I woke up with my usual morning hard-on and lay awake for a few moments in that delightful state half way between full consciousness and sleep. My hand slid up and down my prick, and the little eddies of pleasure as my foreskin slipped over my cock head caused my erection to get even harder. I wasn’t going to work that day so there was no need to rush, and I had lots of time for a really good wank. On the other hand, part of my brain said I ought to “save” myself for later, as I wouldn’t want to disappoint. “What the hell?”, another part of me responded, “You’re only 28 and you regenerate quickly. If you cum now, you’ll be ready again tonight.”
Pleasure won, of course, so I continued to slide my hand up and down my prick, then increased the pleasure by using two hands and allowing my moist, sensitive cock head to rub against the palm of my other hand. My legs moved languorously around under the duvet as I wanked away, and the prickly sensation from the hairs on my legs and arse as they slid over the sheets increased my sense of general well being and happiness. Now I started to really turn myself on, by gripping my prick really hard between my fingers, so that my meaty flange was teased and stimulated almost unbearably as it slid between them. I moved my other hand from my prick and rubbed at my nipples – they’re too sensitive, actually, for a guy in my profession, but at times like this it’s great to be able to bring yourself almost to the point of climax just by tweaking your nubs and gripping them between your finger nails.
I don’t really know what I’m thinking about when I’m wanking – sometimes I remember one of the women I used to fuck, back when I still did things like that before I learned about proper sex, and sometimes it’s about one of the guys I’ve just fucked. But a lot of the time I don’t think about anything at all – the sheer pleasure I can get from my own body is enough. I’ve always thought it strange that some men can only get it off by looking at porn, as I’ve never had that problem – the sheer excitement from physical stimulation has always been enough.
My breathing was quickening now, and a faint sheen of sweat was breaking out on my forehead and chest, and I knew I was near to shooting. I ought to have left my nipples alone and moved my hand back to catch my cum, but I was enjoying it too much so I just shot into the bed, or, rather, just at the last moment I forced my prick upwards so it mainly shot along my own belly.
I carried on trying to wank as I shot, and groaned with the exquisite agony that always causes me – I want to carry on wanking, but it’s just so amazing how I want to shout and laugh and moan all at the same time if I do. My arse even jerked backwards, as if it was trying to pull my prick away from my hand that was still trying to tease it.
Once it’s over, though, it’s over, and I lay there for a moment listening to my heart and my breathing – I always like to do that when I’m with another guy, too, and I hate it when they spoil this magic moment by wanting to talk.
My hand moved up from my cock across my ribbed belly, trying to scrape up as much of the cum from me as I could. A lot of it was entangled in my pubic hair (although not all that much, as I keep this trimmed quite short), and the treasure trail across my belly was also drenched in it. I got a fair bit of it, though, and brought my hand up to my mouth and licked my palm and fingers clean. I’ve never understood why guys don’t like eating cum – OK, the smell isn’t all that great, but the warm sliminess of it is one of those extra little pleasures that’s really not like anything else. I hate it when a guy who’s been sucking me off won’t take my cum in his mouth and I’ve sometimes had to be, shall we say, quite forceful to make him do it. And some guys don’t like you kissing them when you’ve got a mouthful of their cum – idiots, to miss out on that extra sensation you get when two tongues are coated with man juice.
Without thinking, I turned over onto my front and moved to get more comfortable for a few more minutes in bed. Oh shit – more cum stains on the sheets! It seems as if I’m always having to launder the sheets, as I really don’t like those little hard patches underneath me as I slip my nude body into bed (that’s another thing I hate – men who get dressed to go to bed: totally naked is the only way to sleep). I suppose I ought to get a cleaning lady or something, but it’s only a one bedroom apartment, and it doesn’t take all that much effort for me to clean it myself. It’s just that it always seems to need doing at a time when I’m not ready to do it. And some guys can be so fastidious – when you’ve just fucked them, or are just about to fuck them, why on earth should they be concerned about cum stains on the sheets, or if the towels in the bathroom are not absolutely pristine white? It’s not as if they’re going to catch anything from the bedclothes or towels, after all – we’re going to be in much more intimate contact than that and any germs that are going will pass from my tongue, or my fingers, or my prick, just as easily!
