Hot Jocks, page 15
Which was when his tongue snaked into my asshole.
I gasped in shock, my body instantly rigid before involuntarily relaxing as his tongue lapped at my hole. He knew what he was doing, all right—and my right foot began to shake as erotic pleasure swept through my body, aches and pains vanishing as ecstasy controlled my consciousness. I closed my eyes, tilting my head back—
And he tossed me aside as easily as he would a fly.
I landed on my side with a thud, my head spinning.
And again, there was pressure on the collar.
He dragged me first to my knees and then to my feet. I struggled to breathe. The pressure eased and I gulped air as his arms circled my waist. He hoisted me up, pulled my body tightly against his slick chest. His lips pressed against mine before his tongue darted into my mouth. I tasted sweat, salty and tangy—and I could also taste myself. I closed my lips around his tongue and sucked. Then I started grinding my cock against his furry, wet abs.
My hands dropped to his massive biceps, first caressing, then squeezing them.
He flexed and his power crushed my lower back.
It hurt—god, how it hurt. His power-packed arms were steel in my hands. My resolve and determination ebbed.
He’s not even squeezing hard.
Just say, “I quit.”
He growled, low and deep in his throat, as the bear hug tightened.
And the intense, blinding pain crossed the line into pleasure.
I lowered my head to his neck and started lapping his sweat.
“You like that, boy?” The deep timbre of his voice sent chills through my body.
“Oh, god, yes,” I gasped, in a bare whisper.
He thrust his cock between my thighs. I wanted it inside my ass.
I wanted him to fuck me until I screamed.
I wanted to shoot my load all over myself while his cock pounded me.
I wanted to be his slave, his toy, for as long as he wanted me to be.
I wanted to lose myself in his body, abandon myself to his lusts and desires and needs. I wanted to suck his cock until his balls were dry. I wanted to worship his godlike body. I wanted him to blow a load in my face. I wanted to feel his powerful arms crushing me for as long as I could take it; I wanted him to break me in half, destroy me, humiliate my manhood and break my spirit until all I could say was, Yes, sir, oh, yes! I wanted our bodies to merge until we were one flesh, one spirit, one desire.
My tongue brushed against the warm leather collar around his neck.
The collar.
I slid my hands up his sweat-wet skin and rested them on his powerful shoulders, all the while grinding my cock against his abs and licking his neck. He was breathing hard—but I knew the difference between heavy breathing induced by exertion and panting brought on by pleasure—and this was pleasure. He loved holding me helpless in his arms while my hands adored his muscularity. Having me completely at his mercy was his turn-on.
And I liked being at his mercy.
But I also liked the thought of having him at mine.
I slid my hands along his shoulders and moved my head to his ear. I started kissing it, nibbling his earlobe. The pressure on my back eased slightly.
I grabbed the strap with both hands and yanked.
His eyes opened wide and he released me. I dropped to the mat and jumped back, pulling the strap with all my strength.
His hands grabbed the collar. He dropped to his knees.
“How do you like being dragged by the throat?” I hissed. I circled behind him, jammed my foot into the small of his back and pulled back. Hard.
He gurgled as his head snapped back, his body arching against my foot. He swung his arms back until one of his hands closed on the strap, but he couldn’t use all of his strength—my leverage rendered him effectively powerless.
And completely, totally, at my mercy.
He looked magnificent, a sculpture of helpless masculinity, the muscles in his ass tight, the muscles of his back, arms, and shoulders rippling as he struggled helplessly against the pressure of the strap pulling against his neck.
“Say it,” I said.
“Fuck you!” he bellowed as he yanked desperately on the strap, almost making me lose my balance.
He had to quit.
This was my last chance.
I leaned back, adding my weight to my muscle.
He screamed as his back arched backward in an impossible bow.
“Say it.”
“I…quit,” he gasped. His body relaxed, all the tension gone from his muscles as he sagged. I dropped my foot and released the strap. He sat back on his haunches.
I’d done it.
I’d beaten Big Tom.
I sat down hard, my body spent and exhausted.
We both sat motionless, no sound but our labored breathing.
