The time between the Big Tens and the NCAAs was the longest and the shortest eleven days of the year. >From the moment the conference tournament ended our whole lives, every thought, every beat of our hearts was focused on nationals, and every hour felt like an eternity. The suspense was merciless. Carter and I went through our daily routine like a pair of ticking time bombs, ready to bust right out of our skins. It felt like the damn thing would never come. And then one morning we woke up and there it was, practically on top of us. All that time had flown by. We'd have given anything for just a couple more sessions in the wrestling room, a little more training and a little more preparation, anything to push it off just five more fucking minutes to give us a chance to take a deep breath and feel like we were truly ready.
There were five of us who qualified this time around, a decent number for our school. Justin and Travis and I got in automatically for making the podium at the Big Tens. Carter qualified on his overall ranking, and our man Shafer at 174 made it too. The rest of the team were off on Spring Break, lounging at their parents' houses or getting drunk on a beach somewhere -- but we knew come Thursday every one of them would be glued to ESPN, watching the NCAAs play out for three solid days.
The tournament was in Nashville. It seemed like kind of an odd choice; Tennessee isn't really known as a powerhouse of wrestling. In fact, there's only one Division I program in the state -- at UT Chattanooga -- and while a couple of their guys did qualify, they hadn't produced an All-American in more than a decade. But it goes to show just how big the NCAAs are. They could fill any arena in the country for three days with diehard wrestling fans. Cities all over, in wrestling country or not, were lining up a dozen deep to play host.
For us, thank God, the trip was just long enough to justify a plane ride. Nobody wanted to deal with knotted up muscles and a flat ass from spending six hours in a van. Even so, the shuttle to the airport, all the jerking around with TSA and boarding by group and tray tables, and then meeting up with our ride to the hotel, had our heads spinning all directions. It's a good thing I had my brother to latch onto, once we got into our room and stripped and settled in for the night. Travis and Justin were looking pretty damn content in the other bed too, all snuggled up in each other's arms.
And gotta say I felt pretty bad for poor Shafe, stuck sharing a bed with one of the team trainers while his best buddy Marcus stayed behind. Those two weren't family but they'd figured out the important stuff on their own.
Morning at the arena was a scene, as always. There's nothing else like it in the world. I mean, the Big Tens are crazy, and the Midlands too... but this was another level entirely. It wasn't just the old familiar rivals anymore; it was everybody - the whole college wrestling world, the thirty-three best in each weight class, guys you never even heard of before, guys from schools you never heard of before, except for that one weekend a year. And every one of them on a mission to prove themselves on the nation's biggest stage.
From the minute we strolled into the tunnels it was on. Once we got into the locker room, the hormones were off the chart. Guys from everywhere were strutting around, casually flexing, checking each other out. Their expressions may have been blank but their eyes were gleaming; with all those fresh new bodies to stare at, everybody was sizing each other up and drinking each other in. You couldn't look at a guy without thinking about what it would be like to tangle with him on the mat... or more.
I don't know if you've noticed, but when a guy reaches peak fitness, his whole body seems to glow. You see it in a heartbeat; it's very obvious, and it hits you right in the groin. Your cock wants a great big piece of that and you'll do about anything to get it. Of course we'd all been trying to get there, to time it just right so we'd be in the best possible shape for nationals. But with a long hard season behind us and all the bumps, bruises, stresses and strains that always went along with it, hell, most of us felt lucky if we could show up at the tournament without a knee brace or half a roll of kinesiology tape plastered all over our shoulders.
There were those moments though, when the stars would align and you'd show up at the tourney in the very best shape of your life. You'd walk through the crowd and all eyes would be on you, like they couldn't bear to look away. And then like magic you'd see a guy who was every bit as honed as you, and it was like an audible ping filled the room. You felt his eyes on you just as yours were browsing on him, your body and his were suddenly glowing all the brighter, and even though your expressions never changed, there was that instant connection, that moment of telepathy and recognition and unspoken acknowledgement of pure raw lust. Without so much as a blink you said it all to each other, and your cocks were suddenly aching for a workout.
