Boxer Boy by Johnny Murdoc
Copyright 2008 Johnny Murdoc Please send comments and questions to johnnymurdoc@gmail.com
Remember, sex is always safe in stories. It's not in real life. Protect yourself and your partners.
He holds me, my face pressed against the wall, with my arm twisted behind my back. He presses up close to me, his stubble scratching against my cheek, and his erection pressing hard against my ass. As he talks, little bits of spittle fleck against my face. He smells of sweat. He just returned home from boxing practice, unshowered. Covered in lust.
Earlier, I was ungrateful.
Now, I'm in love again. I want him to hold me just like this. I want him to fuck me the same way he fights. My own cock has long since twisted itself free from it's downward left position in my briefs, and is reaching for the sky. If he presses a little harder, I can rub it on the wall. I can feel a moment of relief. I want to be touched.
He inhales deeply. I wonder what I smell like to him. He pulls my arm up higher, behind my back, and pain shoots through my torso. I exhale, a short breath followed by a tiny squeal. He pushes harder against me, and I feel his cock shift in his shorts.
Quickly, the pressure disappears from my arm, and I find myself spinning toward the floor. He follows quickly, ready to straddle me. I reach up and get a quick punch in, clipping his jaw. He smiles, and slaps me in the face. It's not feminine, but quick and painful and taunting, meant to humiliate me. My cheek stings. Then he's on me, completely, my arms held tightly against the floor somewhere above my head. His cock reaches for my face, disguised behind a layer of sweaty workout shorts and a jock strap.
He grabs my face, and pushes it to the side, so I can't see him. His hand is still wrapped, wound up with a thin white strip of cloth. It is wet like the rest of him.
I am wet.
I push my hips up, hoping that some part of him can be reached by my cock. He smirks, and smacks me again. I struggle. He pushes his hips forward, and his crotch presses hard against my face, the soft fabric of his shorts just barely hiding the force of his cock. I inhale deeply, smelling his workout, smelling his manhood, smelling everything. He grunts. This is how he loves me.
A year ago, I met him standing against the corner of a big brick building downtown. He was leaning against the corner, near a yellow concrete pylon, smoking a cigarette. He wasn't half as tough then as he is now. As I walked past him with friends of mine, I couldn't help but stare at him. He was everything I hated rolled up into everything I loved. He met my eyes, and as I continued walking, he never broke the stare. That night, I jerked myself off while pretending to sleep on my friend's couch. I spilled my cum into my hand, trying not to grunt, and then lay there wondering how I was going to make it to the bathroom to wash my hands without stepping on the young couple who were sleeping on the floor beside me. My heart was beating and sweat was beading on my skin, and soaking into my underwear beneath my ass. Lost at what to do with my small handful of ejaculate, I brought my hand up to my mouth and drank it. My own sweet cum slid over my tongue, and my cock twitched.
A week later, I found myself walking alone by the corner, by the yellow concrete pylon, but he was not standing outside, and he was not smoking a cigarette.
Two days later, again, I was there, and this time I found a window I could see into, and there he was, shirtless and sweating, bouncing around the ring and sparring with another guy. I watched the two of them dance, and absentmindedly rubbed my penis through my jeans. Finally, he lashed out and actually punched his partner, and I almost came in my pants.
Once a week, at least, I found myself there, this boxing gym on my new regular walk home, watching him box. Watching him work out. Watching him jump rope, trying to catch glimpses of his junk as it bounced up and down beneath the white mesh of ratty basketball shorts. I had perfectly imagined every inch of his body, but I couldn't get enough of what I could barely see. I would see him lift weights, and I would think about crawling up to him to bathe his nuts with my tongue as he worked out.
And then he wasn't there. One day, I stopped, and I couldn't see him amongst the guys dancing around one another, or lifting weights, or jumping rope, or cooling off.
-Looking for someone?
I nearly jumped out of my skin. He was standing right behind me, close enough for me to see in reality the details about his skin, and his eyes, and his lips that I had spent so much time daydreaming about. So much time jerking off about.
