Thursday, December 11, 2008


Back in the eighties Brandon and I hooked up at a basement bar in Savannah.

I was traveling through from Jacksonville to Atlanta, late autumn. The memory of fried clams at the Olde Pink House lured me off 95, and a good scotch sounded pretty great, too, right about then.

Brandon was at the Planters Tavern downstairs, and we struck up a conversation, which led to his place on Jones Street. Wrestling trophies and some framed team photos sparked a conversation about our university days—his in South Carolina and mine in Rhode Island. We tried out a few holds, grappled a little on the floor, and had hot, heaving sex in his bedroom.

We saw each other three or four times in the following year—once at my place in Atlanta, the rest of the times at his in Savannah. Then we lost touch.

We had our separate lives—his in city politics, mine in fashion photography—and without actually forgetting about him, I kind of disappeared off his schedule and he disappeared off mine, having never really been more than casual fuck buddies who happened to share a fondness for wrestling for top.

Then a couple of months ago I got a Facebook request from Brandon, asking whether I was the same first name/last name he had known decades earlier. I was teaching art in Durham now; he had a horse farm outside Augusta, semi-retired. In a matter of days we were caught up with each other’s histories and planning a weekend at my place—a veterans’ tourney, he called it.

First thing, as he steps out of his Jeep, I am struck with is how handsome he still is. Sure, he’s lost some hair, but high cheekbones and a hawk-like nose retain the brute handsomeness that caught my eye 25 years ago. He looks damned fit, too. We eye each other and chuckle. I mix us a couple of Friday afternoon screwdrivers, and we sprawl on the sofa to watch an Old Reliable wrestling vid on VHS.

I laid out some mats in the spare room off from my home theater. We strip down, stretch, and compliment each other’s physiques. Brandon wears yellow-gold fight trunks, and I wear a bright red Speedo. As in the old days, Brandon launches into some trash talk to get the juices flowing.

“I guess I better knock some of that rust off your pecker, son,” he says. “May have to bust you up some too.”

We circle each other on the mats, then he lunges into me, throwing me off balance. I am able to spin over to land on top of him, but he powers loose and reverses, riding my back and raking his forearm across the bridge of my nose.

I buck him off me, and we spring to our feet, agile and strong, as if the years between now and back when have melted away. Sensing that we are tough enough to take it and dish it out, we throw ourselves more aggressively into the fight. We lock up catch style, pulling and shoving to throw the other guy off balance.

“Son, I’m about to fuck you up and down,” he drawls, with considerable charm, truth be told.

Brandon stands about two inches taller, but we match in weight and experience. His short brown hair is graying, but the fur on his chest and belly is dark. The gold shorts show off the firm curve of his butt and the contours of his circumcised cock. He’s not massive, never was, but his pecs are hard and flat, punctuated by small, erect nipples. He’s got a soft gut, like me, but a round and well-defined navel. His shoulders and back look broader than they were back in the Reagan years. His arms are sinewy and freckled, hairy from wrist to elbow. They move with liquid grace, flashing, when loose, like nunchuku.

Our arms grip, tug, and squeeze tentatively, groping for leverage, an open, unprotected spot, and a weakness to exploit. Maybe he remembers how vulnerable I am to sexual attacks: get me hard and my strength shrinks down to my balls—a cinch to overpower, strip, and possess. He can be attacked in the knees, or used to; a little leg torture could make him tap out in a matter of seconds.

I rush him and grab his waist, heave him up on my shoulder, drop him under me to the mat. He grunts as he hits the mat on his back.

I try to lock my legs on him, but he bucks free twice. I slap his face to taunt him. He crooks his arms up protectively, but I manage to slip past and deliver some resounding smacks anyway, a little harder than “playful” calls for.

He thrashes wildly to escape, but I manage to mount him, my balls pressed hard against his lower belly. I feel his cock stiffen at the small of my back. I grab his wrists and pin them to the mat on either side of his head. Wedge my heels into his hips and use them to bounce him up so I can smack him back down under my full weight. I drive his body down like this maybe four times, each blow pushing the wind out of him. He gasps.

I ride him, but his cock nudges against me, and I start to get hard too.

I grind him against the mat. He tries to squirm loose, and I use this effort to flip him over on his chest and apply a full nelson. I’ve got him now. Fists behind his head, I press his face down, smashing his nose and mouth into the blue polyfoam. My cock like a pistol to his back.

