Hot Jocks, page 12
I watched. He watched. Time stood still as the ball rolled down the lane. I laughed when it struck. “Only six pins, Pete. You’re losing it.”
He turned, shooting me a wicked-ass grin. His cock was fully stiff now, jutting straight out and up, arced to the side, his balls exposed, heavy and fuzzy. “Guess I’m a bit preoccupied,” he said, giving his dick a tug and a stroke. “Your turn.”
I stood, my legs trembling, my briefs tenting something fierce. I walked to my ball as he sat down, his legs spread wide, cock in hand, a slow even stroke on it as he watched me. Then he pointed at my midsection with his index finger, indicating that one of us was wearing entirely too much. Which was entirely too true. Meaning, my undies were down to my ankles in a flash, then kicked off, my boner swinging from side to side. Then I fingered my bowling ball, walked to the foul line, lined up, and sent it careening down.
But I turned to watch him instead. He was tugging on his nuts now, tweaking a thick nipple, watching me intently. “Strike,” he told me, the crashing sound following a microsecond later.
“Yup,” I said, moving his way, cock swaying.
I stood in front of him, staring down. He gazed up, eyes sparkling, smile stretched from ear to ear. He released his cock, his arms hanging over the chair, legs still wide, his body spread out before me, all muscle and sinew and hair. I reached down and grabbed his cock, his eyelids fluttering upon contact. “Took you long enough,” he groaned.
“Guess I’m a slow learner,” I replied, crouching down, face to crotch.
He pointed to the scores up on screen. “Could’ve fooled me.”
My mouth moved in. I slapped the head of his prick up against my lips. “Like you said, you were distracted.”
He moaned when I sucked him in, the sound rumbling through his body and down into mine. “But what a nice distraction,” he purred, his hand running through my mop of hair as his cock made its way to the back of my throat, pungent jizz hitting my tonsils like a bullet. “Nice,” he groaned, the sound swirling around the massive space as I sucked him off, yanking on his hefty, hairy balls as I did so, all while he tweaked and twisted his eraser-tipped nipples.
I popped his prick out of my mouth, resting it on my chin. “Ever come while on a bowling lane before, Pete?”
He gazed down, still twisting his nips, panting. “Can’t say I have, Matt.”
I stood up, my cock dripping copious amounts of precome. “Want to?”
He jumped up, face to face now, his lips brushing my lips. “Love to,” he replied, mouth mashing into mine, tongues thrashing, his hands reaching out to pull me in, our bodies melting together.
I sighed, sucking contentedly on his mouth, fingers roaming his drenched back, cupping his hairy ass, parting his cheeks before zooming in on the crinkled center. He moaned, loudly, when I entered him, sweat being the ultimate lube as the tip of my index finger worked its way inside, then the knuckle, all the way in, all the way back, feeling the smooth muscled interior of him.
Again he moaned, which gave me a new and twisted idea.
“Meet me in the center of lane six,” I told him, retracting my finger from his ass.
He looked at me, quizzically, but obeyed, sauntering away, cock rocking to and fro while I ran to my booth, grabbing the item I had in mind before flicking on the controls. With bowling shoes clomping, I made my way back, joyously finding him dead-center on all fours, overhead lights bathing him in a warm, white, fluorescent glow, legs wide, balls dangling, pink hole winking out at me. I laughed and set the wireless mic down in front of him.
“What’s that for?” he asked, his deep voice booming in all directions. “Ah,” he said, understanding in an instant. “If you’re gonna come in the middle of a bowling alley, might as well go all out, huh?”
“Get ready to shake the rafters,” I said, crouching down, taking a deep whiff of his asshole, the heady aroma of musk and sweat tendriling up my nostrils.
“Ready,” he announced into the mic, already stroking his giant schlong, sweat pooling around his lower back. His voice ricocheted around the vacant hall, while my cock pulsed in anticipation.
“Ready on this end, too,” I said, tongue gliding down his crack, running rings around his chute, then diving in, his back arching as I yanked on his nuts and ate him out.
“Fuuuck,” he howled, so loud it made some of the pins rock at the other end of the lane.
