Hot Jocks, page 4
Brian ran his hand up the back of Nathan’s thigh and rested it on his ass. “We’ll work it out, Nathan. I know we will. I’m your football player for life.”
LET THE GAMES BEGIN
Barry Lowe
You may have seen me on television advertising a certain brand of lawn mower. I’ve got a good body and stripped down to shorts I look fucking great. I’ve appeared on a few sporting calendars and in the buff in a couple of women’s magazines where I list my favorite food as lettuce, my favorite movie star as Lukas Ridgeston, my favorite car as a Rolls and my favorite woman as…the one I haven’t met yet.
The funny thing is, though, I never go out with women. It’s always guys. But these mags never seem to get around to asking who my favorite man is. Mine? Well, the answer would have to be the one who’s fucking me right now. And that’s just about anyone I pick up at the bars.
And picking men up at bars is something I’m very good at. You see, fame is a powerful aphrodisiac. Even though I’m getting long in the tooth in gay years I am, at least, an Olympic athlete. With a swimmer’s body. Beijing was my last Olympics. Guess it’s unlikely I’ll make it to Rio. Anyway, it’s not the competition I ache for any longer, though I have set a few world records in the pool, and have a shelf full of cups and medals to show for my trouble. What attracts me is the cock.
At any sport meet there’s bound to be a whole range of new hot studs and hangers-on eager to soak up the advice and friendship of a veteran winner. Some guys go for the babes. I go for the boys. And I get ’em, too.
But the Olympics are something special. The camaraderie: win or lose, it’s an experience you’ll never want to forget. And Beijing for me was certainly that. The gold medal was great, and there’s all that great Aussie backslapping from the media and the politicians and the people back home—that just makes it better for the day I stand up and tell the fuckers I’m a nelly queen who loves cock. That’ll make a few sporting officials shit’emselves. And it’ll probably make a few more of the guys nail themselves more securely in the closet.
I know I should have done it sooner but, well, I guess I’m a weak bastard. I knew if I told ’em too soon I’d never be picked for the national team. And I had a good reason to want to go: Matiss.
I saw him at the games in Athens: great little piece of chicken meat, far too young for me. But four years later—that was a different matter altogether. There he was in the Olympic Village, a beauty, a man now and not a boy, with an enticing swimmers’ body: about five-nine, hair as black as obsidian, gorgeous round face with slightly plump cheeks, sleek, muscular arms and thighs that could hug a bear to death.
His English language skills back then had been perfunctory but we’d had a few mumbled and mimed conversations in the canteen. He’d been chaperoned by the swim team manager and had clocked up decent times without snatching medals. But he was going to be a champion—in more ways than one. When I saw him in Beijing my heart went straight to my cock. And Denise noticed.
“My, hasn’t little Matiss blossomed,” she smirked. “Put your tongue back in your mouth, you’re drooling.”
I love Denise dearly as a fellow athlete and, as a cocksucker, she’s one of the best. But Matiss was going to be mine. First. She could have him afterward. Once I’d broken him in.
“You can have him at the Cocksucker Olympics.” Denise flicked her sweaty practice gear at me. “That’s if I don’t drain his balls beforehand.”
The last night of the Olympics was what we cocksuckers, male and female, looked forward to, a sort of sexual Olympics for anyone who wanted to be involved. And they gave out medals. Not officially, of course. This was all behind the backs of the officials. But my gold for the 2004 Cocksucker Games takes pride of place on my mantle at home.
“Nicky, you look good,” Matiss screamed at me across the canteen.
He had been chatting with a group of team managers who looked like thugs. One of them ambled over and whispered conspiratorially, “Meester Nicholas. Matiss, ’e would like for you to join him for a welcome wodka in our room.” It was as if Maria Ouspenskaya had suddenly morphed into a bulky Lithuanian weightlifter.
“Our room?” I said imagining this big bear of a man, obviously a competitor, using me as meat in his sandwich.
“I will be at training. You will be alone.” He winked and strode off like a muscle-bound gorilla with an oversize butt plug up his arse.
