This story is an entirely fictional work of adult erotic fantasy.
Copyright Brooding Muscle and Boy Mercury X 2017.
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The characters in this story are from our book BEARDING THE LION, under our publishing names Sween McDervish and J. Mercury Jones.
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BY A WHISKER by Boy Mercury X and Brooding Muscle
The gloved fist strikes fast as a cobra, hard in the face of Connor Ryan.
Fuck, thinks the handsome red haired fighter, shaking off the pain.
"You call that a punch, Guapo?" he asks, snorting. "My old man hit me harder than that when he was three sheets to the w--."
Guapo's fist strikes again, harder. "FUCK!" Ryan bellows out loud this time.
"Jesus Christ," groans Ken Kelly, owner of the Triple Hit gym and uncle to Ryan. "You tryin to block with sarcasm? How's that going?"
"I'm fine!" Ryan spews, "just getting warmed up here!"
"Taking your time," says Kelly. "You oughta be kicking this guy's ass. No offense Guapo, he needs to mop the floor with you."
Guapo cracks his neck defiantly, enjoying his moment to feel cocky. No one is really sure how much English he understands, but it's probably more than he lets on. Guapo's not his real name, but it's the big tattoo spanning his entire lower back, so from his first time in the ring the name stuck.
Ryan looks at Guapo with a mix of irritation and admiration. He's tough, he doesn't say much and he keeps coming back. He's thicker than Ryan, especially in the torso, and packs a hard punch. His leg techniques aren't much, but he holds his own when he's not too distracted by Ryan's golden red chest hair or green eyes.
Ryan is not unaware of the way Guapo's eyes sometimes linger on him. No one would say Ryan is pretty, with rough hewn features and hint of an underbite. But he's built and has a handsome quality that sometimes distracts even other guys, especially once you throw in the power dynamics in the ring.
"What the fuck is in your head, kid?" Kelly asks Ryan, as the fighters circle each other, raising his voice so anyone nearby can hear. "You have a fight in three weeks! You think Macready is going to go easy on you?"
"He's not all that," Ryan grunts lowly, popping a bicep the size of an ostrich egg. "I'm taking that ugly fucker down." He runs one gloved hand under his flexed tricep.
"Yeah well we'll see," says Kelly. "You see the tattoos on his knuckles? STAY DOWN. He means that for you kid, if you don't get your head on straight."
"Maybe it's because you have that damn reporter shadowing me!" spews Ryan. "Ever think of THAT?"
Kelly rolls his jaw from side to side, and slowly walks to ring. He gestures at Ryan to come close.
"You saying this is my fault?" Kelly asks softly.
"No, I'm just saying---"
"ARE YOU SAYING THIS BULLSHIT CANDY ASS DANCE ROUTINE YOU'RE TRYING TO PASS OFF AS FIGHTING IS MY GODDAMN FAULT?" Kelly roars.
The guys watching lean in now. Kelly shouting is bound to mean something's going down.
"No! Fuck, Kelly--- I just---"
"Just. Finish. This. Thing," Kelly says gravely.
Ryan cocks his head, juts his ginger beard covered jaw and takes position. His skin goes red, making his golden eyebrows and chest hair stand out in contrast. Guapo almost licks his lips looking at him.
His blows come fast and hard, raining down on Guapo on all sides. Guapo takes a closed guard position, but Ryan is relentless, and as his punches get stronger and faster, he seems to grow a foot taller.
"That's enough," Kelly says, as Guapo goes down on one knee. "THAT'S ENOUGH!" he repeats as he sees Ryan take another step.
"Do you want me to beat him or what?" shouts Ryan.
"You beat him, but by a whisker. You gotta do better with Macready. Have you seen his arms? That asshole has reach. More than Guapo here."
"Yeah well by a whisker counts," says Ryan, his chin jutting out defiantly.
Guapo and Ryan bump gloved fists, nodding to each other with respect.
"And I need you to close for me tonight. I got a thing," mutters Kelly.
"Woooo, Kelly's got a date!" shouts one of the fighters in ear shot. "His lady's in town!"
Kelly brushes off anyone's interest in his private life with a wave of his meaty hand.
I fucking hate when he talks to me that way, Ryan thinks, watching Kelly walk away.
There's guys in and out of the Triple Hit all day. Guys without jobs or with weird hours in the day, guys with nine-to-five hours in the evenings. Kelly practically lives at the Triple Hit, but Ryan fills in from time to time. When Kelly's lady Jameelah is in town he fills in a lot.
It's an easy night tonight. As it gets near closing there's just two new guys and they're sparring. It's the two jerk-offs who watched him spar with Guapo earlier. College guys, Ryan thinks, shaking his head. Billy Mack and Tony Biagi. Nothing wrong with college, Ryan thinks - he takes classes himself, some anthropology, some urban planning. But these kids are just tourists. The shorter one, Mack, is pre-med for fuck's sake. He'd better watch his head. But he's tough and focused. Biagi has some natural talent even though he's on the lean side, but get distracted.