Anyway, thinking about these domestic things destroyed my mood of relaxed sexiness, so I got out of bed and went into the bathroom to pee, then rummaged around to find my running shorts. That first pee of the day is always the best, isn’t it? There always seems to be so much more piss to come flooding out first thing in the morning. And that’s another funny thing – the guys that like to play piss games always seem to want to do it in the evening – I’ve never found a guy who wants me to piss over him in the morning, even though there’s a lot of it available. If someone has stayed the night, they just want to shower and go – although perhaps they’re a bit scared of me when they see me in my full magnificence in the daylight. I’m really very harmless, although at 6’4″ and 210 lbs, all of it muscle, some guys do seem to be a bit worried – I do deliberately cultivate a hard image, though, so my thick black hair is kept at a number one, and, as I’ve said, my pubic hair is neatly trimmed. Some of them don’t like the big tattoo on my arse, either, but that’s part of the job.
I’m a bit of a traditionalist, really – I like those running shorts I always wore when I was younger – satin material with a cotton pouch inside, very short, and with the sides split open to let your muscles have minimum resistance. I hate those things they want you to wear these days – long legs, or, even worse, tight elastic all over you. I think some of those professional runners only wear them so they can show of the size of their pricks – if they were truly well built, like me, it would be obvious whatever they wore.
On “normal” work days I don’t run, and I don’t even go to the gym – I do really hard grunt physical work labouring on a building site, and that gives my body all the exercise I need. But on days like today when I’m going to travel, and at the weekends, I need to burn energy. So it’s seven miles for me now – and not at a gentle jog, either: I run, run so fast that my singlet is soaked in sweat within a mile. I don’t mind, actually – I can more or less turn off the boredom as I run, and when my lungs are protesting and my legs are aching, I can mostly ignore them. Since I moved to the East End it’s been better, as I run along the river bank and I don’t have the traffic fumes everywhere – I usually go in to Tower Bridge along the north bank, then back along the South Bank and through the foot tunnel at Greenwich. Actually, that might be more than seven miles, but I need to do that to keep me in good shape – and, let’s not fool ourselves, that’s what men pay their money to see: my body.
I got back and showered away the sweat, then grabbed breakfast – the guys on the building site always laugh at me when I try to eat healthily, but it’s them that are killing themselves with their big fry-ups. All I have in the morning is lots of cereal, and I don’t even use milk – I moisten it with fresh orange juice. Well, it keeps me in great shape, anyway – but perhaps it’s in my genes: dad was a big tough guy, too, and my kid brother plays a lot of rugby as a prop forward (although he has a desk job, and the last time we showered together I slapped his arse to show him that he’s not as firm and hard as he used to be!).
I always wear the same clothes – Jeans, work boots, a T-shirt, and a Jeans jacket or, if it’s cold, a donkey jacket. It really saves on cupboard space – all the clothes I own are in one half of one of the built-in wardrobes. I never wear underwear, either – if I have to strip, it looks messy to pull down boxers or briefs as well as your jeans – and some potential clients find it really sexy to see a guy’s bum or prick emerging directly from his jeans. Not that I need to audition much these days – I’ve got quite a reputation, and the places on the circuit book me “unseen”. I’m staying up in Birmingham tonight, but I don’t pack anything – I can wear the same clothes tomorrow, I can skip shaving, and so I don’t even need to take a small bag with me.
Walking past the site I’m working at currently on the way to the tube I deliberately take the other side of the road – I only skip a day or two occasionally for my other work, but the foreman can get pretty pissed off if he sees you blatantly walking past. I don’t really care if I lose the job as there are lots of others for guys like me who can really work hard, doing manual labour – so much is done by machine now, that blokes who can really get stuck in and work on those bits that can’t be mechanised can earn premium rates, and are always in demand. You can drive a loader, or use power tools if you’re pretty average, but when they need real pick and shovel work, they need strong, tough muscle, like me. But why cause unnecessary aggravation? They’ll just dock me a day’s pay a I didn’t turn up today, and that’s fine by me.
