JiminQueens2's blog

Time to take things to the next level, Jesse decided. He slipped his hands into the waistband of his jockstrap, then dropped it from around his waist down to the mat, to the thunderous applause of the onlookers. Naked and hard as marble, he stalked over to Brian’s prone form, reached down, and with a tremendous cry of rage and exertion, ripped the jock off the other man’s body!

“Get up!” he snarled, punctuating his order with a kick to the ribs.

Brian groaned but staggered manfully to his feet. His blurry vision told him that three Jesses were standing in front of him. He took a roundhouse swing at the middle one. And hit nothing but air.

Jesse easily dodged the clumsy attack and stepped behind Brian, squatted slightly, and wrapped his arms around the other man’s waist. He thrust his hips forward and lifted, and Brian was thrown over and behind Jesse to land flat on his back and neck on the mat to the thunderous cheers of the crowd!

Brian was almost out, but Jesse wanted to put him out in a way that would go down in bar fight legend. He bent over and grabbed the other man’s beard in his left hand, and then pulled up, first slowly until Brian got to one knee, then yanked it harder to force him up to his feet. Brian weaved back and forth, not for defense, but because his feet and sense of balance weren’t obeying the commands from his brain.

Jesse reached back with his right hand, and, still holding onto Brian’s beard with his left, landed a perfect right cross right into the other man’s jaw. Most of Brian went down like a poleaxed cow, but while most of his beard went with him, a small bunch of hairs decided they liked Jesse’s fist better than Brian’s chin and stayed behind. Brian would probably be screaming about the ripped out hair, but he was utterly and completely out, checked out with no forwarding address.

Jesse, swaying himself from exhaustion and the abuse his gut had taken, looked down at his fallen opponent for a long moment. The crowd was completely silent, in awe of the spectacle and brutality they had just witnessed. He bent over to examine Brian, but the other man was well and truly unconscious. He wouldn’t respond to kicks, so Jesse squatted down and physically rolled him onto his stomach, then spread Brian’s legs apart.

He searched the crowd until he found Mike. “Penetration, you said,” he said shortly. A low moan told him that Brian was starting to come to. Jesse spat on his hand and rubbed it on his dick, spread Brian’s ass cheeks, guided his dick to the hole, adjusted….and then plunged in.

*THAT* woke Brian up, and he screamed in pain as he was forcibly penetrated. Jesse only stayed in for two or three strokes before pulling out. He wasn’t going to waste a load on this. He got to his feet – and that was when the crowd burst into thunderous cheers, both for the fight itself and for Brian’s utter and complete humiliation at Jesse’s hands – and dick.

Jesse’s exhaustion seemed to vanish in an instant. Between penetrating Brian and the roar of the crowd, he felt new strength flooding into his body. He felt as if he could do anything – or anyone. His eyes began to search the crowd again, but this time he was looking for Randy, and he wasn’t looking long. Randy had come into the cage, picking up Jesse’s clothes and bringing them to him. As he reached Jesse, he knelt before the winner and held his clothes up as if he were making a sacrifice to a god.

Jesse smiled, then bent over and guided Randy back up to his feet. With a careless gesture, he knocked the clothes out of the otter’s grasp, then pulled him close and kissed him, long, hard, and deep, his hands sliding down Randy’s body to cup his beautiful ass. Randy wrapped his arms around Jesse’s neck and kissed him back just as hard, and the bar erupted into cheers. Jesse finally broke the kiss, stepped back, and raised his arms to his sides. Randy took the hint and began to dress him, making the action as sensual as undressing him normally would have been. Out of the corner of his eye, Jesse could see Brian, head down in defeat and looking like nothing less than a whipped dog, collect his clothes and slink out of the cage.

Randy picked up Jesse’s shirt and pulled it onto the bear’s sweaty body, then knelt, reached over for Jesse’s jeans, and held them for Jesse to step into. Randy slowly pulled them over Jesse’s legs – hesitating only to run his tongue the length of Jesse’s hard dick and flick the slit in the head, then buttoned them closed. “Good thing there’s no zipper,” he whispered.