That was one year ago. Before he got serious. Before he quit smoking. Before he stopped eating meat. Drinking milk. Eating eggs. Before he found protein in brown rice and acai. Fiber and vitamin C in strawberries.
Now, straddling me, he is nothing but lean muscle. And sex. Muscle and sex. I beg. I beg with my eyes.
He stands, the slight weight of his body lifting from my chest. His foot comes down quickly on my crossed wrists, keeping them above my head. I could take him down. I could get free. If I wanted to. From here I'm looking up at his back. I can almost see up his shorts, and I can see his broad shoulders, exposed and free. I can see the line of dark sweat that indicates where the crack of his ass is. I want to smother myself there.
He reaches back and, hooking one thumb under his waistband, pulls his shorts down. His ass is tight and beautiful, framed by his lowered shorts and the thick elastic band of his jockstrap. The shiny, smooth material of his shorts ripples as they slide down his legs, and cover my face. There's the smell I'm looking for. His workout. His anger.
I can see him working his arm, rubbing himself. His legs are strong, and tight. He looks back at me, and smirks. God damn that smirk. His foot shifts, and my wrists are free, but before I can move, he's squatting. His ass, framed in the inverted V-shape of his jock, moves closer, and his muscular cheeks spread open.
I think: He could smother me.
I think: I want him.
I think: I love him.
There's his hole, and before I have time to really look at it, it's on my face. Still covered in sweat from his workout. I stick my tongue out, and press it flat against his hole. I feel him tighten a little. I lick slowly, my tongue soft, flat, and wide. I lap like a dog and my cock starts to leak. I hear him chuckle. I move my now free hands to ass cheeks, grabbing them. Before, when we first met, they were soft. A little pliable. Now they're hard. Pure muscle. He's lost everything that makes him soft. I try to reach one hand around, so that I can grab his cock, but he slaps my hand away, catching my wrist with the back of his hand. It stings.
He leans forward, and unbuckles my jeans. I feel his thumbs slide under the waistband of my underwear, and he pushes them down. Pulling hard, he lifts my ass off of the floor to free them, and then my legs as he pulls my jeans and my underwear off in one smooth motion. My cock smacks against my skin, smearing a streak of pre-cum on my stomach.
He twists on top of me to sit on my legs, and facing me, he lifts his dirty wifebeater over his head. Quickly, he exposes the tight muscles of his chest, and then the matted wet hair of his armpits. His shirt slides over his head, and I hear the cotton rub against his rough stubble. I move to sit up, so I can kiss his chest. So I can lick his armpits. So I can kiss him like a man. He catches me with his hand, flat in the middle of my chest, and he shoves me back.
There's a wet spot on his jock where the head of his penis pushes against the fabric.
He reaches down and gives my cock one quick stroke, smearing his palm with my wetness. He reaches up, planting his hand flat against my mouth, smearing my precum on my face. My tongue darts out, and I taste myself. He leans forward, and kisses me, his tongue dancing in my mouth, and on my lips. His face is rough and beautiful against my own.
I remember: The first time he pulled my face against his, and kissed me roughly, his calloused hand on the back of my head.
I remember: The first time he smiled at me, and I realized that I could have him.
I remember: The first time I saw his cock, and I knew that I didn't have him.
I remember: I belong to him.
His kiss is rough. My lips are pushed back against my teeth. It feels like he's biting me. His tongue is thick in my mouth. When I try to wrap my arms around him, he pulls away. He rubs his cock, stroking it through the dark blue cotton of his jock strap.
The first time I saw his penis, it was not erect. We were not in love. He was taunting me. I was in a bar, having dinner with friends. Scottish food, and frosted mugs of beer. We were laughing. I looked over toward the bar, and there he was. He was holding a bottle of beer in his hand, a cigarette between his fingers. He was still dressed in workout gear, a dirty tank top and sweatpants. He saw me, and nodded in recognition. I blushed, and my heart beat a little harder in my chest. I turned back to my friends, and tried to pay attention to them, but I couldn't. I could feel him standing ten feet away at the bar, I could feel his attention on me. When I looked back at him, he was still watching me. He smirked. His free hand was at his waistline, his thumb hooked into his sweatpants. He pulled them down, and flashed his cock. There, in front of everyone, my friends and strangers, he exposed to me the piece that I had fantasized about more than any other.
