Muscle Men, page 6
“What do you say, muscles?” I asked. My cock was getting harder. Every muscle in his back strained as he tried to power out of the hold. But no one is that strong—the leverage I had was too much even for someone as powerful as Max Coleman. His asscheeks clenched as he struggled, and I knew when he submitted this time he was going to pay for everything.
“I submit! God, I submit!”
“What did you say?” I asked.
“I SUBMIT! I SUBMIT! I SUBMIT!”
I let him go, and he leaned against the ropes. I stuck my right index finger in my mouth and licked it. I pressed up against him, putting my mouth to his ear. “I’m going to fuck you, bitch.”
“No, man, no!”
I slid my slick finger into his asshole. He resisted until I slipped my left arm around his thick neck, my forearm flexing against his head, and yanked backward. His ass relaxed and my finger slid in. A moan escaped his lips.
“Yeah, you know you want it.” I stood up, maintaining my hold on his neck so he had to come up with me. I pulled my finger out of his asshole, reached into my boot and pulled out the condom I’d tucked there earlier. I tore the package open, spit into it, and slid it one-handed over my cock. I tightened my arm around his neck and pulled him onto his toes, then kicked his legs apart, sliding the tip of my cock inside his hole.
His body stiffened, every hard muscle tensed even harder, then he relaxed with a shudder.
“You want the whole thing, don’t you?”
“Yes,” he whimpered.
I shoved my stiff cock inside him.
He screamed—but the scream died into a primal growl.
He arched his back and shoved his ass toward me.
“Give it to me!” he snarled in his deep, masculine voice.
Oh, hell yeah. There’s nothing hotter than a massive muscle stud who not only likes to get fucked—but who wants it hard.
I slapped his bubble butt and slid slowly out until all that was left inside was the head of my engorged cock. He writhed, his pumped muscles trembling with desire. He tried to push back, to force my cock back in, but I grabbed his right arm and twisted it behind him. I leaned forward and whispered into his ear. “Beg for it.”
“You bastard.” He spit the words out. Still gripping his arm, I released my choke hold and grabbed his cock with my left hand. He moaned as I stroked him. We stood, the tip of my cock inside his ass…and then, as I sensed his orgasm starting to build, I rammed deep into him, thrusting hard, up on my toes. He rose up onto his toes with a loud moan, and he came…and I pulled back and started pushing into him harder and faster until I could feel my come starting to rise, until I shot my entire load, my head going back and a gasping growl tearing out of me.
We froze like that for I don’t know how long, his sweat-soaked body and mine joined.
I dropped his arm and pulled out of him, peeling off the condom and tossing it into the garbage can outside of the ring.
He turned around and smiled at me.
Warily, I took a step backward.
He grabbed me and pulled me into a big hug, crushing me in his big arms. He kissed my neck and whispered, “Come spend the night with me.” His hands came down and cupped my ass. “I want you to tie me up, man. Please.”
I smothered a laugh and kissed him. “I’d love to.”
“That was hot, guys,” the Boss called out. “Nice job.”
“Come on,” Max said, winking at me. “Let’s get in the shower—and then head to my place.”
I followed him into the locker room.
THE AMBIVALENT GARDENER AND THE STATE OF GRACE
Jamie Freeman
Double damnation, Sherie, your husband is gorgeous.” Wanda sipped her sweet tea and stared out the kitchen window.
Sherie wiped her forehead with the back of her wrist and glanced out the window. She stopped and gritted her teeth in annoyance.
“You know that bitch Nancy has to come out and sit on that damn porch swing every time Jericho sets foot in that yard.”
“Slut,” Wanda hissed.
“Bitch,” Sherie’s voice stretched the word out like a string of summer taffy. Bee-itch. “And why does he have to spend so damn much time out there in the yard anyway? Planting bulbs and pruning the roses and mowing the damn grass? Why doesn’t he just let me get a couple of Mexicans to come do that stuff? Maria’s brother said he’d give us a good price.”
“Maria’s Cuban,” Wanda muttered absently.
“Well, what the hell’s that supposed to mean, Wanda?”