“Definitely,” Jesse agreed just before he kissed Randy again, his tongue slipping past the otter’s teeth to caress its counterpart in Randy’s mouth. His mouth moved across Randy’s face to his ear, and Jesse whispered, “Forget the socks; just grab my boots, get dressed, and let’s get out of here.”

Every Thursday night, from seven o’clock until ten o’clock, Mom has choir practice at her church. And every Thursday night, Dad invites me over for some “father-son bonding time”. And nothing short of a natural disaster keeps me from “father-son bonding time”. Dad and I have dinner, prepared by Mom ahead of time and left in the oven for us to warm up. We have a couple of beers. We talk about how early retirement is treating him, how my job is kicking my ass, that sort of thing. We grouse about how shitty the local ball teams are playing these days and how overpaid the new kid is.

But after we’ve cleaned up, Dad always says, “Why don’t we head out back?”

And I always respond, “Sure.” I try not to sound too eager, but our sessions out back are why I look forward to “father-son bonding time”.

We head out the back door and across the yard to the shed Dad built all those years ago. Normally, a “trip to the woodshed” is something every kid dreads, but not me. Dad didn’t built it as a place to punish me. He built it as a place to teach me.

Dad unlocks the door and we step inside. He flicks on the light and the place is just as I remember. The barbells, plates, and dumbbells. The pullup bars and cable machine. The heavy bag and the speed bag. The fifteen-foot-square wrestling mat, freshly washed and gleaming in the light.

Dad started teaching me how to use my fists and how to handle myself on the ground when I was six. Every day for an hour, he’d teach me a new combination or a new move or a new hold, and we’d spar or wrestle until I’d started to get the hang of it. He was the best teacher I ever had, and I’m not just saying that because I’m his son. He was patient but relentless, and he made sure I learned what I needed to know to win.

We start stripping down to our underwear – Dad usually wears boxers, but on nights like this he goes with tight briefs. Dad is closer to fifty than forty, but his hair is still thick and mostly dark, with a few gray hairs peeking out here and there. His muscles are still firm and taut, with just the barest hint of a paunch. He keeps his chest hair trimmed close so that it looks more like a breastplate than a bushy mass. On his left shoulder is the tattoo he got when I was born. Just my name.

I’m built like him – thick-bodied, muscular, not quite as big but I know I’ll get there. Sixteen years of lifting weights – Dad wouldn’t let me start on those until I started middle school – have given me more than my share of muscles. When I look in a mirror, I see Dad’s square jaw, high cheekbones, ice-blue eyes.

“Just light sub tonight, I’m a little tired,” Dad says. I don’t believe it for a second. Dad has the stamina of a man half his age, as I ought to know, since he takes it out on me every week. I nod in assent as, barefoot and in our underwear, we step onto opposite sides of the mat.

Dad quickly drops to all fours, then lies down on the mat on his stomach, one forearm lying flat, the other arm propped up on his elbow. “Let’s see what you’ve got, Son,” he murmurs. I grin and drop down to meet him. Our right hands clasp, while our left hand fingers lock together. “On three,” Dad says. “One, two, three!”

Immediately, we start pushing against each other, trying to push the other man’s hand down to the mat. The muscles in our arms bulge as we exert all the force we can muster against the other, while the knuckles on our locked left hand fingers become white as we clench them even more tightly.

I get a quick initial push and force Dad into a bad position, his hand about four inches off the mat. Our eyes lock and I grin wolfishly. “This time you are going down, old man!” I say mockingly.

“Oh, I don’t think so,” comes the reply.

And slowly but surely, Dad start twisting his body, forcing his hand up, almost as if I weren’t even pushing down. My eyes widen in panic and I try to push harder, but it’s like trying to push a rock into stony ground. Dad keeps pushing until we’re back to the starting position, and then he says, “What did I hear about someone going down, little boy!”