Finally I got to my feet.
I walked to where he sat, with a short detour to reach into my bag on the floor outside the ring, and knelt in front of him. His head was bowed. “Wow,” I said, smiling. I wiped sweat off my forehead. “That was intense.”
“Yes, sir.” he murmured, still not looking up.
I placed my hand on his chin, tilting it up. His eyes were downcast, not meeting mine. “Look at me,” I commanded.
“Yes, sir.” he whispered, his eyes meeting mine. “I’m yours to do with as you please, Master.”
Master.
I liked the way it sounded. My cock pulsed.
I stood and stepped closer to him. I slapped his face with my cock.
“Suck me, boy,” I commanded.
He opened his mouth and swallowed my cock. His hands reached around and grasped me, pulling me closer. His tongue worked the underside of my erection while his hands kneaded my ass. I unsnapped the leash from my collar and let it fall. He kept working on my cock with his tongue and mouth.
Incredible.
I reached down to the muscle of his shoulders, and applying gentle pressure, massaged him. He tilted his head back without stopping his expert cock-work. His eyes were half-closed.
“Mmm,” he moaned, and the vibration from his throat and tongue vibrated against my cock.
“Oh, fuuuuuuuuuuck,” I moaned.
He let my cock slip out of his mouth, licking the tip before getting down on all fours, and turned his hairy, muscled ass up to me. “Fuck me, Master,” he said, almost begging.
I stuck my tongue in between the two cheeks, savoring his sweaty mustiness. He moaned as I worked his hole, swirling around and around the opening before darting my tongue as deep inside as I could. He shuddered. I reached around with my left hand and grabbed his rigid dick, stroking it, running my thumb over its head as moans and gasps escaped from deep inside his diaphragm. I spit on the hole and slid my left index finger inside, wiggling it around. He was tighter than I expected, which got my cock even harder. He lowered himself onto his elbows and ducked his head down as, now in deep, I tapped on his prostate. His cock was dripping, the stickiness of his precum spreading across my hand.
I wanted, fiercely, to be inside.
“Fuck me, please,” he breathed as I continued massaging his prostate, his body shuddering with delight and pleasure.
I released his cock but kept my finger inside as I slid a condom over my aching cock. I pressed the head against his hole to tease him.
“Oh, god,” he shuddered again, “I want you inside of me. Please fuck me.”
I smacked his ass with my free hand. “Beg.”
“Fuck me!” he roared.
I rubbed the head of my cock against his hole again. “I said beg, boy.” I snarled, “Beg or no cock.”
“Please,” he whimpered, the last bit of defiance gone from his massive body. “Please, sir, please give me your cock, I want it so bad I—”
His words were cut off by a loud grunt when I shoved my cock deep inside him. He went rigid, the beautifully sculpted muscles in his back and shoulders leaping out in definition as they flexed.
He was truly magnificent.
I impaled him, shifting my hips from side to side, then slowly started to slide out of him, his tight hole reluctant to release me, until only the tip of my cock was still inside. I smiled as I sat still, not moving—waiting for him to beg me to plunge in again.
He was soon whimpering, begging.
I shoved in as fast as I could and his moan echoed in the corners of the gym.
I repeated my fuck, shoving my cock deep inside until my balls slapped his ass, retreating slowly, then shoving back in, twisting my hips so my cock rotated inside him.
He whimpered again.
There is nothing hotter than a huge muscle stud begging for your cock.
I fucked him faster, slapping his ass.
His hole tightened.
The friction was so strong I was surprised sparks weren’t flying off my cock.
Then came the slight, telltale ache in my balls that meant I’d be coming soon.
For a split second I debated taking a break, sliding out and starting over.
But, taking in the beauty of those so-perfectly formed muscles, I knew I couldn’t.
I shoved inside again and again and then—
He moaned, his body convulsing with every shot of cum spouting from his cock.
And then I was utterly consumed with the power of my own orgasm, sensation flooding my consciousness as cum flooded the condom.
It was over.
I relaxed onto my haunches and peeled the condom off.