Being an organised sort of bloke, and with a lot of my trips arranged well in advance, I can always take advantage of special offers on the trains and the fare is a real bargain. I like the journey to Birmingham – it’s only 90 minutes or so, and it’s interesting to see the London suburbs flash by, then there’ the stretch where the M1 runs parallel and the train overtakes all the cars. I’ve got a Fireblade that would get me there quicker, I suppose, if you take the tube and the train times together, but it’s more relaxing on the train. And I don’t have to worry about some toe rag nicking my bike when I’m working at night. The only problem on the train is the kid who insist on playing personal stereos too loud, or who talk loudly to each other – it puts me off reading the paper. I told one lot of lads to shut up, and actually had to go and stand over them and clip one of them before they got the message this morning, but otherwise it was OK. I think they thought that they could ignore my warning, being as there were four of them, but four lads in their late teens are no match for me.
I wasn’t due at the Pit until five, so as I usually do I ducked into the Museum and Art Gallery on my way from the station – I always like their staggering collection of pre-Raphaelites, and it’s amazing that only a few years ago they were completely out of fashion! They have a good tea room, too, and although I don’t like eating a lot before the evening, I do need something to keep going.
One of the reasons why managers keep asking for me, I believe, is that I’m reliable: if I say I’ll turn up on such and such a day at such and such a time, I will. Some of the guys in this game are real flakes – they make a bit of money, then they’re off until they’ve run out, even if they’re booked for a bout. But I’m planning for the long term – I can’t do this much beyond 35 or so, so I take as many bouts as I can and I save all the appearance money and prize money – my “day job” pays all the bills on my apartment, and I live pretty frugally, really – no permanent boy friend, no kids, no fancy holidays. When I’m 35 I’m going to quit it all and go around the world until I find somewhere I want to spend the rest of my life. Of course, the managers might book me because I’ve got a really great body, a big thick prick, I’m “ruggedly handsome” I was told (which is what the customers like), and I don’t cause trouble – provided they pay me, I’ll more or less do what they want.
The Pit is one of the best run venues in the country. There are proper changing rooms for us guys with lockers so your stuff is safe, nice showers, a great fighting pit with padded sides so damage to you is limited, and the “public” areas for the punters are quietly luxurious. But it’s the manager who really makes the difference – Will is fanatical about making sure everything runs like clockwork, and when I arrived he greeted me with a firm handshake. Actually, he used to be in the game himself, and so I guess that’s why he’s so good – he can see things from our point of view. I suppose I could do that kind of job when I finally quit, but I think I’ll go around the world first!
I was exactly on time, and Will was at the rear door when I rang the bell. “Hey, Steve. Great to see you again. It’s a standard bill tonight – three pairs, patrons’ choice, fight to the fuck. OK?”
“Sure, Will. We fixed the fee, didn’t we – a thousand to appear, a thousand for a win, plus what I can sell the other guy for if I win?”
“Sure. The other guys are here – go and change, and be upstairs for an eight o’clock start.”
As I said, the changing rooms are pretty nice at The Pit – wooden benches, lockers…. just like a normal sports club. Only the shackling points, used when there’s an involuntary match and the victims captured from the streets have to be held whilst they wait to go up to the fighting pit, are not what you’d necessarily expect.
