WRESTLING AND EVERYTHING ELSE

By Ript Jock

Published on Jun 17, 2024

Gay

With the last dual meet over, we were into the postseason. We'd have just two weeks to get ready for the Big Ten Championships, and then two more for the NCAAs. Jase pulled me aside in the wrestling room after practice.

"You need to make All American again this year," he growled.

"Okay, that's the plan. You think it's possible?"

"You made it two years ago. You looked great."

"Yeah, that might've been kind of a fluke..."

"Last year was the fluke. You got a bad draw in the brackets. You had to wrestle the number one and two seeds before you even got to the quarterfinals, and didn't have much of a chance to show how good you are. This year's gonna be different."

I smiled weakly. "Think so?"

"I know it. Because I'm gonna make sure of it. You and I are gonna spend some time together, just the two of us. Starting tonight."

I had no complaints with that.

He picked me up at the dorm and we drove out to Duncan's. It'd been quite a while since we'd done any significant training together, one on one. There was so much going on for both of us it was hard to carve out the time. Now it felt like we were heading back to where we began, mentor and boy, each giving the other our undivided attention. I couldn't wait to get at it. But I also felt kinda like I was running out on the rest of the guys and only thinking of myself.

"This is for the championships," Jase told me. "You've brought these guys along all through the season. By now, they've got their shit together or they don't. Either way, it's time for you to let `em go and focus on you. And don't think for a second they won't understand that."

Jase hit the light switch at the top of the stairs and we strolled down into Duncan's basement. We had the whole place to ourselves. It was a magic feeling, just like when I was a redshirt. That room was the scene of pretty much every really important event of my life. I stepped to the edge of the mat and stripped to my compression shorts, grabbed the waistband and began to peel those down too.

"No ya don't. That's for later. Right now we need to put in some hard work, no distractions."

Jase stripped down to his compression shorts as well, and holy fuck, what a sight. He'd wrestled at 174 but had put on at least fifteen pounds since then, and all of it lean hard beef. He was incredible, muscled like a god and not a single ounce of fat. The veins running down his biceps were like fucking garden hoses. He was giving me that cocky ass sneer that sent my hormones right through the roof. The bulge in those skin tight shorts had my blood pumping like mad.

"Ready?" he growled.

No distractions. Riiight.

Jase drilled me on everything, from the most basic fundamentals to advanced techniques. He said he wanted to make sure I was on point in every way. Each position, each move I made had to be rock solid, perfectly balanced, perfectly timed. I needed to get used to handling a bigger, stronger guy so I could deal with whatever came at me on the mat, from the first match of the day to the last. Wrestling in a championship tournament is a whole lot different than a dual meet.

We worked for a solid hour with hardly a moment to take a breath. By the end I was absolutely depleted, bathed in sweat, and it felt great. I knew everything we did was making me better and stronger, and I knew he'd worked just as hard as me and was just as fatigued. It was the same old partnership we'd always had. He schooled me the way no one else ever had in my life. I idolized him, every bit as much now as when I was an eighteen-year-old dumbshit who could barely get his shoes on the right feet.

Jase gave me a nod and called an end to the session. We'd been at it so long and so hard we could barely lift our own arms. He plodded to the cabinet and brought back the bottle of oil. I grinned, peeled off my shorts and positioned myself on all fours. Jase peeled his own down and moved in behind.

"Wait a second," I said. "Did I do a good job today?"

"You did a great job today."

"Okay... then spank my butt."

"What?"

"Spank me."

I don't even know where that came from but once I'd said it, I knew I needed it, and I wasn't about to let him go on without it. Jase glared at me, hissed out a sigh, and gave my ass a halfhearted swat.

"Harder!"

He rolled his eyes but I glared right back at him, with a look that said this was no joke. Jase shook his head like he thought I was crazy, teed off and gave me a solid smack.

"HARDER!!"

He gaped at me in disbelief. "So you want a real whuppin', huh?"

"YES!!!"

