Gym Boys (14 page)

“All that's left to do is cornbread,” I say, sipping my Lord Calvert. I nudge his bearded chin with my cowboy boot, then gently press the boot's sole against his cheek. “You're really hurting, aren't you?”

Mike looks up at me. For a few seconds, we simply gaze into each other's eyes. Finally, he shrugs.

“Tell me the truth.”

Mike bites down on his gag, exhales and nods.

“Thank you, Mike,” I say. “Thank you for your surrender. For giving yourself up to me. It means so much,
so
much to have you like this. To see you lie there and struggle and try to get loose and know you can't. To see you suffering like a slave at my feet, knowing your life is in my hands, that you depend on me for your welfare, your future and your freedom. I own you, don't I?”

Mike musters a weak smile. He nuzzles my boot and nods.

“And you own me,” I say, finishing my drink. Dropping onto my knees, I unknot the rope connecting Mike's wrists to his ankles. He stretches his long-constricted legs, whimpering with deep discomfort and relief. I untie his ankles, massage his thighs and calves, then help him to his feet. Legs shaking, he leans against me for support. I take him in my arms, kissing his gagged mouth and bearded cheek again and again.

“How about I take my belt to your beautiful butt, then treat you to the ass-pounding of your life? Would you like that?”

Mike's response is distorted but intelligible. “Hell, yes,” he mumbles, brow bumping mine. “Hell, yes. Hell, yes. Hell, yes.”

Bent over the preacher curl pad, Mike bellows and jolts, straining against the ropes still binding his wrists and elbows behind him, jerking against the additional ropes I've added to fasten him down to the bench. Beneath my belt, the pale, fur-covered curves of his ass, already pink after his birthday spanking, achieve a rich crimson splotched with bruises.

I beat him till he sobs. Dropping the belt, I twist his long-clamped nipples until his sobs deepen and tears course down his face. Then I strip off my clothes, ease out Mike's butt plug, and shove my cock into him. Mike winces and gasps. Writhing and nodding, he bucks his eager butt back against me. I wrap an arm around his trussed torso, press myself against him, grip his cock and start up a steady ass-pounding. After hours of sexual buildup, it takes us both less than a minute to shoot.

“That was quite the howling you made when I finally took those clamps off your tits. Another reason to call you ‘cock-hound,' huh?”

“Guess so.” Mike chuckles, nestling back against my chest. “I loved it when you sucked on 'em so hard right afterward.”

After an hour's worth of luxurious post-cum nap, Mike and I are spooning beneath quilts in the master bedroom. On the hearth, a wood fire flickers and cracks. Outside, November night is falling, snow flurries continue their bleak necessities and wind soughs through spruce.

“You felt so good inside me, Buck. All that plug did was make me horny as hell for you to put your prick up in me. That was a plowing to remember. A birthday to remember. Man, I can't believe I'm forty.” Mike heaves a sigh, plucking at his chin. “Damn gray in my beard.”

“You may be forty, but you're hotter than ever,” I say, kneading his rope-chafed wrists. “Every time I feel like whining about my age, I think about all the guys in my youth who died of AIDS, and that puts things in perspective. I may be forty-one, but, God, I'm thankful for all I've been given. I never thought I could feel so much passion again or care for a man so deeply. We wasted two decades apart, Mike. I don't want to waste any more time.”

“Glad to hear you say that.” Mike fumbles beneath his pillow and retrieves a little box. Rolling over, he hands it to me. “You've been giving me gifts all day, so now it's my turn. Here ya go.”

“What you got there?” I open it. Inside are two matching silver rings etched with Celtic knots.

“My God. Are these…?”

“Wedding rings. Despite the fact that this damn backward state won't let us get married. Thought you'd like the knots. Sorry I couldn't afford gold.”

“Jesus, Mike. Wedding rings? Really?”

“Really.” Mike grabs my hand. “So, will you marry me? If not in the eyes of the law, in the eyes of God?”

“Wow. I can't believe it.”

“Believe it. So, bud, yes or no? You gonna stick around to rope and rape your bad boy?” Mike gives me another one of those broad catfish grins that stole my heart twenty-some years ago. “Keep the ole redneck cock-hound in line? Treat my butt right?”