I recognised three of the other guys from bouts I’ve fought before, and nodded to them. It’s not etiquette to chat and talk to the other fighters, though, given what we’re going to do to each other, so I just stripped off in silence and put my clothes into my locker. I looked at the others doing the same thing, and I could almost guess what the patrons would choose – the relatively slim blond guy would almost certainly be matched against the big black, the two younger guys with “swimmers” bodies would probably go against each other, and I’d go with the guy who was a bit like me – same general height and muscular build, but hairy all over. When you start thinking about fighting you always think at first it’s going to be big tough guys like me who are the worst opponents, but actually it can be difficult to win against some of these other types – I always find it difficult if I’m matched against a young slim guy, as they tend do be so dammed fast on their feet and can get you on to the ground before you can think. Of course, if the bout goes on a bit, I’ll then always win in the end as strength overcomes speed – but I’ve had some close-run things!
It was good to see that all the guys were real professionals: all of them, like me, had the tattoo of the UK NWF on our right arses. You have to join, and get the tattoo, really, as it’s part of being a true professional. One by one we used the enema hose in the showers to really clean out our arses – I hate it when my opponent doesn’t do this, as shit on your cock is a real turn-off for the punters.. When I first started I used to hate having to fill myself up with water and then shit it out in front of other guys, but you get used to it – and at least at The Pit there’s a lavatory in the showers area: in some places, when you’re full you just have to squat over the outlet from the showers to get rid of it. It’s also interesting to see how guys prepare themselves after that – I’m almost at the top of the “ladder” of professional fighters, and I don’t often lose. But I still stretch and grease my hole, “just in case”. Half of us were going to lose tonight, after all, but I was surprised to see that it was only my opponent who went in for stretching and lubing – we grinned at each other almost sheepishly as we stood with one foot on the changing bench, probing at our holes to relax them and liberally stuffing lube up. If you ask me, it’s just foolish not to prepare properly – I know some guys are superstitious and believe that if they grease their holes they’ll be more likely to lose, but I think that’s rubbish – if you don’t lube up in advance, the risk of injury is so much greater, and it’s not nearly as nice for your conqueror.
At The Pit all the fighters start off wearing the same thing, and they supply neat white satin shorts – completely modest, you wouldn’t mind wearing them to play football in. We all pulled them on, and then Will came in to “do the honours.”.
“Well, gentlemen, I think you’ve all fought here before. There’s 45 minutes for the patrons to size you up, the last fifteen minutes ‘au naturel’, then they vote on tonight’s pairings, and then we’re off. I’ll just give you your numbers…..”
We had to pull down our shorts in turn, and he used a magic marker to put a large 1,2, 3 and so on on our left arses – the patrons didn’t speak to us much, and they used this so they could vote unambiguously on who was going to fight whom. We then all followed Will up the stairs to the public areas, to meet tonight’s patrons.
Most of the fights at The Pit are “black tie” affairs and the patrons, who spend a lot of money on the tickets, all dress up. Tonight was no exception, and wearing nothing but our white satin shorts we went into the bar area that was already pretty full – there’s a capacity of about 200 at The Pit, and I think most of them must already have been there. It’s odd at first to be walking around just in tiny shorts when most of the other men are in dinner jackets, but you get used to it. The thing I really hate, though, is that so many of them smoke – in spite of the air conditioning, the air stung my throat and the number smoking giant cigars was particularly disgusting – there’s just no way that the system can cope. In a way I was glad my clothes were downstairs – at least I wouldn’t have to smell of smoke afterwards!
The idea is that you move around, and the patrons can inspect you – most of them are pretty timid, but some feel your biceps, or run their hands over your shoulders, or even your belly. Half way through the inspection period Will gives a signal, and we all drop our shorts and the last bit of the inspection is with the fighters totally naked – and then the men can note down the numbers on our arses, and decide the pairings. I say “men” – there’s no reason why you can’t go to spectate at The Pit if you’re a woman: the sex discrimination laws forbid them selling tickets only to men, after all. But only occasionally do you see a woman there – and then she’s usually pretty stunning and hanging on the arm of some really old, really rich, guy. We may be selling our bodies for these men’s pleasure, but I think most of the women who turn up as guests are actually doing the same thing!