I smiled and pulled back an inch, spitting at his portal, saliva dripping down. Gently, I inserted my middle finger, gliding it in. He gripped it with his hole, inhaled sharply and then relaxed. I popped it out and joined it with its neighbor, pushing them deep inside, jiggling them around, while his body trembled, balls bouncing as he picked up the pace on his cock.
“Three’s the charm, Pete?” I asked.
“Go for it,” he rasped, the words echoing all around us.
Two popped out, three slid in, pushed and shoved all the way to the back, filling every millimeter of space inside, all while I stroked my cock, pulling the come up from my balls. “Think we can shoot together?” I asked him, panting loudly now.
“Fuck yeah,” he sighed back.
I pulled my fingers out. He spun around, sitting now, legs wide, feet on the smooth wood, knees bent, cock jutting up. I did the same, a mirror image of him. Then I reached for the mic, smiling lewdly, and clipped it on his nipple. A tremble started from his chest and worked its way down to his legs, his cock bouncing when the tremor hit it. “Thought you’d like that,” I said, one hand reaching down to stroke his billy club of a prick, the other ramming two fingers up his ass.
“You thought right,” he replied, reaching down to do the same for me, two fingers up my hole, a grip around my shaft, and my body was suddenly afire, bristling with energy, just as our mouths collided and joined, spit dripping down our chins, sweat cascading down our foreheads.
Pumping away, we didn’t have long to wait, his prostate rock hard as I slammed into it, cock so thick and slippery I could barely hang on. Then we shot, together, as planned. His dick erupted, great gushes of molten hot come that shot up and out, dousing my chest and belly before dripping down to where his asshole clenched tight around my digits. Then me, cock exploding, one stream after the other, ropes of come that hit him like rockets, the sound of it filling our ears, drowned out by our thunderous moans and groans, the rafters indeed shaking.
“Fuck that was hot,” he groaned, stroking the last vestiges of come out of my prick as he slid his fingers from my throbbing hole.
“Emphasis on the hot,” I said, my own fingers gliding out, my mouth again meshed with his, a pool of sweat and come amassing around us. When his dick at last went limp, I added, “Now I see why you’re the pro.”
He laughed, tickling my balls with his fingers. “Takes a lot of practice, Matt. Think you’re up for it?”
Meaning, I fucked and sucked him on every lane late each night during the following week, all leading up to the big tournament. Practice, after all, makes perfect. And, damn, if he wasn’t fucking perfect.
I watched from the sidelines that evening. If he was nervous, I couldn’t tell. That’s what made him a pro, I guessed. That and the fact that he bowled like a champ, strike after strike, the crowd going wild, and me no exception. Pete, of course, won the tournament, and everyone crowded around him when the trophies were presented.
I went back to my booth to close out the register. I looked up, but he was lost in a sea of smiling faces. Sighing, I stared down lane six, a glorious image of his hairy ass filling my head. When I blinked, he was standing across from me, blue eyes twinkling, smile stretched wide.
“Hope you’re packed,” he said, hand discreetly over mine.
“Packed?” I asked, confused. “For what?”
The smile went even wider. “Dude, the top three go to Maui. All expenses paid.” He gripped my hand in his. “Two tickets, Matt. Like, duh.”
The smile was infectious. “Hawaii, here we come,” I said, fist pumped at my side.
“Emphasis on the come, Matt,” he whispered, with a sly wink. “Emphasis on the come.”
FIRST-TIME JITTERS
Stephen Osborne
I don’t know,” Cal said, eyeing the material skeptically. “They seem to be…skimpy.” He took the shorts Tenny had handed him and stretched out the waistband. He held the trunks against his crotch. “And I think they’d be too tight. I didn’t think guys wore stuff like this anymore.”
Tenny shrugged. “It’s the classic look. It’s coming back. Besides, you got a good body, Cal. You should show it off.”
Cal wasn’t short, but he still had to tilt his head to look his coach and friend in the eye. “Everyone will be able to see my junk in these.”
Tenny grinned. “I’ve seen what you’re packing, Cal. I wouldn’t be embarrassed to show that off, either.”