That was my first round match. I was about halfway down the bracket, so I'd start out against a guy who had nearly the same ranking as me. He was from South Dakota State, a pretty good program these days. I'd seen his name on the sheet and looked up his stats but really didn't have a clue what he was all about. They announced our match and we stepped up to the mat and got a look at each other, and holy fuck, our bodies started calling to each other like two goddamn electromagnets with a full charge.
There's a weird thing in some wrestling programs I've never quite figured out -- sometimes you'll run across a team where all the guys look the same. Part of it comes from a coach's bias toward a certain body type; good wrestlers can be tall or short, lean and lanky or thick and stubby, but if a coach only knows how to train one type of wrestler, that's how he'll fill out his team. The rest of it though, sure seems like there's a fetish or something going on. This year's South Dakota State squad were almost all blonds, pretty damn tanned for guys who spend most of their year indoors, and had that square-jawed look like they belonged on a recruiting poster for the Marine Corps. I'm guessing their head coach had spent a fair amount of time jerking off to old Robert Redford movies.
So here I was with this guy Jack Stewart on the opposite side of the mat. Blond and square-jawed and gorgeous just like his teammates. We step up to center, our eyes meet, and fuck! Instant connection. When we shook hands and I felt that muscled paw squeeze mine... I swear my heart fucking stopped for a second, and I'd swear his did too. Then the ref blew the whistle, the match was on, and everything else flew right out of my head.
I went on the attack without a second thought, lunged in on a single-leg but he held me off, and we locked up in a tie. It felt so goddamn good to be all clinched up with him, our smooth muscled arms testing one against the other, his strong hand clutching my triceps and mine putting pressure on the back of his neck. For a moment we just lingered there, showing off our strength to each other. His eyes were locked on mine, steel blue; the sound of his breath huffing out hot and steady drowned out all the noise of the crowd. My meat was bulging enormously in my singlet.
He tried pushing back on me and I grabbed the opportunity for a duck-under, spun around and took him to the mat. We scrambled for control and his cock brushed my leg, stiff and thick as a log. It lit me up like electricity and in a burst of energy I snagged him, almost put him on his back but he twisted and found his base, and I broke him down flat with my hips jammed tight against his ass, my hard cock riding along his crack.
And that's the way it went for the rest of the match. The guy had impressive skills; his moves had clearly taken him far, but whatever he tried, it was like I could sense it coming. I felt so connected to the guy I swear I could read his mind and his body, and I shut him down and kept him in line like I was the master and he was my pet. I held him in my arms and tangled up with his legs, and it felt flat out amazing - for me, and for him too. Nobody likes to lose, but the more I manhandled him and controlled him, the more I could tell he enjoyed it. He was wrestling his heart out, and loving the way I kept the upper hand.
All the while, there was Jase barking orders at me from the sidelines. I could hear every word he yelled plain as day but I ignored them. This was my match and my opponent. I was handling it on my own, exactly the way I knew it should go.
At the final whistle I was still on top and going for a turn with a head lever, both of us soaked in our shared sweat, the scent of us filling our noses. We untangled and I offered a hand to pull him up to his feet, and he leaned in and hissed under his breath, "We need to fuck." Our eyes were all over each other as the ref raised my hand; his body was second to none and glowing like a motherfucker. Both our cocks were rigid as flagpoles and leaking precum, on national TV.
I loped off the mat to the sidelines. Jase swatted my ass and gave me one of his looks. I stumbled into the tunnels to regroup, but before I made it to the locker room, somebody yanked on my arm.
"What the hell was that?" It was Duncan, glaring at me.
I shrugged. "It was wrestling. It was a win."
He rolled his eyes and shook his head, and dragged me down the hall. "You've got a long way to go this weekend," he told me. "You need to settle the fuck down."
At the back end of the locker room he shoved me into a stall, stepped in and locked the door behind us. Without a word he peeled down my singlet and compression shorts in one quick motion, squatted in front of me and before I knew it my cock was in his mouth. I could hardly believe it. He cupped my balls with one hand and gripped my ass cheek hard with the other, jammed my meat down his throat and began sucking me in and out.