That pisses me off and I started pushing harder. We lean into each other, our foreheads touching, our right hands clasped in battle, our left hands locked so tightly that if we’d had longer fingernails, they’d be digging into our fingers. My bicep and my shoulder are starting to ache, and I can see those strain lines around Dad’s eyes, but I am not going down!

Except that I am. Slowly but surely, Dad begins to force my hand down to the mat. One inch at a time, I lose ground, and now it’s Dad grinning wolfishly as I sink down to what seems like inevitable defeat. One more inch. Another. Another. My right hand is barely a hair-length off the mat.

And then, with a final roar of exertion, Dad pushes harder and plants my hand on the mat. We collapse onto our faces, panting with the exertion and the strain, but we’re both in excellent shape and we recover quickly. I raise my head and meet Dad’s waiting eyes. He’s doing his best not to laugh in my face, which he hasn’t always managed not to do. “First round to me, I think,” he says, smirking.

“First round of several,” I reply, “old man.”

Dad climbs to his feet and leans over, extending a hand for me. I take it and allow him to pull me up to my feet. I glance down and note the start of a telltale bulge in his blue briefs. I already know what’s happening in mine. But before he can say anything about it, I poke him in the chest to start the next round of our Thursday night ritual.

“You got lucky that time, Dad,” I say, “but I bet I can make you say ‘Mercy’.”

“I’ll take you up on that bet,” Dad says. He lifts his arms up to his head, hands up, palms facing me, and wiggles his fingers.

I grin and step towards him. I raise my hands until my left palm is touching his right. Slowly, ever so slowly, our fingers interlock until our hands look like they’re clasped in prayer. Dad taps me on the cheek with his left hand then brings it back to its position in front of him. My right hand laces with his left, mirroring our other hands.

This time, there’s no countdown – we start pushing against each other as soon as all of our hands are locked together. Our bodies come together as we strain to push the other man’s hands back, and we stand chest to chest, grunting with exertion, sweat starting to seep out of our muscular bodies. I can feel the hardness between his legs with my own.

It isn’t long before our chests are coated with sweat and start to slip and slide. I was counting on that. Dad’s stronger than I am and always has been, but I have a better sense of balance and a better sense of control over my body. Dad is flatfooted, while I’m leaning forward on the balls of my feet. And yeah, Dad is stronger than I am, but he’s not that much stronger – so he’s working both to push me off and to keep his footing.

Meanwhile, I’m using something Dad taught me – when you’re in a fight, find ways to use the environment to help you. There’s a mirror to the side. Every time Dad stumbles a bit, I shift our bodies so that we’re at a closer angle to it. In no time at all, Dad’s facing the mirror and my back is to it.

I lean forward into our battle, pressing even harder with my hands. I know what it looks like from behind me – the hard, firm muscles in my upper back bulging and flexing as I’m pressing against him. But I’m watching Dad’s eyes, and eventually he makes his mistake. He reflexively takes his eyes off me to look at the show in the mirror.

And ever so slightly, I can feel the force in his hands ebb as his attention is distracted.

I press my advantage, squeezing with my hands and twisting them as hard as I can. Dad’s completely off balance now and he stumbles and staggers as I drive him all over the mat. I twist my right arm and force his left hand palm up – the worst position it can be in for a struggle like this.

From here, it’s a foregone conclusion. With all the pain in his left hand sapping his attention and his will, his right hand starts to weaken, and I can easily twist it palm up. I have him now. And without mercy, I flex my hands so that his are bent backwards to the point where his knuckles are almost touching his wrist.

Dad screams in pain, and under normal circumstances I’d feel bad, but our battles don’t allow for tender feelings. I squeeze even harder, and, with gritted teeth, I mutter, “You know how to end this, old man.”

He does. With his eyes closed – in pain? blinded by sweat? Who knows? – he sinks down to his knees. I step forward so that his head is level with my waist, and I hear him, in a voice pained and humiliated, whisper, “Mercy…”

I immediately let him go and step back. He falls forward, supporting himself on his knees and forearms, massaging his hands and moaning. My hands are aching from the abuse, but I made my old man quit, and my green briefs are tenting out from what that does to me. Dad rolls onto his back and there's a similar full tent in his briefs. For tonight’s battle, we’re even.