I remember: The first time I saw his cock, I knew I didn't have him.
I remember: He had me.
The first time I sucked his cock, we were behind the boxing gym. I remember thinking: This is not who I am. But for him, this is who can be.
Now, in our living room, he strokes himself. The wet spot in his jock spreads. He leans forward, and instead of kissing me, he slides further until his jock hovers over my face. I push against it. I have done this a hundred times, and I will do it a hundred more. Each time is slightly different. His body is a work of improvement. Mine is a work in progress. I am a work in progress. I am his work in progress.
He pulls his jock down, and his cock falls on my face, heavy and hard. I kiss, and I lick, and his heavy nuts push against my chin. He shifts and his cock points downward, sliding quickly into my mouth, filling it full with his taste. He pushes his hips forward, pressing the wide head of his cock against the back of my throat. I hear him exhale above me. He's nearly doing push-ups, each drop down pushing his cock harder into my mouth. I wrap one hand around the base of his penis, both to stimulate him, and to restrict him from pushing down too far. My other hand presses against his ass, his muscles tight and hard. He grunts a little each time he thrusts.
He falls to the side, rolling on this back, and I follow him, my mouth as close to his cock as I can keep it. Quickly, I pull him back in, and even though I'm on top for the first time, he's still in control. He is always maddeningly, perfectly in control of me. He pushes up as I slide down, the muscles in his legs tightening and relaxing with every thrust. I wrap my arms beneath his legs, and hoist his hips upward. His legs swing back, over his head, and I pull his jockstrap completely off of him. His hole, nestled between his hard ass cheeks, is exposed, and I lean forward to kiss it, to lick it. Everything I do to his hole is a gesture of love.
Everything I do to his body is a gesture of love.
I remember: In the beginning, it was infatuation.
I remember: It was obsession.
And it still is.
He pulls away from me and stands. His hard cock bounces, pointing outward and not up. He reaches for my hand, and pulls me up and toward our bed. My own erection points upward. At the foot of our low bed, he pulls me into a kiss, a real one. Soft, and hard, and rough, and loving. Our cocks push against one another, his crossing mine. We push together. His arms are around me, his hand gripping the back of my neck, and holding me close to him. His other grabs my ass tightly. This is how he loves me.
He pushes me back, and I fall onto the bed. He straddles me, his cock waving in front of my face as he leans forward. He digs into his nightstand drawer for our bottle of lube. The head of his cock rubs against my lips, drawing lines of clear liquid love on my face. He leans back and pours lube in this hand, and then reaches behind his back and slicks up my cock. He poises himself above me, and then sits back. This is how he loves me. The more I want him inside of me, the more he wants me inside of him. He pushes one hand flat against my chest as he slides up and down my cock, holding me down. His other hand slides up and down his own erection. His hard body on mine feels violent and familiar. My cock is warm inside of him. I could cum quickly, but I won't until he's ready. I don't do anything until he's ready. He's smiling now, not smirking. I could watch him like this forever.
Forever comes quickly, though, and his face changes from a smile to a gasp, and his hand tightens on his cock as his ass tightens on mine. One fast rope of cum arcs from his cock and lands on my face, a white line slashed across my lips. I let myself go inside of him, my hips pushing upward and burying my cock as far into him as I can go. As I gasp, his cum drips into my mouth. He continues to ejaculate, each line of cum slashing across my chest. I swallow, and gasp again. His hand pushes harder against my chest, holding me still, and then he collapses onto me, his chest sliding against mine. A layer of sweat and cum separates us, and he kisses me. His cum slides between our lips.
This is how he loves me.
THE END.
I hope you enjoyed the story. Let me know at johnnymurdoc@gmail.com