“Zo, chew vont to bee halone?” Denise leaned over and vamped in her best Greta Garbo.
“Fuck off,” I laughed. “This is true lust.”
“Remember,” she warned. “Don’t fall in love.”
“I never do.”
Matiss was nervous once we were together in his room.
“You look good,” he repeated.
“So do you.”
“You think my English, she has got better?”
“And your muscle tone, too, by the looks of it.”
“You think so?”
“Take your shirt off and let me take a look. Then I’ll be able to give you a considered opinion.”
It’s amazing how far you can go with other men when you tell them you want to admire their physique. Matiss quickly shucked his baggy, ill-fitting shirt and my jaw hit the floor. Well, it would have, if jaws could. This man was a god!
“Wow!” I whistled in appreciation. Yeah, queers can whistle, despite what you may have heard.
“You like?” Matiss smiled.
If he’d been working on his body to produce these results I don’t know how he’d had any time left to work on his English.
He produced a bottle of contraband vodka and paper cups and we chatted like two old friends. I suspect he needed the courage of the grog to ask me if I wanted to feel how solid his muscles were. I started with a few puppy punches to his stomach and moved on to caressing his biceps, running my hand over his stomach to his chest and then playfully tweaking his nipples. I could have died on his chest.
His trousers were so baggy I couldn’t tell what effect, if any, I was having on him, but my jeans were tight enough to reveal that my reproductive muscle was pumping blood like a vampire at a blood bank.
“You have big muscle, too,” he said squeezing the outline of my hard prick playfully. I didn’t know whether it was in jest or in earnest. But when he didn’t take his hand away even someone as slow as me could take a hint.
I tickled my fingers back down his chest and tummy. This time there was no macho pretense about admiring physiques. Wiggling my finger in his belly button—it’s an innie—made him giggle and when my hand finally found his solid cock in the folds of his trousers, he gasped. This boy was big all over.
“I make my body like this for you,” he said, before he gently pulled me to him and lathered my mouth with his tongue. This guy’s kiss was dynamite. Needing to breathe, I pulled away. But Matiss was back on the job almost immediately.
“Whoa, boy,” I gasped when I came up for air again.
“You not like Matiss?”
“Yes, I like Matiss. But my body needs oxygen every now and then or it goes into coma.”
He smiled. “Let me see body of Nicholas. I dream about four years.”
Now, that’s flattering in anyone’s language: to think that this young guy had stored away four years of fantasies about me. “I have photograph of Nicholas,” he added as he rifled through a drawer and produced a battered newspaper photo of me in Aussie colors at an international meet, flashing the shit-eating grin of the winner. “I carry it everywhere. It help me to win.” Then he added shyly. “And to learn English.”
Oh, oh, I thought. This guy’s a clinger. Gorgeous. But a clinger. He obviously had plans for the two of us, raising pigs in a little cottage on the Baltic coast. All my future held for him was a bed romp of uncertain duration and “Thanks a lot!” So the sooner I got on with it the better.
I ripped off my clothes, his stare sizzling me to such an extent I thought I’d get sunburn. He smiled; I stood naked; he dropped his clothes to the floor and moved in for a Lithuanian chest press, but I dropped to my knees rather than face another passionate kiss. Matiss flinched and dropped a few Lithuanian expletives as I started to suck.
His cock was swarthy and generous and had a slight bend in it like a mature banana but the taste was salty and aromatic more than sweet. Matiss was good practice for all those other endowments I’d be gobbling to my heart and throat’s delight at the sexual Olympics in about three weeks’ time. No, Matiss was great practice. I relaxed my throat muscles and took his cock to the base. He was a gentle lover and made no attempt to force himself on me, so I controlled the pace. That’s always the sign of a good top in cocksucking. But eager as I was, Matiss was determined to reciprocate. Lifting me off the cock I was so reluctant to vacate, he kissed me briefly and led me over to the bed.
