The story below is a work of fiction, set in the format of reality. Any resemblances to real people, alive or in the hereafter, is entirely coincidental in nature. It is not meant to accurately reflect upon persons, in towns, cities, nor governmental areas, which the story is stages. If a sexual scene involving male-to-male relationships offences you, then you should not read this story. Additionally, if you are under 18 years of age, in most state and countries, you are not allowed to read this story, by law. Check with your local laws regarding such. Sexual safety matters. This is fiction. Use protection, in real life.
ROAD TRIP egotistical wriTten by T. Chase McPhee
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Anthony had the upper hand, in the no-holds-barred wrestling match, the fan's yelling, "C'mon you faggot!" from the perimeter of a boxing ring. However, Anthony didn't count on Juan's academy-award performance of playing `passed out'. Gloating over himself, all it took was a few seconds for Anthony to turn his back. A fast crawl towards a corner, Juan easily tagged Alfredo's hand, the six foot, two hundred and twenty-two pounder, stretching his size fourteen boot, inside the ropes.
The yard erupted in laughter as Miguel's friends saw it coming, Anthony's back to Alfredo, almost breathing down his neck.
"Now you're mine, boy!"
Like a drop in the stock market, Anthony's proud, happy side took the plunge, as he turned around. Waiting, was Alfredo's fist. The first gutpunch struck, knocking the wind out of Anthony.
Laughing his ass off, Alfredo shouted out, "Oh man, did that feel fuckin' good!" His cock surged, swelling when he scooped up Anthony's hair, pulled him to a straight-standing positon and tucked in his gut for the second time.
"Need some help?" Juan asks, standing to Alfredo's right.
"Yeah. Stretch him out. I've only just started to cave in his gut!"
Neither of the Latino's picked up on how easy it was for Juan to circle behind Anthony, weave his hands up and around the coach's biceps, putting him in a full nelson, stretching his abs to the max.
First, placing his big fist up to Anthony's gut, right above his navel, hiding a round portion of his dark-haired stomach trail, Alfredo tested the resilience of the nicely defined six pack.
Drawing his arm way back, Alfredo made a sound, yelling, "Yeah," heaving his fist forwards. "Oh shit!" he cried out too late, as Anthony maneuvered himself out of the way, to his far right, making Juan's big stomach a vulnerable target.
"Uggggggggggggggggggghh!" Juan belched out long and loud, releasing Anthony, holding his belly as he fell against the ropes.
However, unlike Alfredo's attention, diverted to Juan, Anthony kept a cool head, watching the hulk of a man fall prey to Juan's rapid breathing and groans of pain.
"Hey, sorry amigo...." Alfredo said to Juan, half bending over.
Still man-on-top, Anthony saw Miguel almost ready to sound the bell. Walking over to the far side of the ring, he steals the wooden mallet out of his hand, reaches for the red, circular piece of metal the bell-like tone would sound from, like a frisbee, tossing both over the rock wall.
With a renewed source of energy, Anthony shouts, "Now we play by my rules!"
However, it was the biggest mistake on his part, being over confident, plus a bit pompous. His main objective, to put Alfredo out of commission, he went at him hastily, not leaving time to think, as he put him into a wrestling hold, turning him around, pushing him face forward into the mat. It seemed like the ground shook, when, with arms over his head and behind him, Alfredo's chest, stomach and pubes took on the burden of a frontal assault, slamming into the mat.
All around the roped in corral was heard a canon of `Oh shits'! Not paying a deal of attention to Juan, Anthony didn't see a couple of his friends dousing him with water, having him drink, refeshing the chubby fighter, as if he experienced timeout in a corner of the ring. Arms behind Alfredo's back, Anthony carried a smile on his face, as he leaned a knee in the small of Alfredo's back, bringing the behemoth fighter's elbows together.
As Juan got up to his feet, using the rope for support, he spotted a flogger hanging from one of his comrade's belt. Instead of accusing him of stealing, the owner of the flogger was more than happy to see Juan, gripping the whipping tool in his hand, shaking out the leather fronds. Anthony had no idea of impending disaster, Juan holding the flogger way behind himself, training it on the target of Anthony's shoulderblades.
"Akkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk!" Anthony screamed, when the eight or ten fronds slapped against his back. As a reflex, he let go of Alfredo's arms. It hadn't been Anthony's first encounter with an instrument of whipping. He knew if he didn't react, the second lash would spell the beginning of the end, each strike of the whip dragging him down. Taking two lashes across his chest and one to the sides of his ribs, he managed to wrestle Juan, using several fronds of the flogger to reel Juan in. Pulling on the flogger, Anthony's hand plunged into the Latino's big belly. "Take that!" Anthony replied to the heavy belch.
"Take this, you little shit!" Alfredo countered Anthony's assault with first a slap across his cheek, to grab his attention. With both hands on Anthony's shoulders, Alfredo lifts his knee, right into Anthony's pubes.
Falling forward, it was the direction Alfredo had intended. This time, it was Anthony's turn to be pinned to the mat. More powerful than Anthony, Alfredo held both of the twenty-seven year old's arms in one of his. Reaching between Anthony's legs, his hand dove under his bod, grabbing for soft flesh.
Gritting his teeth, Anthony had worse problems to worry about, rather than keep his attention on Miguel. When he felt his balls being gently squeezed, he knew he was finished, at least until he passed out.
With the shriek of a whistle, cutting through the excitement, Alfredo knew he better stop, freeze the action. What a shame... just as Juan once again commanded the flogger.
"Okay, it's over," Miguel told them all.
Letting Anthony's body slack off, his arms falling to the mat while he regained control of his muscles, an arm disappearing under his bod, reaching to the place between his legs, where it ached, he moaned, but still followed the words being slung around between Miguel and Alfredo.
"What the fuck is this Miguel? You promised me a good time. I've only just begun to hurt this cocksucker."
One thing all of them knew and maybe it had slipped Alfredo's mind, being the heated state he was in, but nobody crosses Miguel. By being onery one day, you might just wake up the next and find your car dismantled, on your front lawn!
In the back of Miguel's mind, he keenly focused on his promise to his brother, but in the front lobe of his brain, he still had the memory stabbing at him, when he almost got caught in a drug sting... in the wrong place at the wrong time. Hauling him out before the feds busted in the door, Alfredo and he made their getaway, rather than the possibility of facing prison time. Little had Miguel realized an innocent game of poker would be the front for a notorious drug operation.
"Well, you gonna welch on me, Miguel" Alfredo's faced Miguel, inches from each other, leading him on, "or what?"
He looked to Anthony, then back to Alfredo.
"Just give me two minutes with the son-of-a-bitch!"
With no damage to his body, it was his ego which fired Alfredo up.
"A minute and I'm timing you to the second," Miguel gave in.
"Oh fuckin' yeah!" Alfredo yelled out, throwing the knuckles of his right hand into his left, making a hard, slapping sound. Alternating, his right palm couldn't contain the size of his left fist.
Walking over to the tree, Miguel tore the all-weather clock from it's perch, where it had been hand-screwed to the upper trunk.
Unaware of his fate, Anthony was just starting to recover, falling once, as his arms, from being held behind him, wouldn't forklift his body up.
Walking over to Alfredo, Juan, his attitude softened, "Amigo, I think this gringo has had enough."
"You disappoint me, Juan. But... I don't mind you `not' sharing in the fun!"
Alfredo had a hidden agenda even before Miguel called out start'. When the go ahead was given, he went at Anthony with a vengeance. The man who hurt his ego' was going to pay. Getting Anthony to his feet, Alfredo heaved his fist into Anthony's gut two times. It was enough to keep Alfredo's victim searching for breath to fill his lungs. Doubling over, Alfredo counted every second of the minute. "Well, if you're not going to use this," Alfredo says to Juan, stealing the flogger from his hand.
The first lash, Anthony still on his knees, doubled over, coiled around his bod, the extension of Alfredo's retaliatory revenge, severely lacerating Anthony's back. With the second hurl of the whip, the swish through the air didn't materialize, as Miguel stood behind the torturer, fist around Alfredo's wrist, tightly connected. With all his muscles in his shoulder and arm flexed, the five foot ten inch host held the sturdy inplement in midair, his muscles vying for domination over Alfredo's.
"What tha..." Alfredo cursed, his head zooming to the left, staring for a second at his left hand, then slipping down his hand, like a melting ice cream cone, seeing a hand clasped around his wrist, the retrainer gripping him as snug as a leather cuff.