“I don’t know, just that they’re not Mexican, they’re Cuban.”
“Wanda, what difference does it make? You are so dizzy sometimes, I swear and—god, just look at him out there, standing in the middle of the yard in those damn shiny shorts trimming that tree and putting on a muscle show for Nancy. That bitch.”
Wanda stood beside her, shaking her head and jiggling the ice in her glass, watching Jericho stretch his body taut, imagining him standing naked out on the lawn, his enormous body glistening in the sunlight, every muscle tanned and gleaming. He beckoned to her with an outstretched arm and a shiver ran down the length of her back.
“You cold, honey?”
“No, it’s just the ice,” she said, turning away from the window and sitting back at the table. She refilled her tea from the glass pitcher, condensation dripping onto the lace tablecloth.
“I heard Nancy’s fucking that black cardiologist over at the—”
“You can’t call him black.”
“The hell I can’t.”
“No, it’s true; you gotta call ’em African Americans, like the president.”
“Oh, lord, Sherie, don’t get me started on that—”
“You really think Nancy’s diddling that cardiologist?”
“Oh, I know it for a fact.”
Sherie turned around, leaning against the counter and folding her wet arms across her apron. “Bullshit you know for a fact,” she said.
“Hand to god,” Wanda said, raising her right hand like a well-paid perjurer.
“How do you know?”
“Popeye told me—”
“Don’t call him that, Wanda. His name is Pete.”
“Well, he’s got those big ol’ muscular arms and Navy tattoos an’ all—”
Sherie gave Wanda the look and they settled into silence for a moment.
Sherie caved first. “What did Pete tell you?”
“Well, just that he was cleaning the doctor’s pool and out comes Nancy, sweet as can be and she’s all peaches and cream, telling him how strong he is and what big muscles he has and all the while, taking off her bikini and walking around buck naked save for her Manolos and pouring herself a glass of ice water and asking poor Pete if he wants some and, well, you can pretty much guess what that means.”
“Just because Nancy was at his house swimming in the nude—”
“Sunbathing,” Wanda corrected her.
“Right, sunbathing. Just because she was at his house sunbathing nude doesn’t mean anything, Wanda. Welcome to the twenty-first century.”
“The way Pete was grinnin’ I got the impression something was going on. You know, something romantic or whatever.”
“What the hell would Pete know about women?”
Wanda looked at her, startled. “What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked.
“Oh, please. Everybody knows he’s a homosexual.” Her voice dipped to a whisper, her lips twisting the word with the slithering cadences of orange blossom honey and malice.
“Well, I didn’t know,” Wanda said, gripping her glass more tightly. “He used to date Stephanie O’Steen.”
“Clueless,” Sherie snapped.
“No she’s not—”
“Wanda, she got lost on the way to church last week.”
“She did not.”
“Dumb as a box of peach pits, that one,” Sherie insisted.
“Well, I don’t believe that,” Wanda said, shaking her head, watching the water bead on her glass.
Sherie looked out the window to make sure her husband was still working on the lawn and then ducked down close to Wanda, touching her hand with long cool fingers. “One night a couple of weeks ago, I saw Pete watching Jericho through the window.”
“What?” Wanda let out a little sound that was half shriek, half giggle.
“And he was jerking himself.”
“What? Oh, my god, oh, my god, you are joking, Sherie!” Wanda was so excited by this image that her breath became ragged and she pressed her palm firmly against her breast.
“Nope, I swear to god.” Her accent was dripping now, pulling extra syllables out of “swear” and “god,” each syllable adding to her delight in recounting the story. “I was sitting in the TV room and Jericho was upstairs changing clothes after work. It was late, maybe nine-thirty or so, and it was dark outside and about five minutes after Jericho went upstairs I saw Pete walk right up to his bedroom window in nothing but a blue robe and he was looking across at our house, and he wasn’t there but a minute before he’d untied that robe and let it drop open and he was…” She faltered.
Wanda urged her on in whispered exhortations. “What? What happened? What did he do then?”