After seven hard minutes of wrestling every muscle in my body was screaming at me already, but getting blown in a goddamn toilet stall by a guy I'd worshipped since junior high was enough to wreck me completely. I stroked his head as he sucked me; his buzz cut prickling against my palm sent needles racing up my arm and into my brain. He toyed with my balls, squeezing and rolling them in his hand. His fingers dug into my crack and assaulted my hole. I could scarcely catch my fucking breath. Just like in everything else that mattered, Duncan was a world class expert at sucking cock. The way he mouthed my shaft as he plunged it into his throat and dragged it out, his tongue swabbing my cock head, coiling around and flicking the tip... it was all I could do to stay on my feet; I was sure my knees were about to buckle.
Soon enough I was struggling just to hold off from blowing my load. I leaned with one hand on his shoulder -- and fuck, that beefy deltoid felt good; I almost lost it right there. He began driving down on me harder, and tugging on my ball sack, and kneading my ass like a great big wad of bread dough. Each time he swallowed my meat down to the root, he'd linger there and swirl his head around a bit. The scruff on his unshaven cheeks grating against my thighs was just about driving me crazy.
I realized he was trying to make me blow fast and hard, and I wanted to do that for him more than anything. I quit fighting it and let him work me, and in no time the cum was welling up hot from my balls, and my cock was swollen to the limit. My whole body seized up in an awful moment of anticipation and then unleashed with a jolt. I blasted a load into his mouth, and he clutched both my ass cheeks tight and shoved his nose into my gut and let it spout right down his throat, one spurt after the next. I didn't make a sound; I refused to whimper or moan. I just marked each twitch and spasm with a sharp shallow breath, supporting my weight on his traps, giving him everything I had.
When I was drained he stood up and held me in his arms, kissed me and gave me back a good portion of my own cum. I gulped it down eagerly, just as I'd take anything that stud had to offer. He held me back at arm's length and looked into my eyes.
"Now you're ready to wrestle for real," he told me. "Your next match is in the evening session. It's gonna be a tough one. Rest up. Stay loose. And quit thinking."
I nodded. He was right. Duncan was the master.
The evening match was looming large ahead of me, but I wouldn't be the only one wrestling. We all had our issues to deal with. Carter barely got by his first round opponent and was feeling a little bit shaken. Justin had cruised through his but next he'd be up against a guy who outweighed him by a good forty pounds. Shafe lost in the first round, and was sent down to the loser's bracket -- but he was still alive. As a captain, part of my job was to make sure all those guys stayed upbeat and focused on winning. This was the time when wrestling truly became a team effort.
One of the very best things about the NCAAs is that every year there are surprises. There are always those guys who step up when it counts, who deliver the big upset that nobody saw coming. When that happens, the whole damn arena takes notice. Every wrestler in the tournament, and every former wrestler in the stands, knows what it's like to be overmatched and come out on top -- and they love to see it happen.
A hard luck kid from a mediocre program becomes an instant celebrity by taking down a guy he wasn't supposed to stand a chance against. Suddenly everybody knows his name, everybody's his biggest fan, and they let him know it. I had that experience last year when I pulled out one of Duncan's signature moves and scored a pin on a former national champ. I wouldn't trade that feeling for anything in the world.
This year it was Travis's turn.
Since he wrestled at 133, his time slot was early in the session -- way earlier than any of the rest of ours were. That was fine with us; it meant we could all watch his match. He'd won his first round pretty easily but now he was up against the number two seed. All of us were worried about how he'd react if he got seriously crushed. We'd worked so hard to build up his confidence, all season long. I was afraid in seven short minutes it could be shattered.
There wasn't enough room for the three hundred or so wrestlers who weren't on the mat to crowd around the sidelines. So we just massed up at the entrance to one of the tunnels, same as everybody else did who wanted to get a look at the action.
We were all yelling for him as soon as the ref blew the whistle. His opponent looked so fucking sharp, and so fucking fast -- just as all the guys were at that weight class. They moved like lightning, and made the most of whatever ultra-lean muscle they could pack onto their small frames. Watching how Travis kept up with the guy amazed me. His quick reactions, his counterattacks, the way he seemed to be on top of it every second -- it was like our buddy had reached a whole new level.
He was hanging in there just fine but as the match went on, the other guy was slowly building a lead. By the start of the third period the guy was four points ahead, and then five. Carter and I traded doubtful glances with each other. As well as he'd wrestled, it looked like our buddy was heading for the losers' bracket. All his opponent had to do was hold him off through the rest of the match.