"New rule... no toys allowed!"
At first, Alfredo squinted, knowing he was losing options for working Anthony over. Then, an equally, if not more, smile showed off his white teeth, he spelled out, "No problem, `bud'," enunciating the friendly term, but hinting the break in their relationship. Throwing the flogger to the mat, the leather tool of torture half crossing Miguel's boot, Miguel followed with release, snatching it up.
"No problem," Alfredo said, with glee, "no problem at-tall," said he, standing in the ring, the big bully grabbing Anthony under his pits, hefting him up. Throwing Anthony's back against the ropes, Alfredo caught him on the rebound, again attacking Anthony's gut, but this time stomping his heel into the coach's abs, propelling him backwards.
By now, Anthony was breathing heavily, moaning in pain, sweating profusely, as the sun baked the earth. His legs like jelly, stomach red, though his abs still strong, he couldn't do anything to defend himself, as Alfredo wound rope around each arm, binding Anthony to the side of the ring, saying loudly so all could hear, "What the fuck I need a flogger, when I got `built in' toys to play with." Before stepping away, he kicked Anthony's legs apart.
Even though he felt pain in his gut, out of breath, knowing a solid workover was ahead, Anthony couldn't help but sense the excitement of the moment. He couldn't comprehend how, sore, aching, and fatigued, his churning balls and stiff cock sent out signals to his brain, something of an enjoyable nature, something he would later try to figure out.
"Fifteen seconds!" Miguel shouted out, with the addition of seconds, Alfredo's partner watched over Miguel's shoulder, making sure tag-team member number two didn't get short-changed.
"Shit!" the tall, muscled Latino called out, as the seconds ticked away.
Alfredo's plan had been to use up a few seconds, `mentally' torturing Anthony, as he stood over the beaten coach, grinding his big fist into his abs, twisting and turning it. As Anthony's bod sloped down, Alfredo's knee was there, under Anthony's balls, to boost him up. The pain was excruiating. Maybe to Miguel, he was worried out of his mind, but to Anthony, between the pain, he could still feel that tingling sensation in his crotch.
"Ten seconds!"
At the sound of Miguel announcing the whittling away of time, Alfredo stood up. Then, bending over a tad, he aligned his fist up with Anthony's stomach. "Time to finish you off, boy!"
It suddenly became a burden to Juan's mind, remembering the connection between Miguel's brother and the bound man, ready to endure more abs torture. To him, it wasn't the `game' it set out to be.
As Alfredo bent over, making sure he was on target. His fist pounded Anthony's abs, the impact so great, causing Anthony's bod to lurch backwards, then forwards, doubling over, even though the ropes restrained him.
"Oh man did that feel so fuckin' good!" Alfredo called out, again the inner ankle of his leg, using Anthony's balls to get him into position, for the next bout.
However, Alfredo was about to get a `fucking' good jolt himself, as Juan stood behind him. Retrieving the flogger from the mat, sitting right in front of Miguel, Juan turned the flogger around in his hand, kneeling down on one knee. Leaning back as far as possible, he knew he had only one shot. When he saw Alfredo's elbow stretched back, it became the signal, knowing he had to make his move.
Just before the pain response kicked in, a look of total surprise showed on Alfredo's face, his right arm molded, frozen in place. Then, as he screamed out in pain, from the butt end of the flogger entering his ass canal, Juan pushing it in deeper and deeper, Alfredo took a nose dive, his head missing Anthony's crotch by a foot.
"What a little woosy!" One of the sideliners said, standing right in front of the passed out bod of Alfredo, his gut hanging over the lower rope, his arms flung forwards, lifeless in appearance. Next, instead of pity, Miguel's buds began making fun of Alfredo, his `horse tail' coming out of his butt.
Jumping into the ring, Miguel directed to Juan, "I owe you one," as he attended to Anthony's limp bod.
Juan helped too, as Miguel complained, "Shit! Roberto is going to kill me with his bare hands!" A hand passed over a series of dark pink welts crossing Anthony's chest, then bruises accenting his six pack. He sighed, exhaling, saying to himself, `At least there's no blood.'
Taking Anthony inside, Alfredo left out there to rot, four men lifted Anthony up on the makeshift bondage table. The hose Miguel used to spray down the mechanic bays, became a revival tool, spraying the cool mist over Anthony's bod.