He engulfed my prick; the sensation was total, as if my soul were being sucked and channeled into his incredible mouth. Matiss was little short of a miracle. I’d heard the occasional story of this sort of incredible passion. I’d never experienced it before. I’d never wanted to.
I attempted to break free; I didn’t want him to smother my individuality. He responded by holding me tighter. A feeling of delirium overcame me as he rolled me onto my stomach and his fingers lathered my arsehole with lubrication.
“I wait four years for this,” Matiss muttered. I couldn’t resist, even as I felt my hole being breached. There was no pain, even though I was in a position I rarely encouraged. His playful initial thrusts gave way to enthusiasm and, finally, to a toughness I began to enjoy.
Pushing back against all he could fuck into me, I grunted in appreciation and Matiss bellowed back each time his stomach slapped against my buttcheeks. There was no stopping the momentum; my head was bucking from the thrusts of the ramrod shaft that was teaching me the meaning of being fucked. I slammed my arse backward to take more of him inside me. We were reaching a peak…
Flash!
My come spewed over the bed. I yelped with pleasure from the intensity of the orgasm—and from the fright of the flash. When the spasms had subsided and Matiss had pulled out I dared a glance at the doorway.
Matiss’s gorilla roommate was holding a digital camera, which had just recorded our intimacy.
“A gold performance, Matiss,” he smiled. “And a silver for you, Mr. Nicholas.”
“What’s the meaning of this, Matiss?” I demanded.
He merely shrugged, and I spotted the condom on his prick. He hadn’t come.
I was in deep shit!
“The Lithuanians are on our side now, Nick,” Denise was commiserating with the fucking stupid situation I’d managed to get myself into.
“When it comes to sport there are no friends, only competitors,” I whined.
We were marching around the stadium during the opening ceremony waving to a crowd that was going totally berserk. I knew I had a good chance of another gold medal and no halfassed Lithuanian git with a digital camera was going to get me to throw it away. It just meant my cover would be blown earlier than expected and I’d lose a shitload of sponsorship deals. What the hell, I’d be the gay world’s pinup boy for a few weeks. And I’d get even more cock.
The next week I concentrated on the team effort although I was continually thinking of Matiss; not so much what he planned to do with the photo, as I suspected it would be posted on the Internet in a matter of days, but about the tingle I’d felt in my arse as he fucked me.
Matiss had smiled across the canteen and waved to me on a number of occasions, but I’d given him the finger. Everyone who knew us thought it was merely a routine form of psychological intimidation. Fortunately, we were drawn in different heats, but we both coasted to wins in easy times. I secretly watched from the stand as he surged to the lead early in his swim and stayed there. As he got out of the pool I’d made the mistake of standing up to leave, and he’d seen me. That cute face of his lit up with one of the shit-eatingest grins I’ve ever fuckin’ seen. And his gorilla saw it too.
“You like a copy of photograph?” he said in his slimiest English.
“I’d like all the copies and the camera card if it’s all the same to you, Lurch.”
“Perhaps you vould like for your Australian papers to have copy?” He smiled. Or leered.
“Not just at the moment, thanks. I’d still like to bask in a bit of geriatric glory before I come out.”
It was no use using subtlety on this man; he didn’t understand it. Or sarcasm, for that matter.
“It vould be a good idea if you come second to our champion. Or maybe even second is too difficult for an old svimmer like yourself.”
“Do what you like with the fucking photo,” I said with as much Dutch courage as I could muster. I was counting on most media not wanting to smear the record of an Olympic hero—at least until the whole bloody Games were over.
Denise had captured a bronze and a gold in her events before I found myself on the starting block for the main race. And, wouldn’t you know it; there was Matiss in the fuckin’ lane next to mine. We’d made the two best times. I was pissed off that his was two one-hundredths of a second better than mine, although I also knew I’d coasted in the preliminaries. But then, maybe he had as well.
He smiled and said, “Good luck, Nick,” as if he meant it, and held out his hand. We were on international television; I shook his hand to a roar from the stands and between gritted teeth mumbled, “You’ll eat my farts, fucker,” hoping the world’s microphones didn’t pick it up.