He has half a mind to offer them some tips. It's a shame to see someone not be their best. But Ryan has his own shit right now, with his first real fight in three weeks. Kelly's right, he's distracted. He's not sleeping right. He even misplaced his jock of all things. How the fuck do you lose a jock?
Stop overthinking it, he tells himself. Just twenty-one sleeps, he thinks, remembering his mom's way to help him count down the days to Christmas when he was a boy. How many sleeps? Just twenty-one.
Ryan pulls out his own laptop and places it on Kelly's oaken desk to watch videos of Macready on Youtube. He rewinds again and again to study Macready's technique. He's a tough looking Brit, straight out of the back alleys of London's suburban tenement housing. What do they call `em over there, council estates? Even their slums sound posh. Ryan navigates over to Macready's Instagram page and sees a pic of him holding up his tattooed knuckles for the camera, reading S-T-A-Y D-O-W-N. "You're trying too hard, dude," Ryan scoffs.
Ryan himself has assiduously avoided tattoos. They're cool, and practically an expectation in MMA, but why telegraph anything to your opponents? When you build in silence they don't know what to attack.
He pulls his thick wallet out of his pocket and opens it. He has a dozen business cards from the Triple Hit packed into it, and on the back of each are notes on fighters he may be facing soon. He pulls out one labelled SEAN MACREADY. The name is underlined, and below it Ryan has listed STRENGTHS and WEAKNESSES. Every word is in Ryan's tiny, cramped print, as simple and regular as a typewriter.
Under STRENGTHS he adds Long reach, Fast, Dominant striking and to WEAKNESSES he adds Poor ground game, Overconfident. The strengths are outnumbering the weaknesses.
Back at the laptop he searches for the reporter, David Levy. His stories are mostly at Zeitgeist, a wussy blog. Sure enough, there's a photo of him, wearing a white shirt and black tie. Skinny guy with a big nose, wouldn't last 5 minutes in the ring. Ryan pulls up one of his stories and reads it. Then another.
Two hours later he rouses himself to shut the gym down. It's a quiet as a graveyard, but the empty gym at night is strangely serene. The former factory space's industrial vents that once extruded heat now frame skylights that illuminate the training rings and punching bags in cool blue moonlight.
Ryan gets out the mop, bucket and sanitizer spray, but before getting started he walks over to lock the door and flip the page on the sign in sheet, to set it up for the next day. He notices that Mack and Biagi are not signed out. Idiot kids probably forgot the procedure.
Ryan wanders the locker area but sees no one. He goes a little further back and hears a groan from the showers. He knows the hot water isn't working, so it's not unusual to hear a sound from those who brave the cold. But this isn't that sound.
Ryan quietly edges his way into the shower room, keeping to the wall. There he spots Mack and Biagi. They're naked, Mack's back to the shower wall and Biagi is leaning in to plant sloppy wet kisses on his mouth, a wad like a washcloth in his fist.
"I was so scared," Biagi says, between kisses. "My heart was pounding so hard."
"Fuck, I'M so hard," groans Mack, his fat uncut cock bouncing. "Let me smell it."
Biagi whips out the wad in his hand, and it's a jock strap. He holds it up over his friend's nose and mouth like an oxygen mask, letting Mack inhale deeply.
Holy fuck, thinks Ryan, stifling any sound. These fucking college kids! He's about to yell at them when Biagi asks "What do you think Ryan would've done if he caught me stealing his sweaty jock?"
"Beat the shirt out of you," laughs Mack. "But you'd love it."
Yeah, not too late, thinks Ryan, resisting the urge to crack his knuckles.
"Heh," Biagi chuckles, "What do you think he's packing in there?"
"Fuck, you'll make me cum," Mack says, stroking his big curved erection.
"Nice ginger bush? Foot long cock?" Biagi asks.
"Big Irish cock," Mack responds, squeezing out a gush of precum.
"Put it on," Biagi says, shoving Ryan's jock into Mack's hand.
"Tell me what it was like," Mack says, as he drops one leg and then the other into the jock straps.
"He stripped to shower," Biagi says in a breathy voice, "after sparring. His jock was sitting there. Fucking hot and sweaty." "Were you scared?" Mack chuckles, pulling the jock up.
"It was so hot. I swear he almost saw me. Missed me by a whisker."
"A whisker counts," laughs Mack, recalling Ryan getting chewed out by Kelly..
That little fucker, thinks Ryan. Don't imitate me! And you don't go through a guy's stuff when he's in the shower. That's like the fucking gym social contract. Especially not for this shit!
"I gotta eat that furry ginger ass," Biagi growls, turning Mack against the wall and dropping to a crouch to bury his mouth between Mack's cheeks. As his ass is eaten out, Mack leans against the shower wall, biting his own bicep to keep from groaning out loud.
"Unffff," groans Mack. "You're really gonna make me cum."