The locker room was nearly deserted, but Cal still looked around to make sure that he couldn’t be overheard. Lowering his voice, he said, “What if, during the match, I get…excited. You know?”
“You asking what happens if you sprout a hard-on?”
“Yeah. It happens. Hell, look at all those pics on the web of amateur wrestlers sporting boners in their singlets.”
Tenny’s laugh echoed in the confined space, causing the few people in the room to look their way. “Well, Cal, with what you got in those jeans, I’d say if that happens the audience will really get their money’s worth!”
Cal laughed along but only because it seemed like the thing to do. He watched as Tenny reached down into the gym bag and pulled out a pair of long white boots. “What are those?” Cal asked.
“Want you to wear these tonight.” Tenny tossed the footwear into Cal’s arms. He then pulled white socks out of the bag and threw them toward Cal as well. The socks hit Cal in the chest and flopped onto the concrete floor.
“What’s wrong with my black boots?”
“You a jobber, boy. Wearing black trunks, you gotta wear white boots. Otherwise people think you the heel.” Tenny shook his head in mock weariness. One of the other wrestlers called to Tenny and the big man gave Cal an encouraging nod before wandering away.
Cal could never figure out why Tenny, who he knew to be a college graduate, chose to speak like a character out of “Amos and Andy.” Maybe Tenny believed such vernacular was expected from a large black man who liked to train pro wrestlers for small independent promotions. Shaking his head, Cal scooped up his gear and headed over to a wooden bench. Setting down his stuff, Cal began to pull off his clothes. Mason City Pro Wrestling had managed to score a gig at the local high school and while the wrestlers were allowed to change in the boy’s locker room, they weren’t allowed to use the lockers. Cal just hoped his wallet and cell phone would be waiting for him after he was through with his match.
His match—his first time actually performing in front of an audience. He’d practiced for months with Tenny and the other guys, but this…this was it. After tonight he would actually be able to call himself a professional wrestler. True, he was getting a whole twenty-five dollars for getting pummeled for fifteen minutes by his friend Nate Tucker, but it was money. And while Nate could get a little carried away and Cal had no doubts that he’d receive a few bruises along with the pittance he’d be paid, at least he knew he could trust Nate not to break any bones. Not purposely, anyway.
Cal had to struggle into the trunks. Damn, they were tight. He looked down. Even flaccid, his cock stood out against the dark material. Good thing he was going up against Nate. While Nate was a great pal, Cal didn’t find him sexually attractive in the least. Wrestling was a turn-on for Cal and he didn’t need any further stimulation, or he’d almost certainly spunk in his trunks right in the middle of the action.
Cal was testing out whether to keep his socks up or scrunch them down around the tops of his boots when Tenny came back over. “Good look for you. Told you.”
“I’m used to my black boots. These aren’t broken in.”
“Gotta wear the white ones. Jobber boots.” The big man sat down wearily.
Cal had one foot up on the bench, adjusting the tongue. “Socks up or down, Tenny?”
“Up. You getting bigger, boy, but let’s face it: you still got skinny legs. The socks will make your legs look a little thicker.”
“I just don’t want to look like a dork.”
“Anyone call you a dork, kick ’em in the nuts.”
Cal smiled and pulled his socks back up. He glanced around the locker room. “Have you seen Nate? I wanted to talk over a few moves with him before our match.”
Tenny didn’t look Cal in the eye. “Ain’t coming.”
Cal paused, hoping he’d heard wrong or that Tenny was joking. “What?” he asked when he saw his coach wince unhappily at being the bearer of bad news. “You mean my match is canceled? What the hell does it matter about my fucking socks, then, if I’m not even going to wrestle?”
“Oh, you still wrestling. Hell, we only got seven matches tonight. Can’t afford to cancel one. No, you gonna be wrestling Logan Briggs.”
“Who the fuck is Logan Briggs? And what’s wrong with Nate, anyway?” Cal could feel the heat in his cheeks. He hated that he was raising his voice to Tenny, but anger management had never been one of Cal’s positive traits.