The examination, once we’re all nude, gets a bit tougher. Somehow having us totally naked in the midst of all these clothed men gives them additional confidence (or, perhaps, they’ve just had time to have a few more drinks and so they’re naturally bolder). After a bit more timid touching of shoulders and backs, some guy will fondle your arse “just to feel the power there” he’ll say to his fellows. That will be followed by a hand running up and down your thigh, and then a whole-hand rubbing of your chest and belly. One of the more drunk ones will sooner or later touch your prick, and once that’s happened, it’s more or less a free for all – once one has done it, they all want to. Guys will stand by the side of you, put one hand on your arse to hold you, then cup your prick in the palm of their other hand. Or they’ll weigh your balls up and down, “to see how they’ll react during the bout”. I’ve had guys slide a finger down my arse crack, but no one has (yet!) fingered my hole, but it’s not at all unusual to be ‘skinned as they “just want to see if his cock head is properly moist.”
It’s all pretty humiliating, I suppose, but the pay is, after all, excellent – a thousand quid for a couple of hours. The first few times I fought I hated this bit, but now I see it for what it is – an essential part of the evening’s entertainment for these guys, who are paying highly for the privilege. And why should I care if guys feel and fondle my body – I’ve absolutely nothing to be ashamed of. No, rather, I’m proud of it. And I know that all the men there wished they were half as fit, half as virile, and half as well made as I am: it’s probably the only time they get to handle a real man, after all!
Finally, Will calls to us again, and we line up on a mall platform along one wall of the room. It’s well lit, and we’re now all sweating so the lights cause our skin to gleam and shine. Will has a mike, and asks us in turn to step forward, turn around, and do a few simple poses and flexes. There are always cheers from the audience as this goes on, and I usually encourage them by going erect and ‘skinning, so they can all see my cock head glistening pinkly in the lights.
We are then sent off, and Will collects their votes on the pairings they want to see.
As expected, I’m going up against the guy who’s quite like me, and we’re going on last – that’s good, as in the “auction” those who want to but didn’t earlier will now be desperate to buy. And they’ll be a lot drunker, too, so the bidding will go higher.
The two “swimmers” go up first, and the four of us left sit there listening to the dull thump on the ceiling as they fight in the pit above our heads, and the roars from the crowd. It takes a lot longer than you think – the actual bouts are not much more than fifteen minutes, but with the “auction”, things take longer. The black and the slim blonde then were called up and we two were left alone. I have had some opponents try to “deal” to throw the fight, but the other guy and me just sat in silence – we were, I guess, both confident that we were going to win. I sat there with one foot up in the air, stretching my hole again, and I could see the other guy looking at me. He did the same then, and we both just shrugged and grinned – if it wasn’t for the money, I don’t think either of us would have cared who won: we were both great looking men, and either one would be happy to be fucked by the other.
Then it was our turn, and we mounted the steps and went through the door into the pit. The actual fighting area – the pit – is about 20′ by 20′. It has padded black leather all over the floor, and the sides are padded and covered in leather too. It’s called the pit as it’s set down from the main floor by about eight feet, and all the spectators are above you.
It doesn’t matter how many times you do it, and how used you are to the experience – somehow, as you step into the leather pit, totally naked, with two hundred baying men looking down at you, something happens – your heart races up a notch, your breathing quickens, and you start to get an erection.
Will announced over the PA “Gentlemen – the last pair tonight. It’s a fight to the fuck again, and the loser will again be auctioned. It’s no holds barred, but the fighters may not gouge, bight, or attempt to permanently injure their opponent by maneuvers such as pulling their balls. Let the fight begin!”
We cautiously moved closer to each other. We were both professionals, and knew there was only one outcome – one of us was going to fuck the other. I made the first abrupt move, and went for his legs, but the leather floor was slick from the sweat and cum from the first two bouts and as I dove for them, I half slipped. My opponent was able to move to the side and I temporarily lost my balance. As I turned around to face my foe, he wrapped one arm on top of my shoulder, and managed to get me down on one knee, and was trying to use this advantage to get me face down on the ground.