Here we were, the two fastest men over one thousand meters: one with his career ahead of him and one—well, mine was all but behind me, in more ways than one. I glanced over at Matiss and noticed the outline of his cock snuggled in his national swimming togs. And my arse ached to feel it again.
But there wasn’t time for maudlin thoughts as we flew through the air in our starting dive. The first lap separated the chiefs from the soldiers, and I realized Matiss and I had it sewn up even if we didn’t break any records. A Canadian and a Netherlander were close on our tails but I knew the Netherlander would run out of puff around the third lap and our only real danger was the Canadian. Cute he was, too.
Matiss and I were playing games. He’d burst ahead at one point and I’d let him go, and then I’d do the same. We were rounding the ends within a butterfly’s breath of each other and the spectators were screaming encouragement hysterically. We were giving them a show. We put more distance between ourselves and the Canadian so the outcome would never be in doubt. We were like two porpoises frolicking and, at times, I almost forgot where we were. It was dreamlike when we hit the final lap. The Canadian was a good three or four body lengths behind and the rest of the swimmers were long out of serious contention. I lapped Matiss and thought I saw that smile again. Fuck him.
Matiss dropped farther and farther behind until it looked as if there would be no competition. He was deliberately throwing the race. What the fuck was going on?
I slowed imperceptibly and Matiss caught up. The Canadian was closing and if Matiss and I kept this up he would win. Matiss and I were level now and with a slight nod of my head, which he acknowledged, we sprinted the last ten meters, Matiss touching the pad just ahead of me.
The crowd went berserk! Matiss punched the air just as I had four years earlier in the same event. He hugged me excitedly and I half expected a sloppy kiss. The times showed we’d both broken the world record for one thousand meters. Big deal. The record had been mine anyway.
Gold: Lithuania. Silver: Australia. Bronze: Canada.
We stood like slabs of meat and listened to what passes for a patriotic ditty in Lithuania. Don’t get me wrong, I think all anthems are crap and bring out the worst in people. It was what happened next that you’ve read about in newspapers or seen in countless loops on TV. The three winners were full of fake bonhomie and backslapping when Matiss leaned over from the winner’s podium and planted the biggest, wettest fucking tongue kiss on me that I’d ever known. Cameras focused in tightly, microphone-holding reporters spluttered and a few thousand pacemakers packed it in.
What did I do? What d’ya reckon? I fuckin’ kissed him back.
In the days that followed, Matiss kept a regal silence. He’d obviously voided his scholarship to university and would return home in disgrace. There was serious talk of stripping him of his medal.
That was his concern. Mine was the Cocksucker Olympics—though I found Matiss in my mind more than I cared to admit.
“Snap out if it!” Denise yelled. “You won’t even get the bronze if you carry on like this.”
There are no starters’ blocks for the Cocksucker Games, though you are allowed to bring a cushion, provided it is of official dimensions and contains sponge rubber, not feathers. The contestants line up in front of a paneled wall, the female cocksuckers at one end and the male cocksuckers at the other. The wall is riddled with a row of glory holes at various cock heights all along. At the starter’s gun we drop to our knees and swallow the condom-sheathed cock that protrudes from the hole. This goes on until the last cock has been drained or there is only one contestant still kneeling. Winners are determined by the number of sperm-filled scumbags in each person’s possession. No hands are allowed except to remove the full rubber.
The cocks are supplied courtesy of male competitors in the village as well as friendly journos, sportscasters and various auxiliary staff. There is never a scarcity of volunteers. I just hoped the lesbian competitors were as well organized.
The starting gun cracked, but my mind was wandering and Denise was on her knees, at work on her first big purple-headed number, before I realized we were away. Mine was a cute uncut cock of medium size, and I was wrapping my lips around it as Denise yanked the condom off her first triumph. God, she was good. And fast! Though organizers did tend to put the premature ejaculators at the beginning to add spice, and the depositors could always come back for seconds.