“Nate’s got the flu. Briggs is with the Maverick Wrestling Fed. He’s a bit bigger than you, but he was coming to the show anyway and I needed someone fast. Nate just called me an hour or two ago.”
“So you’ve known this all night and you just now thought you’d share?” Cal felt like punching one of the lockers. It’d make a great bang and would release some of his frustration, but he was afraid the school would make him pay for any damages so he kicked the bench instead. With Tenny’s weight on it, the bench refused to shift even a centimeter. All Cal accomplished was to send an unpleasant shock wave up his shin.
“Don’t scuff them damn boots. They’re new.” Tenny sighed. “I knew you’d blow your top. That’s why I didn’t tell you earlier. Didn’t want you to have time to stew about it. Besides, you’ll do great, no matter who you wrestle.”
“I don’t know this guy!”
Tenny looked over toward the locker room door, which was opening. He nodded at the young man coming in, duffel bag slung over his shoulder. “Here’s your chance to get to know him. That’s Briggs there.”
Cal’s jaw dropped. Briggs wasn’t huge, but he had a perfectly proportioned body. Even with his shirt on, Cal could tell that Logan Briggs had a tight six-pack and pecs to die for. The guy looked like he just stepped off the cover of a men’s health magazine.
Worse, he was gorgeous. He had short, brown hair and eyes of a pastel blue that seemed to sparkle even in the dim lighting of the locker room. And his mouth was achingly kissable. His walk was poised, confident. It was like someone had gotten inside Cal’s head and found what he considered the ideal male and sculpted Logan Briggs out of the ether.
The young man spotted Tenny. He grinned and strode over to them. Logan’s smile was facial perfection. “Hey, Tenny,” he said. “Hope I’m not late. Who’s the guy I’m wrestling?” His glance fell on Cal. “You Cal Martin? Pleased to meet you!”
Cal smiled weakly and shook the proffered hand, hoping no one would notice that he was now stretching the thin material of his trunks to near breaking point.
While Logan changed into his gear, Cal made the excuse that he was thirsty and went out to the hall. He hovered near the drinking fountain but didn’t actually take a drink; then, pacing the hall, he tried to concentrate on the sadness of the world—starving children, the homeless, lost puppies, anything other than how Logan Briggs would look in his wrestling garb. That way lay disaster. Biting his lip, Cal looked down. He was still showing, but at least he wasn’t tenting. For the first time in his life Cal wished that his dick wasn’t so damn big. No one in the audience would be watching the action. They’d all be focused on Cal’s obvious boner.
The audience. Maybe there wouldn’t be much of a crowd. Cal had gone to a few of these small independent shows before and often there was a meager smattering of patrons. A few here, a few there. Nothing to worry about.
Then he remembered that he’d asked his mother and little brother to come to the show.
“Fuck!” Cal kicked the wall.
“Hope you don’t use that much force when you’re kicking me during the match,” came a voice behind him.
Cal turned. Logan Briggs was wearing a black leather jacket, black trunks nearly as skimpy as Cal’s, and tall black boots. The boots had a white skull and crossbones emblazoned on them, just to make sure the audience knew that Logan was the bad guy of the match. Cal bit his lip again, this time to ensure that he wouldn’t drool.
“Just having a bad night,” he said, knowing it sounded lame.
Logan smiled. Cal wished he would stop doing that. Cal had no defenses against that smile.
“I thought we could go over some moves,” Logan said. “Get an idea of how each of us works. You more a mat guy or a high flier?”
“High flier,” Cal replied. His voice sounded too high, so he cleared his throat and nodded, repeating the words.
“Cool. More a mat guy myself, so you can keep on trying leaps off the ropes and I’ll catch you and pound you over my knee or something. I think you should come out dominating for the first few minutes and then I’ll kick you in the balls or something and turn the tide…”
Cal had thought Logan had trailed off, but he soon realized that the young man was still talking. Cal had just gotten lost in those crystal-blue eyes. God, they were amazing. And those shoulders. Logan had his last name tattooed on his right bicep. The BRIGGS curved nicely with the muscle. Cal imagined that when Logan flexed, the Gs popped right up into your face.
