.
‘Masamune’s swords,’ he says, ‘rather than being regarded as brutish or evil, were actually considered to be deeply spiritual and benevolent, incapable of harming anything that was innocent or undeserving.’ He takes a large mouthful of wine, and I do the same, feeling the crisp, dry flavors crackling on my tongue.
‘Unfortunately,’ he continues, ‘we always hurt the people around us. Even when they don’t deserve it.’
FIFTEEN
* * *
‘Listen, I’ve been talking for too long,’ he says. ‘You’ve barely said a word. Tell me about yourself.’
I fiddle with the wine glass in my hands, realizing that he knows almost nothing about me. For a moment, looking at the glass in my hands, I think of Hunter, and feel a rush of guilt. Is Hunter waiting outside my apartment, hoping I’ll step out of my front door at any moment? How many missed calls do I have? I gulp another mouthful of wine. Tyson notices how fast I’m drinking, and gives me a top-up.
I’m sitting next to Tyson in my t-shirt. My tan blazer lies next to me on the couch. I’m still overdressed, and now I look like something from an eighties boardroom.
‘I manage a company,’ I say, aware of how boring that sounds. ‘A paper company.’ Shit. Way to spice things up, Giles. That should get Tyson going. Paper! Here I am, talking to this rock of a man, about paper!
I think of that game I used to play when I was little… rock, paper, scissors… Rock wins against paper, doesn’t it? No, wait a minute. I remember my brother, wrapping his palm around my fist. Paper covers rock! he used to shout, and I always thought how stupid that was, something so fragile, able to envelop something so hard and tough.
I look at Tyson. He’s gazing intently at me, waiting for me to say more.
‘For the last few years,’ I say, ‘I’ve been married to my work. I’m incredibly ambitious. But it comes at a price. It was only when I came along to your first class, with my friend Hunter, that I realised how much of life I’d been missing out on…’
Tyson reaches out and takes my hand, and as I feel the warmth of his skin, I can almost feel the pulsing of blood in his veins, he is pressed so close. ‘I’ve been missing out on a lot too,’ he says. ‘I don’t normally do things like… what happened today…’ I can see he’s struggling. I think it was the first time I’ve ever seen him looking out of his depth. I want to kiss him and tell him it’s okay. ‘I owe you an apology,’ he says at last.