But then with less than a minute left, the guy went back on the offensive -- clearly angling to tack on a couple more points for a major victory and a boost to his team score. Travis wasn't having any of that. He countered the attack, rushed in and snagged the guy in an underhook as he recovered, and pulled off a huge Greco-style throw that landed him on his back. The guy struggled to regain his base, sheer panic in his eyes, but our boy drove in and held him in danger for the four-count -- a six point move. And just like that, the clock ran out, and it was done.
The crowd went absolutely nuts. Everybody was howling. We couldn't believe it; we were jumping up and down and hugging each other -- I was afraid for a minute Justin would break my spine. Travis was all grins. The ref raised his hand and the crowd went crazy all over again. Even Jase looked impressed. A big move like that, especially at the last minute, is solid gold.
That's the way wrestling is. A guy can outscore you, he can have way better skills than you, but there's always gonna be that moment when he's off balance. Nobody can be perfect all the time. If you can spot it, if you can jump on it, you can take down anyone on earth and be a hero for a day.
We wanted to charge out and maul Travis as he was heading off the floor -- but we had to wait our turn. Everybody was excited for him; wrestlers, coaches, everyone he trotted by was congratulating him, shaking his hand, slapping his shoulders. It was great to see him basking in the limelight. We faded back into the tunnel, and when he finally made it through the crowd we mobbed him -- hugging and squeezing him, hands all over the poor guy, grabbing ass, dick, whatever we could reach. The rest of them saw our matching singlets and knew we were his teammates. They grinned to each other, backed off and let us share the moment with our buddy. But they still whooped it up and yelled out to him as they passed by.
The rest of the night didn't go quite as well. Carter and I each lost our matches; his was a close one but mine was a blowout. I barely avoided giving up a tech fall to that very same Iowa stud who beat me at our dual meet. Well, we knew we wouldn't go all the way to the finals, and at least we still had a shot at making the podium. Justin came out on top of his though; the guy he wrestled was as big as Godzilla but as slow as Godzilla too. Our boy had him wrapped up before he knew what hit him. It was a damn good end to the first day of the tournament.
Back at the hotel, both Travis and Justin were still amped as all hell. The smiles were still plastered on their faces, and every time their eyes met it would stir them up even more. The two of them were acting playful as fuck, jumping on any excuse to put their hands on each other -- not really in a sexual way, just little shoulder pats and biceps squeezes like the drunk fratboys do with their buddies when they're hot for a little action. We knew it would only be a matter of time before they got overheated.
I nudged Carter with my elbow and gave him a sly glance. He looked over at the two of them going through their pre-mating ritual and smiled. They'd reached the point where they were just about blind to everyone and everything but each other.
We casually went through our routine of getting ready for bed but all the time our eyes were glued to the two on the other side of the room. I stripped down and slid in between the sheets, and my brother joined me. We cuddled up together, propped up on pillows side by side like we had front row seats to a live porn show.
"Who's gonna top?" Carter whispered to me.
I shrugged at first, then nodded toward the big guy.
"If you're wrong," he whispered, "you're eatin' my ass."
Travis stood there tugging at Justin's T-shirt and reaching up underneath to feel his pecs. Justin was accommodating enough; he sat on edge of the bed to put them on the same level and raised his arms to let his little brother strip it off. As soon as he tossed it aside, Travis got to work massaging those massive pecs, stroking Justin's abs, licking and chewing on his nipples. After all the time they'd been together, he was still in awe of that body. Nobody could blame him. You just don't run across guys that big, that chiseled, and that well proportioned every day.
While the little guy feasted on Justin's torso, big brother got to work stripping Travis. The T-shirt first, then the belt; the jeans came unbuttoned next, and his big hands slid down into the waistband front and back, taking stock of the inventory. Before we knew it they were both naked and stretched out together on the mattress, making out, groping each other, rubbing their bodies one against the other to get each other as horned as possible before the main event. Their two shafts were stiff as could be, each of them long and thick enough to make any man happy; Justin's won the prize for sheer mass but Travis's looked bigger against his small frame. They sword-fought playfully, swinging their hips slapping one cock against the other, daring each other to take the next step.