Sherie dropped her voice again, glancing around the room again. “He had a hard-on, Wanda. And he started touching himself and loving on himself something fierce and about the time he…you know,” she blushed at the thought of saying it, but she pressed on. “It was about that time I realized he wasn’t watching me at all, he was looking in the window of the upstairs bedroom.”
“You thought he was watching you?”
“Well, of course I did, Wanda. You don’t—”
“But he was looking at Jericho?
“Yes, at Jericho, what’d I say?”
“Holy shit, Jericho’d kill the little queer.”
“I know,” Sherie said, “I know.”
“Well, what happened?” Wanda asked, leaning forward.
“Nothing.”
“What d’you mean, nothing?”
“Nothing,” Sherie insisted. “I heard the shower upstairs and after a while Jericho came downstairs and I told him what happened, and he said he hadn’t seen anything and maybe if I stopped watching so much garbage on television, I’d quit hallucinating fairies in the garden.”
“He wasn’t mad?” Wanda asked.
“He didn’t believe me, not one word.”
“Well, I’ll be,” Wanda said, biting her lip, thinking hard.
“You know, sometimes I don’t know why I stay married to that man.”
“Who?”
“My husband, Wanda. Can’t you listen to me for five minutes without going off on one of your damn fool woolgathering expeditions?”
“Jericho’s a catch, honey.”
“He ain’t all that,” Sherie said, taking a glass off the counter and dispensing ice from the door of the refrigerator.
“He’s all that and a bag o’ chips!” Wanda said.
“Don’t be stupid.”
“I’m not stupid.”
Sherie sighed. “I’ve been thinkin’ of leaving him.”
“Oh, honey. No.”
“It’s time. He doesn’t love me anymore, and, you know. I haven’t loved him since Emory was a little boy. And there’s someone else that—”
The kitchen door slammed open and Jericho barged into the room grinning and beautiful beneath a layer of sweat and dust. Wanda wanted to lick him clean. Sherie wanted to slap the grin off his face.
“Hey, Wanda,” he said. “Sherie, honey, do we have any—”
“Shoes!” she shouted at him. He froze. Wanda looked up in surprise.
“What?” he said.
“Don’t you come in here like that, I just cleaned the floors,” Sherie said.
“Maria will be here in the morning,” he said, toeing off his shoes and peeling off his sweat-soaked socks. He tossed them behind him onto the grass. He stood grinning at them, clean and perfect from the ankles down, toes wriggling against the cool tile of the kitchen floor.
“What do you want, Jerk-o,” Sherie said. “Wanda and I were talking.”
He winked at Wanda and padded over to the refrigerator. “I was just gonna ask if we got any Gatorade.” He rooted around until he found a bottle of blue liquid and then closed the door and leaned against the counter. He tipped the cold liquid to his lips and drank it down in a long sensual movement. His shiny Gator basketball shorts were wet and loose, the head of his thick cock sliding visibly beneath the material when he moved. The waistband of the shorts rode low on his perfectly sculpted abs, a trail of dark hair emanating from beneath the elastic and scaling the mountain of muscle that became the broad outlines of his chest. Wanda stared slack-jawed and silent. Sherie scowled her hatred at him nearly as visibly as her friend radiated pink waves of desire. Jericho finished the bottle of Gatorade and looked at the two women for a moment.
“Have you seen Emory?” he asked.
“He’s probably across the street buying pot from that bitch Nancy,” Sherie said.
“I doubt that,” Jericho said, rinsing the bottle and tossing it in the blue recycle bin.
“Oh, why is that, Jon Caleb Thomas?” she asked, underlining her scorn by spelling out his entire legal name. “Is your precious boy too good to get mixed up with the likes of Nancy?”
Jericho grinned at her and Sherie wanted to pick up a knife off the counter.
“It’s not that, darlin’. I just happen to know for a fact our son buys his weed from Ted Whittaker.”
“Get the hell outta my kitchen,” Sherie shouted. When Jericho chuckled again Sherie threw the glass across the room, shattering it against the tile and showering the floor around Jericho’s feet with shards of glass.