"Ah, Tino, you want to come take a look?"
Tall, tanned, good looking, glasses, twenty-four, the med student pushed his way through the barrage of leathermen.
"You want to step back? Give the poor guy some air to breathe?" Tino dictated to those gathered round. His first leather party, invited by a regular, Tino Desaguadero stood over Anthony, feeling him up and down, especially around his sixpack, which more resembled five and a half.
"I need a bag with some ice," Tino ordered up, more in a dominant manner, currently out of sync with the leather game.
Returning with a zipbag of ice, Miguel gave it to Tino, who reported to Anthony, leaning over, changing his tone, as from day to night, whispering in his ear, "This may hurt a little."
Anthony just moaned.
After instructing Miguel to keep the ice in motion, slowly, Tino gravitated to Anthony's thighs. More than a doctor's attention, Tino carefully inspected the pubic region. The other's attention on Anthony's bod, Miguel doing a good job of icing down his abs, no one noticed the tiny smile at the sides of Tino's lips, as he carefully rolled Anthony's balls around in his hand, as if tumbling dice. Not seeing anything suspicious, not even a bruise, Tino thought to himself, This sure would have been good to play with!' He was smiling for another reason, too, Anthony's shaft, standing at attention. Or was it for more' attention?
After telling Miguel Anthony's abs had enough ice therapy, instead of requesting it from Anthony, nor doing it himself, he instructed a few men, standing nearby, to `carefully' turn Anthony over.
"I need some antibiotic for the welts," Tino confronted Miguel.
Feeling helpless, Miguel stood there.
"Hand sanitizer gel. Do you have some?"
"Upstairs. Be right back!" Miguel said.
With Juan on his tail, the two jumped from station to house and back, in less than a minute. Dumping on the table, between Anthony's legs, five little blue bottles spun around. Taking the top off one, Tino first cleansed his own hands. Then, emptying the same one, he said to Anthony, "I'm sorry, but this is going to hurt real bad." Before he applied it, Anthony's head turned to the side, his eyes closing.
"Wha....what's happened to him?"
After taking Anthony's pulse, carefully checking his eyes, Tino says, "You can cool your jets. He's passed out. Maybe for the better."
"Passed out? Oh shit! Roberto's going to have me by the balls!" Miguel exclaimed.
"Um, it's getting kind of..." Tino looked around at the sweating bods, bodyhair slick as if showered, "stuffy in here. Could..."
On it before Tino finished, Miguel announced, "Party's over."
As usual, there would have been hemming and hawing, but they knew the guy on the table wasn't any ordinary victim. Prompted to give Anthony a good time, things weren't supposed to go out of whack.
"Maybe we can get together next weekend," Miguel tried smoothing it over, knowing the disappointment, even it wasn't being expressed. Having an idea, he was sure to make them feel better. "Why don't you guys get rid of the piece of shit out in the backyard?"
"I thought he was your friend, Miguel?" One of them asked.
"I was thinking about that. Nah, friends don't ask to be repaid for a favor. At least I've never called in a favor. Nope, I wouldn't call him a friend."
"What do we do with him?"
"Yeah, where does he live?"
Miguel responded to their questions, "Alfredo is from out of town... but.. hmm.. why don't you boys have some fun with him. Being the animal he is, why don't just sneak into the animal shelter and stuff him in a cage?"
Happily, but sympathetic over Miguel's plight, the lot of them left, Tino staying behind, as well as Juan.
"You sure you don't want to go with them, Juan?"
"Nah. I'll wait for the gringo to wake up."
"Thanks," Miguel said, giving Juan a friendly slap on his stomach, a peck on his cheek.
As Miguel stepped back over to the bondage table, Juan's fingers traveled over his lips, as if reading the sweet endeavor. As he watched Tino and Miguel interacting, with conversation, he thought about Miguel's gesture of thanks. Being the two went back, to grade school days, Juan thought about the phrase, `I owe you one'. Ever since those golden days, it had been Miguel who stood up for the chubby boy, watching him grow into a chubby teen, then manhood. In Juan's mind, he was erasing the slate clean.
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Copyright 2007 T. Chase McPhee This story may not be sold, nor made part of any collection without prior written permission, by the author.