His hands slipped over my body which was now streaming with the sweat that was pouring off both of us, from the heat and the tension, and made it difficult to grip. This gave me a momentary advantage, and I was then was able to gain the upper hand. I gave him a chop to the midsection that half stunned him for a moment, then grabbed his balls and squeezed them so that he fell to the ground wincing in pain. The crowd was roaring and cheering as we grappled around, and were almost driven over the edge by the sound of his shouts – actually, it’s a bit of an honour thing: you can make a guy scream when you squeeze his balls, but only so much, no more.
I managed to get behind him and was able to get on top of his back and push him face down into the leather surface of the pit. I then mounted him and wrapped both my hands around his waist. He struggled violently, and tried to fight me off, but I could feel my power and strength rising as we fought. It was a bit like riding a wild bronco for the time, but I had the advantage – I was on top, and he had to thrust and buck against my weight. I could feel him tiring rapidly under me, and I knew I was going to win.
Fantastic sexual energy as surging through me – this was what real men did: fought each other, naked, man to man. A man was meant to conquer and vanquish another, to make him utterly subordinate to his will, and this was what I was doing. I was like the primitive alpha male of a primeval society, showing the other bucks that I was the supreme boss. My cock did what all men’s cocks would do in these circumstances – it readied itself for action and I was massively erect, with my ‘skin fully retracted and drops of pre-cum dripping from my piss slit.
I couldn’t let go of my opponent, but somehow it was as if my cock knew where it had to go. I held him even tighter, and forced him around so that my cock was in his ass crack. All the sensitive nerves in my cock head were flooding my brain with sensations of extreme pleasure, and my sexual frenzy heightened Then, as he continued to struggle, I kicked at his legs with mine and managed to position myself at his hole. I could feel the sweat-soaked, hot moistness of his sphincter against my cock head, and I brutally thrust my hips forward to drive myself into him. He gave a shout – was it rage, or pain, or submission? But I couldn’t get in as he was attempting to keep his muscles clenched. It took two more massive thrusts from me until I felt myself sink in – my flange went through, and then it was effectively all over.
Gripped by my muscular arms, and impaled on my cock, there was nowhere for him to go. I thrust harder, and felt that satisfying slap as my balls hit his arse. He was a nice guy, and I could have been gentle with him, I suppose, but the sheer raw power of sex was now totally in control and I could no longer think of anything except fucking this man utterly into submission, and taking my pleasure from him. It was me that mattered, my cock that needed satisfaction, and his hole was just a wet, hot, muscular passage provided for my pleasure.
I rammed home harder and harder, almost pulling out on every stroke before slamming myself back in. The poor guy was screaming in time to my thrusts, not that anyone could hear above the excited cries of the crowd. They seemed entranced by the sight of my muscular arse and thighs pumping in and out so vigorously – it was like some Roman or Greek statues, with two such perfect bodies engaged together.
But it was over all too soon – I dimly heard my own great cry of “OH Fuck…. YES….” as I shot my load up into him, and then it was as if all the energy drained out of me. I simply collapsed on top of him, and we both lay there, our hearts pounding and our breathing coming in great rasps. The sweat from my chest and belly was mingling with that running from his back and arse, and my nostrils were assailed by the sheer masculine smell of him. My face was on his shoulder, and I pulled forward and said
“OK, I’m coming out now. I like to give the crowd a bit of a show at the auction, so you can struggle a bit – and I’ll split the fee from it with you.”
So saying, I pulled out from his hole, and clambered to my feet. I rested my bare foot on his neck as he still lay there, sprawled on the leather, and gave a great shout of victory – indeed, I must have looked like a primitive savage, holding his opponent down in a position of abject surrender and servitude.
The crowd was absolutely wild now, shouting, stamping, and cheering. I don’t know what the previous bouts were like, but I think they must have sensed in this one the primeval forces at work that made my fucking of my opponent so very special.
I bent down and hauled him to his feet, then, as he started to react – was it “mock”, or was it real, I don’t know – I quickly grabbed him in a half-nelson. My own cock was nestling in his ass crack, and his hot sweaty back was pressed close to my chest. I paraded him around the ring, as Will announced “the Auction” over the PA.