There's something very satisfying about watching two of your good buddies have sex. When you know them as well as we did, you recognize all their moves, you know what's going through their heads. You can feel what's going on almost like you're a part of it. We watched them with dopey grins on our faces, loving how well they played together and how comfortable they were with doing it right in front of us. Carter reached over and casually stroked my cock, and of course I returned the favor. We each had one arm draped around the other's neck, and one hand on his package, jerking each other to the rhythm of our buddies' grinding on the next mattress over.
They weren't a pair you'd figure would make a good couple right off the bat -- Justin the heavyweight, and Travis in the next-to-smallest weight class; the little guy pale and blond and smooth, and the big guy tanned and hairy -- but they sure made it work. Seeing them in action checked all kinds of boxes on anybody's fantasy scorecard. You could just as easily put yourself into the role of the smaller guy having that great big muscleboy all to yourself, or the bigger guy with a tight little fun-sized partner who worshipped you head to toe. Either way, it was bound to get our cocks good and hard. Especially with each of them sporting the kind of body you normally only see on Greco-Roman statues and Division I wrestlers.
Justin rolled over onto his back and spread his knees wide. My brother tightened his arm around my neck and squeezed my meat, needling me about our bet. But it wasn't a done deal yet. Travis moved in between Justin's thighs but instead of working that ass he grabbed the coconut oil and started greasing the big guy's cock. He climbed on top and straddled him, grabbed that rigid pole and lowered his eager ass onto it, sighing as it sank into him.
Our eyes were wide open and our breath caught in our throats as Travis began grinding on that meat, his lean body writhing as he rocked slowly and deliberately back and forth. The sight of Justin's thick horsecock disappearing impossibly deep into that tiny tight hole and then gliding smoothly out again was mesmerizing. With a good slathering of lube it glistened in the light, every vein standing out like a roadmap. My own ass twitched just watching it, thinking about how it would feel to get speared by such a huge fucking shank. I know it was an optical illusion because Travis was such a small guy, but I'd swear it was a foot and a half long and as big around as my arm.
Travis sure didn't seem to mind though. As he rode Justin's cock he sighed gratefully with every breath, eyes closed and a dreamy look on his face. He seemed to be almost in a trance, his whole body devoted to reaming himself with that shaft like nothing else mattered on earth. Carter and I were completely immersed in the scene; he leaned in and pressed his cheek against mine, and I slid my hand down to his chest to feel his heart -- yeah his was racing every bit as fast as my own.
The little guy had just begin to pick up his pace when Justin cupped an ass cheek in each hand and held him suspended like he was weightless. Travis gripped Justin's triceps for support and the big stud pistoned him, driving that cock up his chute in rapid fire thrusts. Our boy yipped and yelped with such obvious pleasure I could hardly keep from shooting my own load... and without even realizing, my brother and I had begun jacking each other to match their energy, harder and stronger and faster.
Another six or eight slams and Travis's moans became desperate. He was pleading, but not for Justin to stop -- he only wanted more and more. His face turned beet red and his body seized up, and he gushed a big wad of cum that laid a thick white stripe across Justin's abs, clear up to his nipple. I lost it then and there, and Carter did too. We spurted out our loads as Travis pumped one shot after another all over that massive muscled torso -- and Justin blasted his own juice into his brother's guts.
I don't know if they were even paying attention to our side of the room; maybe they didn't care, or maybe it gave them an extra boost. But their eyes were locked on each other as they drained their balls and Travis settled down into Justin's arms, the spry little hero and his iron giant, snuggling together and drifting off to sleep, absolutely satisfied.
My brother and I took the cue. We shut the lights off, laid back and wrapped up in each other, breathing relaxed and easy.
"I still need to eat your ass," Carter whispered. "You won."
"Save it for later," I whispered back. "Just lay there and fuckin' hold me."
Friday, the second day of the NCAAs, is what the TV announcers call Moving Day. Some guys move up in the brackets, some guys move down. It's when most wrestlers get their second loss and drop out of the tournament completely.