He settled his knees to the mat and turned around, Puddles of cum glistened in the red light from overhead. A long string of clear cum hung from the slit of his beautiful cock.
He smiled. “Damn.”
“Damn, indeed,” I replied, reaching over to squeeze his hairy pecs.
He pulled me into a gentle bear hug and kissed me on the cheek.
“I hope you’re a cuddler,” he said, standing and pulling me to my feet effortlessly.
“I can’t think of anything I’d rather do than fall asleep in your arms,” I replied.
“All right, then.” He scooped me up and carried me to the locker room.
PILE ON MATT!
Aaron Travis
Okay, I’ve been the wrestling coach at Bonar Boys College in Boston for about five years, but I’ve never had a group of guys as wild as these four. I mean, I’ve always practiced only the highest ethical standards in relation to my students, you know? Look but don’t touch, that’s my rule. Salivate, but don’t seduce. Ogle, but don’t—you get the idea. I mean, it’s one thing to imagine licking a hot-blooded nineteen-year-old college wrestler from his armpits to his ankles, sticking your tongue up his gorgeous butthole till he screams, nuzzling your goatee against his sensitive scrotum till his balls start dancing like Lady Gaga—but I would never, ever actually do any of that stuff with my students.
Or so I thought.
I’m Coach Matt, by the way. You can call me Coach. You can call me Matt, which is short for something long and Italian that Anglo-Saxons have a hard time wrapping their lips around. Shit, you can treat me like a mat—pile on! That’s what I tell my guys. Look at this bod—okay, so maybe it’s acquired a little extra padding over the years, maybe five pounds of fat on a two-hundred-twenty-pound frame. All the better to absorb a few hard knocks. Underneath are muscles like steel. Shit, I could hammer nails with my bare hands. You could break twoby-fours over these thighs. Those kids fresh out of high school come up against me and they know they’re up against a man!
Up against each other is another story. Jeez, I remember when I was their age—I could hardly put on my wrestling togs, much less get on the mat with another young stud and go at it one-on-one, without throwing a boner the size of my forearm. These young guys are just like I was, always horny. But this latest batch is even more so. Most guys at Bonar Boys College keep it to themselves, you know, or try to. Talk up their studly prowess with the babes, badmouth cocksuckers, all that shit. But these four, I could tell there was something statistically alarming going on from the first day of the semester. Not only were they the top four in my freshman wrestling class, but there seemed to be a certain…well, you know, a certain spark among all four of ’em. I knew I wasn’t imagining it.
Shit, after a workout with these four, I’d lock myself in my office and whack off for a solid hour. You get awful close to guys when you coach wrestling. I mean, real close. Close enough to watch every muscle while they’re straining against each other. Close enough to get a really good look at their meat and watch the way it moves inside their jockstraps. Close enough to smell their sweat! After a couple of weeks, I could tell ’em apart just by the smell of their armpits. I could have named each one of’em in the dark, just using my nose.
First off, you’ve got young Mr. Bonar himself. That’s right, Bobby Bonar, great-grandson of the founder of BBC. The rich little snot couldn’t get into Harvard or Yale so he ended up on the family plantation, so to speak. Wears his black hair greased back, thinks he’s hot shit—which he is. Imagines he’s Bonar the Barbarian, wrestling stud, but behind his back they call him Bonar the Bonehead. A business major, naturally.
I put him on the yellow team with beautiful blue-eyed Bolt, so-called because of the little lightning bolt tattooed on his shoulder, and because he’s as quick as one, too. He’s the littlest guy on the team—not a lot of meat on Bolt, but he’s about as slippery and hard to get hold of as a piece of spaghetti. Al dente is right—shit, I’d like to sink my teeth into those gorgeous white buns! He’s studying drama. Okay, so maybe he’s a little bit prissy, but he’s still all-boy, if you know what I mean.
In the red togs: black Irish, black-haired Kelly. What a body on that kid! And what a basket! He’s got the devil in his eyes. Rumor has it he came to BBC with a checkered past—wrecked his car racing on the drag when he was in high school and got a local Baptist preacher’s daughter in trouble. The car was totaled and the girl disappeared for a while. Now I only see Kelly on a bicycle and he never seems to go near any girls. He’s another business major, like Bonar.