The door into the pit opened, and I pushed him out, in front of me, up the stairs into the areas where the spectators were. They crowded around, and I could feel hands running all over me, and over my opponent as he stood there in front of me, helpless. I could hear Will shouting numbers, and then there was a “crack” as the hammer fell.
A big, florid guy pushed his way to the front, and crowd fell back a bit to give him room – he was sweating like a pig, probably because he needed to lose at least fifty pounds. But, he’d paid the money, so who was I to argue. He came forward, and took my opponent’s cock in his podgy fat hand, and started to wank him.
I do wish these guys would think about us fighters more, though – I could feel my guy’s body tensing as he was forcibly masturbated and the big guy’s rings caused him acute discomfort. The watching men were cheering as the fat guy stroked away, and I thrust my hips forward, causing my opponent to be thrust forward in turn, making his cock even more accessible. The wanking continued, until my opponent suddenly shot – it went all down the dinner jacket of the fat guy, and there was a huge shout of laughter from all the watchers.
I really felt for my opponent, though, as the big guy did not stop – he carried on wanking him, even though he was in such obvious discomfort, trying vainly to kick at my legs and thrust backwards to get away from the fat man’s hand.
In spite all of that that had been spilled, the fat man still ended up with half a palm full of spunk, and in a final act of degradation, he took a special delight in cleaning his hand off on my opponent’s hairy chest.
And that was it. The men drifted away to go to the bar, and my opponent and I were left to go back down the stairs to the changing room. As we went, I felt fantastic – I’d proved myself again in the only ay that really matters – I may not have a job in the city with telephone number salaries, or command an army, or whatever, but there it matters I am the king. I could fight a fair fight with a worthy opponent, and utterly vanquish him so that he had no alternative but to take my cock as I humiliatingly fucked him in front of other men. Then he had to endure having his spunk sold, as I held him, immobile, for some lesser man to wank.
I know some people criticise our fights, saying they’re “dangerous”. They’ve even tried to get us to wear condoms! But, I ask you, how are you going to stop a man in the middle of a virtual rape, and get him to put a condom on? And who wants it, anyway – the whole joy, the whole manly experience of fighting to the fuck is knowing that it’s flesh against flesh – you against him, with nothing to intervene.
We showered together, still not really peaking . We both knew it was only a fight, and that he could have been the one who fucked me. We shook hands, and said the traditional “No hard feelings” salutation of the UK NWF. Will then appeared, and gave me my two thousand, and him his one thousand. The fat creep had paid five hundred for the excitement of wanking my opponent – what an idiot: didn’t he know that he could wank at least five good looking rent boys for that much, if that’s what turned him on? I split the five hundred fifty-fifty with my opponent, as agreed, and I even thought of upgrading to first class on the journey home tomorrow!
Just as I was leaving, Will asked me if I could stay in Birmingham for a fight the next night, Saturday, as he’d had a fighter drop out because of a chest infection. As it was a Saturday, and all I had to do at home was the laundry, I agreed. It was to be one of those “involuntary” fights, and Will also asked me if I’d join in the hunt – scanning the gyms and the bars in the City for likely victims. I’d not done that before, and although I knew that the fighting wouldn’t be up to much, the prospect of fucking some real virgins was a real turn on.
I didn’t have a hotel room booked that night, as I usually just go to the gay sauna around the corner from The Pit – although they say the cubicles are for “cruising, not snoozing” in their rather arch way, I just ignore it. For a tenner, it’s a cheap night’s lodging, and no one dares to tell me otherwise or interfere with me: I usually don’t go for guys in saunas, as they’re not in the sort of condition I like. But Will was grinning at me…. “So…. If you’re staying on, come to my place for the night. I miss the fight game, actually being in the ring, you know… Perhaps we might fight a bit, before retiring….? And, who knows who’ll win…. And you can set the rules.”
– The End –