For Carter and me, it meant slogging our way through the losers' bracket all day long for a chance to make the podium and become All Americans our second straight year. Each match we won, we'd move up to face a guy who'd just dropped out of the winners' bracket, and he'd always have the advantage. A guy who lost in the very first round and then made it all the way through would have wrestled two more matches than his opponent. The odds were stacked against him, but it was only fair; there has to be some reward for the guy who got through two full days without a loss.
Travis's run through the winners' bracket ended with his first match of the day. He wrestled a good match but couldn't quite pull off another miracle. But he rallied afterward, and was still alive at the end of the day.
Carter made it through his consolation matches too. And Justin was still winning, putting away everyone who stepped onto the mat. But Shafe had lost early on and was out of the tournament. In my final match of the day, I was up against the number one seed, a top-ranked guy from Cornell. He'd been surprised in the quarterfinals by an underdog from Stanford who instantly became the crowd's new hero, just like Travis was yesterday.
I wrestled my hardest but it wasn't good enough. He had me from the start. Not that I was ever completely out of it; it was one of those low-scoring, defensive matches that could have gone the other way with a single takedown... but he never gave me an opening, and I just couldn't find a way to make it happen. I lost by a point. I trudged back through the tunnel and into the locker room feeling exhausted and glum. My tournament was done.
"You looked good man," somebody said from over my shoulder. I turned around slowly and focused. It was Jack Stewart from South Dakota State, my first round opponent, standing there looking as beat as me in a dripping wet singlet. His eyes locked in on mine with that same spark we'd shared the day before.
I smiled weakly. "Thanks. How'd it go for you?"
"Well, I'm out of it now, but not quite finished. There's one more thing I need to take care of." He stepped in close, those blue eyes shining. "We still need to fuck."
Before I could say another word, his hand drifted over and stroked my package. His fingers curled around to cup my balls and give them a squeeze, and suddenly there was nothing more to say. He motioned with his head and I followed him to the toilet stalls at the back end of the room. There were eight of them in a row, and one of them was open. Jack latched onto my arm and pulled me in.
He wrapped his arms around me and mashed his lips against mine. We made out hungrily, as if we were starving for it, burning through all the anxiety and frustration we'd been bottling up for two solid days. Both of us were fresh off the mat, overheated and grubby and stinking with sweat. It was goddamn perfect. I pressed my chest eagerly to his and we squeezed each other hard enough to crack ribs, grinding our already stiff cocks together. His tongue invaded my mouth, attacked me aggressively and I fought back with mine, jostling and bludgeoning one another, our spit thick and gluey from stress and dehydration.
As we made out, I'd swear I heard somebody panting nearby, and somebody else softly grunting... in the stall next to ours? Or the next one down? Or both?
I pushed him back, eagerly peeled my singlet down to my waist and he grinned and did the same. We locked up again and mauled each other, loving the sensation of muscle on muscle and skin on skin. His hard nipples pressed into my pecs; his cut abs flexed and gnashed against mine. His breath was hot and heavy in my ear. My hands roamed over his back, feeling the contours of his lats, his traps, his rhomboids, his spinal erectors like two treetrunks sprouting up from his muscled ass. I slipped my hands under his Spandex, into his compression shorts, and grabbed those beautiful cheeks. His fingers were exploring my crack in an instant, his other hand sliding down inside the front to snag my bare cock, rubbing, stroking, teasing.
I pulled at his singlet, peeled it down below his ass, and then got to work on his shorts. He sank down and sat on the toilet, yanked my gear all the way off me in one quick motion, then popped my cock into his mouth while he stripped off his own. I cradled his head in my hands, rubbed his neck and traps and delts while he slurped and slobbered all over my shaft. God, it felt wonderful. Right at that moment, having my cock in the mouth of a gorgeous stud wrestler, a complete stranger except for the seven minutes we tangled up yesterday morning, was something I needed more than anything else on earth.
Meanwhile the grunts and the sounds of jostling bodies were amping up all around us from the other stalls; they seemed to be paired up in at least two or three of them, maybe even all seven. Just how many guys in this tournament had the same idea as us?
Jack gazed up into my eyes sweetly, holding my cock deep in his mouth. God, he was a handsome son of a bitch. I slid my meat out of him, wet and glistening with his spit. He looked it over and grinned. I took his shoulders and lifted just a nudge, and he rose to his feet and turned to the wall, pressed both hands to the tile, spread his legs and thrust his ass out for me. I didn't need any more coaxing than that.