“To quote a certain hairy and handsome captive, ‘Hell, yes!'” I squeeze his hand and kiss him hard on the mouth. “Hell, yes.”

“I figured you couldn't resist my charms,” Mike replies with a long-lashed wink. “This bigger one's yours.” He slips the silver circle onto my left ring finger.

“And here's yours,” I say, sliding the smaller ring onto his hand.

“So I guess we're husbands now,” Mike says, pressing his palm to mine. In the hearth-light, the matching bands of silver glint.

“Guess so,” I say, interlocking his fingers with mine. “I am one lucky man.”

“Me too, Buck. I feel so safe with you. I love you so much.”

“I love you too, Mike. You're one tight-assed dream come true.” Reaching over, I give his swollen nipples gentle tugs.

“Ohhh, yeah. You got 'em good and sore,” he groans, leaning forward to kiss me. Our tongues meet and probe, wrestle and flicker together. Wrapping an arm around him, I pull him closer. I give his stiffening cockhead a few strokes, then slip my right forefinger between his asscheeks and rub his lube-sticky hole.

“Ummm. Uh-huh! Yep. Yep. Put it in me.”

“Again? It's getting late, frisky boy.” Grinning, I lick saliva off his bearded chin. “Aren't you hungry?”

“Yeah…” Sighing, Mike squirms against my teasing finger. “I even bought…some ch-champagne. Fancy French stuff…t-to go with dinner…to celebrate in case you said yes. B-but right now…” He angles his rump and bends his leg, allowing me to slip a knuckle up inside. “Oh, y-yeah. I'm thinking… I'm thinking…I need…I need…”

“Seems to me, husband, that you need to be butt-fucked yet again,” I say, pushing my finger into him another inch. “I may be forty-one, but I'm up for it whenever you are.”

“Damn. D-damn, husband. You got…my…hole so hungry. You got me addicted to how good your cock fills me up,” Mike murmurs. “Yeah,
uhhh
. Keep that up, okay?”

“You bet,” I say, driving my finger home and beginning a slow in-and-out thrust.

“Ummm, yeah. There ya go. That's sweet,” Mike groans, quivering against me.

“Nothing sweeter. Not even cake. Sure you don't want dinner first?”

“Naw,” Mike says huskily, pressing his face against my shoulder. “Food can wait. Got another hunger needs fed first. Work my hole some more, please, Sir. Then tie me belly-down to the bed, tape your underwear in my mouth, climb on top of me and screw me again. Make it sweet and slow and deep. Make it last a long time. Ride me till I'm raw, then dump another load up my ass. Please, Sir.”

I kiss his cheek, watching firelight burnish his bare limbs. “You got it,” I reply, working in a second finger. “Feel good?”

“Lord, yes. Lord, yes.” Mike nods dreamily, stroking his cock, sighing inside the blessing our mingled bodies make. His submissive ass, slick and tight, pulses rhythmically around my fingers. “I can feel your heart,” I whisper. As if in answer, the hearth logs flare up in brief and fiery triumph.

GYM FRIENDS
Fox Lee

A
nyone who tells you he likes going to the gym is a liar. He may get off on the endorphins, he may love the rush, but only true freaks love the gym. I hate the gym. I hate driving there after a day of work; never mind that I work from home I still hate it. I hate the stupid outfit I wear, the special shoes I had to buy and the drinks they sell at the bar. Bar my ass, it's a place for the actor/barista to spy on us then dish over soy crap lattes.

The worst part is that I'm still at the age where I don't have to go to the gym. I'm fit without trying, the blessing of being Asian. Call it a stereotype, but statistics don't lie. Unfortunately, one day being trim won't be easy and I don't want to wait until then to get used to making myself unhappy. If I were coupled and deeply in love, I would let myself get a little soft. Alas, love hasn't found me yet. So here I am, at the gym, miserable.

Some info on me: I'm average height (when any man says that it means he's a little short) with long dark hair and Thai skin. Think coffee with light cream Thai. I've been told I pass for straight, which is supposed to be a compliment, but honestly dating would be easier if I didn't spook the nice gay boys. Hence I go to a gay gym. At the moment, I'm working on my legs and trying to ignore the trickle of sweat running down my ass. That's when I see him. Skinny. Tall. Japanese. Oh Buddha forgive me, but I love Japanese men too much to ever become a monk. Sorry Mom (long story). He's on the treadmill, his legs lost in his baggy basketball shorts. I love him. I'm going to spend the rest of my life with him. I wonder what his name is?