I smirk at him as he rolls onto his back and, before I can offer to help, stands up. He shoots a glare at me – Dad doesn’t like losing, even when it’s ostensibly for fun, like our matches are. But even if he is pissed off, he’s not too much so not to glance down at my very obvious erection and chuckle, “You’re still coming up a bit short there, son.”

“I haven’t had any complaints,” I sneer back. I make a theatrical glance down at the mass protruding from inside his briefs. “Mom, on the other hand….I’ve been hearing her say something about ‘barely bigger than a raisin’.”

“C’mere, you little…” he doesn’t finish the sentence, but strides toward me – Round Three is underway.

We crouch down, protecting our legs, eyes locked on each other as we try to anticipate the first move. Dad feints, I respond, and he draws back, smiling. Dad feints again, and I respond again, and he draws back again, still smiling. He’s done this since I was a kid, and the end result is always the same. Sooner or later, I lose patience with the dance and throw myself at his legs, trying to take him down – and since Dad knows my shots as well as he knows his own, I miss by a mile.

As soon as I hit the mat, Dad is on top of me, quickly spinning around to get us head-to-head. I’m face down, and we’re doing sub, so as he finishes the spin but before his weight is completely on me, I quickly roll over onto my back to keep him from going for a rear choke. My legs shoot up and I wrap them around his waist, not squeezing yet. I just want to keep him off of me until I figure out my next move.

I grab Dad’s wrists to keep him off me, and we hand-fight for a couple of minutes, him try to free his arms to do unspecified horrible things to me, me trying to keep him from squashing me too early. With a grunt of exertion, Dad throws his right arm out to the side. My left isn’t long enough to go with it and Dad’s right hand is free. He takes his meaty right hand and plants it right on my face, not hitting me, but pressing down on my nose and mouth.

I let his left hand go and with both my hands, I try desperately to pry his right hand off my face. The trouble is, I’m trying to pull his hand off to the side, and Dad goes with it, so the effect is me shaking my head “no” over and over and expending a lot of energy without getting much done.

Dad shifts position, still using his considerable weight to keep me pinned beneath him, and wraps his arms around my head in a tight headlock. My face is pressed against his rank but so tantalizing armpit, and it’s all I can do not to allow things below my waist to come to a head, nor to open my mouth and let my tongue go wandering. Besides, I can tell that Dad is leaning back as he controls my head, because pain begins to simmer in my neck and upper back. There’s no time for play; I’ve gotta get outta here!

I plant both my feet on the mat and throw my hips in the air like I’m fucking someone riding me. Dad has to have known that was coming, but he doesn’t try to counter it, and his sweat-soaked body slides off of mine as he “loses” the headlock. I quickly roll onto my stomach and, seeing that dad is still on his back, lunge at him, my chest landing just below his sternum with enough force to drive a surprised “WHOOSH” out of him.

I got lucky hitting the solar plexus – the “slats” as some woman once called them – and Dad’s momentarily stunned. I quickly grab his head with my right arm with a headlock of my own, but my left arm is sliding under his left leg and forcing it into the air. It’s a bit of a strain, but I manage to bring my hands together and clasp them tightly, forcing his knee into his face. I sidle my body so that we’re parallel instead of perpendicular, and my left leg forces his to stay straight, and his legs are now doing a split almost worthy of a cheerleader.

Dad grunts and groans as I cradle him, and I mutter, “Any time you want to give up, old man, you just let me know.” What he mutters back are the sort of words he told me never to use around Mom when he taught them to me. I grin and I squeeze my arms even more tightly together, forcing his crotch into an even bigger stretch.

Dad’s left arm is trapped between our two bodies, and I can feel him trying to free it, but there’s not much I can do but try to get our bodies closer together to reduce the amount of space between them. But he manages to fake me out the way I’d faked him out in the fingerlocks contest, and I move a bare centimeter to the left while his body moves a bare centimeter to the right.

That’s all the room he needs.