I teamed Kelly up with all-American Tad, a brown-haired boy-next-door from I-fuckin’-kid-you-not Cockitoomee, Arkansas. If Kelly’s a devil, Tad’s an angel, about as sweettempered a guy as you could meet. He’s at BBC on an academic scholarship. One of those Arkansas liberals, real active in political clubs on campus and carries an autographed picture of Hillary Clinton in his wallet. Wants to be a social worker, for chrissakes.
The first round of varsity competitions was coming up, and we had the BBC trophy to defend. No way was I going to lose that trophy to a rival school. The scouts were reporting stiff competition this season, so I assigned extra practice sessions for my top four men. The only slot that worked out on everybody’s schedule was at eight P.M. We had the last ninety minutes before they locked the place up.
There’s always something a little weird about night workouts. Everybody’s rhythms are a little off, especially with these young guys and all those hormonal surges that start up after the sun goes down. I think it was a full moon, too. I should have seen it coming.
The guys loosened up first, doing stretches and bends. I did the same thing myself, watching those taut young muscles work up a sheen of sweat and a nice pump, only the stretch was in my jockstrap and the bend was in my hard dick.
First I matched up Bonar against Tad. For some reason Bonar was out for blood—probably ran over his limit on one of Daddy’s credit cards. He was throwing Tad all over the mat before you could sing, “Up against the wall, welfare mother.”
So then it’s Kelly on little Bolt. You never know who’ll wind up on top between these two. Kelly’s strong and mean, but Bolt’s wiry and really knows how to use leverage. They were flip-flopping faster than a pro-life politician facing a paternity suit.
Okay, so I’m watching Kelly and Bolt, and meanwhile Bonar and Tad are supposed to be watching from the sidelines, picking up pointers, but instead I see ’em out of the corner of my eyes across the room, on the mat in the corner. Looks like they’re having some kind of argument—maybe Tad’s had enough of the Bonehead’s wisecracks, or maybe Bonar is still working off his bad attitude. Shit, they’re grabbing at each other’s togs, ripping ’em up. I’m about to blow the whistle and stop the match between Kelly and Bolt, but a little voice in my head says, “Hey, wait a minute, something funny’s going on here.” You know, like it was something in the air that night.
So I’m keeping one eye on the match and the other on Bonar and Tad, and holy shit, the next thing I know Tad’s got Bonar stripped down to his jockstrap! I’m beginning to think that maybe they’re not on such unfriendly terms with each other after all, but then it looks like they’re fighting again. I look down and I can see that Kelly notices, too. Bolt’s in no position to notice, since Kelly’s got him pretzeled against the mat about to snap him in two.
Then, out of the corner of my eye, I see that not only have the Bonehead and the Bleeding Heart shredded each other’s singlets, but I’m seeing dicks and naked buttflesh!
Of course, I should have broken it up right then and there—should have run over to separate Bonar and Tad. But I didn’t. Something in my head said: Cool it and just let things run their course. It was this energy in the air, I’m telling you.
Instead I blew the whistle on the match and mumbled to Kelly and Bolt to practice on their own for a while ’cause I needed a break. Then I ducked down the hall into my office.
Whew! I grabbed a cup of coffee (as if my nerves weren’t jangled enough) just so I’d have something to do with my hands besides pull out my whang and beat off. This line of work is starting to drive me nuts, I thought. I must be imagining things. I took a few deep breaths, swallowed more coffee, paced around the office and then headed back.
Only I was real quiet in the hall, so they wouldn’t hear me coming. Now why was I so quiet and secret-like? Was I really expecting to walk in on something? In your dreams, Mattafrangiannini ! I told myself. I poked my head around the corner.
Holy shit! There must have been some kind of hormone attack going on in the wrestling room! Tad and Bonar were in one corner, still going at it, except now they were both stark naked. And it looked like Tad finally had the upper hand. Bonar must have liked it that way—the kid had a hard-on like the Tower of Pisa. It even leaned a little to one side. Tad, I noticed, was uncut.