"Oh yeah," says Biagi, turning Mack to face him. "Then turn around." He pulls down the pouch to let Mack's swollen cock bounce free."Ryan's big alright... but not bigger than you bro."
Ryan's not so sure about that, but he forgets the issue when Biagi opens wide and swallows Mack's fat cock whole. Shit, Ryan thinks, that's a talent.
Mack gasps and almost drops against the shower wall. He grabs the Italian's ears and holds his head down, his erection buried in his buddy's throat. Ryan can hear the saliva in Biagi's throat as Mack pumps into it.
Biagi finally leans back on his hairy haunches, long ropes of saliva hanging between his full lips and Mack's upturned red cock. "Like that?"
"I always wanted to know how those lips of yours would feel," laughs Mack.
"And?"
"Like heaven," laughs the curly haired bro. He then peels off the jock, letting it fall to the shower floor. "Your turn."
Biagi puts the jock on, crouching, and gets to work again on Mack's cock and balls.
"Go slow," Mack says.
"Like you punch?" asks Biagi, gulping.
"Oh fuck," groans Mack, as Biagi again swallows him whole. "Unf. Fine, go fast then you fucking stud."
Ryan bites his own hand to not laugh at their fantasy bro talk.
Mack starts pumping hard, the shower echoing the smacking sounds in Biagi's throat. "Fucking stud," gasps Mack, "take that fucking fighter cock."
Mack's body tenses and his hips thrust hard, then again and again, as he shoots hot ropes of cum down his buddy's throat. "Fuck," he moans, as Biagi struggles to swallow, "fuck, fuckkkkkkkkkk!"
Mack is barely done when Biagi leans back, shoving his hand into the full jock to jerk his long dark erection. "Oh my God, oh my God," he pants, jerking harder and faster. Mack reaches down to peel the jock back, but Biagi stops him. "No, fuck - I need to go in it - Fuckkkkkk....
Mack coils his arm and punches Biagi in the chest, the Italian grunting "Yeah!"
"Okay bro," Mack says, throwing another punch and then another. "Jack it out. Right in his hot jock."
Biagi lets out a long growl as his balls unload, filling the jock pouch with his thick cum.
"Yeah bro, YEAH!" says Mack, in awe, then kissing his buddy on the lips.
Ryan gives them another minute, then says to himself, Okay they've had their fun, now it's my turn. He holds his breath for a minute to go red in the face, marshals his deepest voice, and booms "WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS?" as he strides out into the shower room, pulling his shoulders back to look even bigger and more intimidating.
Biagi flips down on the shower floor and Mack jumps back, covering his half chub with his hands.
"GOD DAMN IT!" barks Ryan, channeling his Uncle Kelly. "TAKE THAT SHIT OUT OF HERE!"
"We just..." begins Mack, but Ryan silences him with a furrowed brow and a pointed finger.
"You know there's gonna be a REPORTER snooping around! And you two numbnuts can't control yourselves for one goddamn week?"
Mack and Biagi fumble, backing out of the room.
"Yeah get out," yells Ryan, "and you're lucky it's me, not Kelly! He'd skin you alive."
As they gather their clothes Biagi looks down at the cum soaked jock he's still wearing and starts to peel it off.
"Don't you EVEN leave that thing here!" barks Ryan shaking his head and pointing at Biagi's crotch, being sure to flex his bicep and forearm.
When Mack and Biagi have their clothes in hand he charges them to the door, and as they fumble their Ryan bellows in his loudest voice, "NO FUCKING IN THE GYM!"
Ryan manages to suppress his laugh until the college kids are on the other side of the door and out of earshot.
He howls finally, shaking his head. "No fucking in the gym," he grumbles in a mock tough guy voice, laughing again at the look on the two idiots' faces. Feeling how stiff his own pants are now, he adds "Big Irish cock... bro!" and cackles at his own Mack impression.
He hoses off the shower, and goes through the usual motions of shutting down the gym. When everything is cleaned, Ryan returns to the office to flip off the lights. His laptop is still on, open to Zeitgeist, and the articles by David Levy. The fucking reporter. He'd forgotten about that.
God damn it Kelly, why're you doing this to me, he thinks.
He picks up a Triple Hit business card, flips it over and on the back side writes DAVID LEVY, REPORTER.
He thinks for a second about the articles he read and the picture, and in his tiny controlled print he writes WEAKNESSES: Blind spots, Doesn't know about MMA, Dresses like a dick.
Then he writes STRENGTHS: Smart, Good writer. He's about to add one more strength, but stops. He decides to wait and see.
"Alright Mr. Reporter," he says, looking at the card once more before he tucks it into his wallet bulging with his other opponents. "See you tomorrow."
He turns the lights off.
END
(or, if you want to know the rest of the story read BEARDING THE LION by J.Mercury Jones and Sween McDervish, available on Amazon, iBooks, Barnes & Noble and Kobo - or check it out on Goodreads)