Within three weeks, I have rearranged my schedule to match sexy Japanese guy's. He keeps to himself and I'm shy, but there's no reason to think he's an asshole. I maintain a polite distance, never let on that I spend my workout imagining his skinny ass naked. What his hole looks like stretched out and wet, what his teeth feel like clumsily bumping my dick. I save my energy for home, where I beat off so hard my dick calls a lawyer the next morning.

Forget my dick, back to sexy Japanese guy. I'm so fixated on him I almost miss the red flag. Finally it clicks, every time I see him at the gym he's running like he's trying to escape a fart. It's the only thing he does, no weights, no machines. When he looks ready to pass out he takes a shower and goes home. This is all very mysterious and hot, but after a while I get worried. He's losing a lot of weight, looking haggard. Cute skinny is one thing, but my future husband is wasting away and that won't do.

I ask around to see if anyone knows him or his story. Maybe he's getting over a flu, and there's nothing to worry about. Maybe he's on drugs, and a lost cause. The tenderer among us debate whether to say anything. My closest friends, four bears that would scare me if I didn't know them so well, are blunt. Someone has to say something they decree, he's going too far.

“If he wants to kill himself, he can do it at home,” my friend Rick says. “I don't want to see that shit.”

We draw condoms. I get the non-lubricated one. The Trojan has spoken.

I'm not happy. Why do I have to be the one to alienate the hot Japanese guy? I like him. I have warm, squishy feelings about him on an hourly basis. Sadly, that very reasoning works against me. If I love him so much, why won't I talk to the guy? I wait until he's in the locker room, freshly showered with his pants on, and move before he gets his shirt on. He might never come near me again, so I have to make the most of the moment.

“Hey,” I say as I sit down. Because all great speeches start with a pointless address. “Can I talk to you about something?”

“Sure.” He leans away a little.

“I've been noticing you working out. It's really impressive; I would die if I ran that fast.”

“Thanks.”

He calms down, resumes putting his socks on.

“But you're getting a little…” I sigh. “Oh fuck it. You're starting to look like a stick figure dude, and it's a shame to do that to a hot body.”

I wait for him to yell at me, or shove me off the bench. Instead he gets up and goes to the mirror next to the scale. He stares at himself a long time, then gets this look in his eyes that breaks my heart.

“How long has it been this bad?” he asks.

“It's not bad. But you're headed there. You know you're not fat, right?”

He laughs. It makes his eyes look incredible.

“Fat? I'm about two hundred pounds from fat!” He sits back down, closer than before. “I don't run to lose weight, I run because I'm angry at my ex-boyfriend. He cheated on me, and acted like I was the asshole when I left him.”

“That's it?” I probe.

“That's it. One bad breakup and I turn into Forrest Gump.”

“Maybe you can take a dance class.”

“Too much thinking.”

“You miss him that much?”

“Like I'll miss the STD he gave me.”

“Ah.” I contemplate this. “Curable?”

“Yeah. Although I'm going to have to go back to make sure that's all he gave me. I mean I don't think he gave me anything bad, but who knows? We skipped the condom a couple nights, and it's all I can think about when I can't sleep.”

This is not sexy talk, so why do I want to throw him down and lick every inch of his body like some giant cat? I put my hand on his back.
There, there
, it's meant to say.
I'm not thinking of how your nipples taste, I promise
. I can smell his skin, which is so clean from the shower it almost glows.

“Do you want to go out for coffee?” I ask.

Coffee is safe. Coffee is not the drink of sex perverts and sociopaths. Those people drink tea.

“Caffeine after a workout?”

“I won't tell.”

“I would like that,” Sexy Guy says. I have missed the window to ask for his name. “But I can't. I mean I'm not ready.”

“I get it. But if you would never ever say yes, please tell me now. I mean, being polite is great, but in this case rejection is better.”

He's surprised. Humble guys are the best. “I would love to have coffee with you,” he said. “Eventually.”

“Then consider me on standby.”

“That's not fair.” He kisses me on the cheek and my cock wilts. “But you're a nice guy.”