He turned on her, “Goddamnit, Sherie! I’ve had about enough of you,” he bellowed. “I’m leaving for Chicago tomorrow morning; can we just call a truce for the next twelve hours?”
She stared at him, face red with anger and shame.
“Can we fuckin’ do that?” he shouted, the veins in his neck bulging, his muscular chest flushing an angry mottled red and white.
She looked at him, grinned angrily and reached for Wanda’s glass.
He parked his truck in the long-term lot and pulled his bag off the passenger seat. He hefted it up on his shoulder and walked across the shimmering parking lot, breaking a sweat in the hundred yards to the single terminal.
When it was time to preboard, Jericho looked up and saw Randy making the first boarding call and then turning over the desk to the short blonde whose name he couldn’t remember. Jericho flashed his boarding pass, slipping through the gate and out across the sunny tarmac.
When he got to his seat, Randy appeared out of nowhere.
“Warm nuts, Jericho?”
He laughed. “No thanks, Randy.”
“You know, one of these days, you’re gonna take me up on my offer,” Randy said, laughing and stepping aside to let one of the coach passengers slip past him.
“You know something, Randy? One of these days, I just might.” Heads turned in Jericho’s direction as his baritone laugh danced through the cabin.
“Keep surprising me, Jericho,” Randy said. Jericho watched his round bubble butt as he sauntered to the front of the plane. He looked like he’d been working out, especially his legs, which were growing thick and hard beneath the dark airline-issue pants.
The flight to Charlotte was quiet; Jericho listened to a random mix on his iPod, wandering through Brad Paisley, Dolly Parton, the Dixie Chicks, Reba McEntire. He and Sherie were screaming more than they were talking these days. He hadn’t meant to lose his temper in front of Wanda, but when that second glass shattered on the door frame beside him, he’d lost it, screaming and carrying on like the anger ball she always accused him of being. The truth was he was pretty genial except when she pushed him—and after twenty years of marriage she knew just where his buttons were.
But it hadn’t always been like that. They’d been so good in high school and college; she’d been his best friend. When he wrestled competitively in high school, she’d come to his meets, and he’d gone to see her in a string of musicals at the Gainesville Community Playhouse: South Pacific; Hello, Dolly; Guys and Dolls. All of it a little screechy and nonsensical to him, but he’d gone and he’d brought her flowers on her opening nights, and he’d clapped and hooted during the curtain calls, and really, he’d enjoyed it, enjoyed seeing her doing something she loved so much. And college was pretty much the same. She’d gone to the Gator games and watched him play; he’d gone to sorority fashion shows and dances and loved her so much he could barely breathe in her presence.
He had never fallen out of love with her. She was still flawlessly beautiful to him. He still sometimes looked up from his morning coffee and saw her coming down the stairs in something flowy and flouncy and he’d get a hard-on and feel his pulse start a stallion’s gallop. But those moments of passion were becoming fewer and farther between and were greeted by Sherie with silence or sarcasm. The last time he’d tried to kiss her, maybe a month or two ago, she’d pulled away and told him to go take a fuckin’ cold shower.
He couldn’t think of anything to say in response; he’d just walked out onto the deck, stripped off his shirt and shorts and lain naked in one of the lawn chairs that faced the pool, eyes closed against the world and the setting sun.
He suspected she was having an affair with Jerry Hopewell, the minister at the church they sporadically attended. About five years ago Sherie had been born again, a concept that seemed a little alien to Jericho, a little un-Methodist, really, but that’s how she characterized her experience: born again. As if somehow her poor mother had botched it the first time. She had suddenly become a member of every class and committee, dragging poor hapless Wanda along with her. Overseeing all this passionate activity was the dashing (married) figure of Jerry Hopewell, former runway model and Methodist minister extraordinaire.
Jericho and Emory had been skeptical. Emory flat out told his mother that he was fourteen and an atheist, and he was not going to church. Jericho was ambivalent about religion, as he was about so many other things, and had agreed to accompany her to Sunday services periodically, but had disappointed her with his lack of religious fervor.