I hunch up on my knees, leaning into him, shoving his face harder to the mat, rocking forward to add to the humiliation and torment. He groans, more like a low growl.

I shove his face down again to gain some space to shift to a figure-four hold, attack his defenseless legs. His left calf behind his right knee, his right leg crooked on top of the left. I lie on my left side next to him, my left arm gripping him in a half nelson now, his face still smashed to the mat, my right leg riding his right. His right fist pounds the mat. Derisively, I backhand the base of his skull. My cock stiff against his shorts. His writhing and bucking massaging its veiny contours.

I relax the hold and shove his face back to the mat as I push myself up to my feet. He lies there, sweating, gasping for air, gathering his strength.

Just as he starts to push himself up, I drop down on the small of his back with my elbow. I roll over and jump to my feet, wait till he pushes up to all fours again, and slam back down on his back. He howls, tries to push back up, and I repeat the punishment.

I straddle his hips and squat down on his ass, bend his legs up under my pits in a Boston crab. His ankles twist over my hard quadriceps, and I lean back to stretch his torso. He groans.

“Submit,” I tell him, but he says, “Fuck no, shithead.” I snap him further back and then drop him.

He writhes under me, and I peel the gold shorts off his ass. Wrap them around his ankles and pull him back to the center of the mat. Then toss the glittering Lycra to the corner.

He paws the mat, struggling to get up. I jam my forearm up to his adam’s apple and pressure the carotid artery. Pull the back of his head against my breastbone. He claws at my elbows and bucks up against me. My biceps bulge at his neck. I look down at the veins swelling on his forehead. His sweat turns cold, and the struggling is now slow motion.

I let him go and push him down to his elbows. I spank his ass, leaving pink fingerprints against the firm white flesh. Experimentally I poke my right index finger into his anus, and it grasps the finger tight. I massage the moist interior in a circular motion, and he relaxes, permitting two, then three fingers to invade. His stiff cock slaps against his belly.

My left hand pushes his head down, as I pull my fingers free and flip him over to his back.

I shed my Speedo and hop on him, grinding my sweaty body down on his. I smother him, driving myself down on him in punishing thrusts. The smacking of flesh on flesh fills the gaps between our groaning. Our bodies writhe and flash. He pinches my nipples, and I grip his hands in mine.

He arches his back and prods my ass with his upright rod. He thrusts his pelvis up, and he enters me, momentarily, and then his muscular legs entwine mine and pull me down to him. I struggle to break free, but I lose my balance and his cock penetrates the darkness of my anus. His strong legs immobilizing me. The hot surge of desire incapacitating me. I collapse with my full weight to his chest, but too late.

He grabs the hair at the base of my skull and yanks my face towards his. His five-o’clock shadow scrapes my cheek. I taste the vodka and tobacco on his mouth. His cock drives harder into me, and he works his tongue into my mouth. His mouth is hard. It feels like I’m kissing a marble statue. Rhythmically, ridiculously, I break wind against his repeated stabbing.

My muscles go slack, and he works me like a marionette, licking my face, rolling me on my back, still impaled on good ten inches of tenacious cock, my legs straddling his taut freckled shoulders. He sucks at my nipples, while pulling my head back by my hair. My shoulders pinned to the mat—his cock pinning me to himself.

He shoots, and I feel his hot jizz fill me up.

He pulls himself out. He lifts me up to my knees, wraps his arms around me, and pushes his fingers into my loose and well-lubricated ass. My cock flops lazily against his, and he resumes sucking and licking my tit. His left hand massages the glans and veins of my cock. I am about to burst.

Then he stops. Every nerve in my body flashing, and he stops. He pulls himself away and hovers just inches from physical contact.

Then he wraps his legs around my waist from behind and rolls me on top of his chest. His feet prod my thighs apart, and he stretches me out. Grabs a fistful of my hair and wrenches my head painfully to his shoulder. Our hearts pounding, my torso and legs stretched out to their limits, sweat glimmering over every inch of us, I submit … totally, helplessly.

He chuckles with self-satisfaction and releases me. I collapse on my back like I’m made of rags.

Then he squats down on my face, his ballsack smothering me, and bends down and takes my cock in his mouth.

I cum, shivers shooting through both our bodies at once.

1 comment:

  1. Steamy!, even though there are shivers. Hot match/match up.



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