I grabbed my shaft and lined it up, pressed it to his hole and pushed in. He gasped as I fed it to him and softly whispered for me to keep going, to shove it in harder, deeper. I wrapped my arms around his torso to steady us both and rammed in all the way to my pubes, and held it there buried in him. He whispered "Fuck, fuck..." breathlessly, goading me on, and I reached down and gripped his meat and began pumping, driving his shaft through my fist as my cock barreled into his guts and my hips slapped against his cheeks, back and forth, over and over in a solid, banging rhythm.
There was something so damn satisfying about fucking a fellow competitor, a stranger, but a guy I'd sweated with and bonded with on the mat -- and both of us still in our wrestling shoes, no less. It wasn't because I was on top, or because I'd won the match; I'd take dick from him just as easily as I gave it. It was the brotherhood that mattered, the knowledge that we were truly one and the same. I'd never so much as seen the guy before but we shared the same sport, the same lifestyle, the same hunger. We wrestled and fucked. That was all we had to know about each other. It was all that mattered.
And judging from the sound of it, there were a whole lot of other guys just like us.
Jack squirmed as I railed him; he was so damn excited he could barely contain himself. I tightened my arm across his chest and laid my head between his shoulder blades to calm him, pounding away at his ass, jacking his meat. With my face planted in his lower traps, the pungent smell of his sweat filled my lungs. My cock stiffened like a ramrod at the scent of his musk, the heat of his body, and the slick, grungy feeling of his skin on my face and chest and abs.
From somewhere down the line a guy started howling, clearly blowing his load, lost in the moment and oblivious to where he was -- or maybe he just didn't give a shit. His moans had a triggering effect on the rest of us. Suddenly all the grunts grew louder, and the banging in the stalls grew stronger.
Jack whimpered and wriggled on my cock, and with all that going on there was no way I could hold out any longer. I slammed hard into him with big bold strokes and then gushed a flood of hot cream into his guts. His own rod exploded in my hand, spouting a stream of juice that laid a thick white stripe across the toilet seat and onto the wall. I clenched him in my arms and we drained our balls together, bucking and jerking, my cum splattering his insides and his painting the stall.
When we were finally both done spurting and caught our breath, I pulled my dick out of him and he straightened up, turned and gave me a hug. I held him good and tight, loving how our ripe bodies felt together, our cocks not quite limp and still sporadically dripping.
"Shower with me?" he asked timidly.
"Fuck yeah."
The next day I was a spectator. I sat in the stands with Duncan and watched our guys wrestle, the ones who were left. It was a rough tournament for everybody. Carter took sixth in his weight class, not as strong a finish as last year but at least he was on the podium. Justin finished fourth, down a notch from last year too but he was wrestling against heavyweights now.
Travis was the big success story. He came in eighth, the last spot on the podium, and his first time making All American. I was so proud of the guy that my own finish didn't even matter. We all mobbed him after the awards ceremony, and made sure he knew how damn happy we were for him. With all his uncertainty this season and last, now he truly felt like he'd made the team.
Back in our room, my brother and I crawled into bed together. The two on the other mattress had banged one out early and were already snoring. We cuddled up, and I was slowly maneuvering underneath him when he grabbed my shoulder and stopped me.
"Something I need to tell you," he said. "Yesterday, in the locker room after my match... Shafe was missing his buddy Marcus really bad. He was out of the tournament and he felt really low. He needed somebody to help him out. I know he's not family, but he's a teammate just the same, so... I fucked him."
"Oh. Well, who cares if he's family? We have to support our guys. You did the right thing. And anyway, I've got something to tell you too. After my last match yesterday, I was kinda down myself, and... Wait... Locker room?" I squinted at him. "Was that you guys in the next stall?"
Well, the guys are done wrestling for a while... at least officially. But there's still half a semester left and then summer break, and there'll be plenty of time for adventures before practice starts up again in the fall. So, stay tuned!
And guys, as usual, I'll remind you that this website offers a lot of good times and doesn't ask for much in return. So please, after you blow a nice hot load consider making a donation, so my family of wrestlers and all the other smoking hot stories will always have a home!