Jase shoved me forward and broke me down flat so I was lying face down on the mat. He held me down with one hand pressed to my back and began flailing at me with the other, whaling away at my bare cheeks with the flat of his hand like I was a misbehaving nineteenth century schoolboy. It hurt like fuck; he was putting everything into it and the guy was ungodly strong. It felt goddamn wonderful.

And it didn't take long before I noticed I wasn't the only one who enjoyed it. Jase was grunting with every brutal swing in a way I'd heard too many times not to recognize. It was the same sound he always made when he was deep into reaming my ass. He was getting a good deal of sexual pleasure out of this. A quick glance back over my shoulder confirmed it; his big cock was fully boned and pointing straight up, and damned if that wasn't a drip of precum glistening at the tip.

And naturally, that made the whole thing all the hotter.

By the second or third time I sneaked a look, Jase caught on. He gave me two more for good measure and then quit. My ass was on fire; I swear I could feel every damn handprint of every whack I took.

"Okay," he said. "That's all the spanking you get."

I glanced back at him with a smirk and raised myself up on all fours. "Well, I guess you better fuck me then."

He might've been at a loss for words but not for action. He grumbled a bit but grabbed the bottle of oil, gave his cock a good greasing and then reached in and lubed up my hole. I panted once or twice in anticipation but sure didn't have to wait long. Before I knew it he'd moved in close, got a firm grip on my hips, and was pressing that thick cock to my hole.

My heart was fucking soaring as that goddamn beast shoved into me, all the way down to the root in one clean smooth stroke. He held it in deep a good long while just to prove he owned me; it felt like he was stretching my pipe wide open all over again, like he did on our very first night. Or maybe it was just the way his strong hips mashed against my blazing red ass cheeks, lighting me up inside and out.

Jase began pumping with good hard strokes, and every solid bang he gave me tortured my poor inflamed cheeks all over again. It was intensely arousing. I was wrecked from the workout to begin with, and damaged from the spanking, and now his big cock drilling me and his hips assailing my more-than-overstimulated nerve ends was pushing me to my absolute limit. I was past the point of surrender, beyond any semblance of control. Another few beats and there'd be nothing left of me but a mass of raw pulp, and a puddle of blood and sweat and cum on the floor.

The big stud reached around and gripped my cock. I was close to melting right there in his hand. The way he was grunting so urgently told me he was only seconds away from blowing himself, and I couldn't have needed it more. I wanted to be filled with his cum; I wanted him to keep pumping it into me until it ran out my ears. At that moment I would've given up anything, the tournaments, my scholarship, my whole fucking college career just to take Jase's load, and another, and another, until he had no more to give.

But the way he was jacking me, I couldn't possibly hold out any longer. I felt my gut suck in as the pressure mounted; my balls drew up tight, the blood rushed to my head... and a shot of thick hot cream gushed out onto the mat. It didn't spurt so much as it poured, like the floodgates were open and my bodily fluids were draining out all at once. The wave of pleasure and relief that surged through me was immense. If I hadn't been held tight in Jase's arms and skewered on his shaft, I surely would've dissolved into jelly.

Jase didn't waste any time either. As soon as I started to blow he slammed into me hard, two or three times, and then held it in as deep as he could go. His whole body stiffened and jolted; he let out a loud grunt and unloaded. I felt him shudder and quake as he blasted his load into me, even as mine still surged and flowed. It was so fucking satisfying to know he was in utter ecstasy just like I was, his meat buried inside me, spilling his seed into my guts.

We collapsed together onto the mat exhausted, balls drained and every last muscle in our bodies completely spent and useless. I couldn't imagine anything better in the world than lying there in my own cum with that stud's muscular body weighing down on top of me, both of us panting and sweating, so fatigued we could barely move, feeling the heat of each other's bare skins.

And that was only the first night. From then on we got together every night or two. As often as we could, as long as we'd still be fresh enough to get through team practice the next day.

Each session played like a repeat of the first. We'd drill together on every skill and technique in the book. I'd work my ass off just to please him, and then beg for my punishment as a reward. And after that, the real drilling would begin. He'd give me a world class fucking and flood my insides with his cream, and I'd take it and love every minute. He was still my mentor, and a damn good one.

As for the spanking, wrestlers are pretty superstitious, especially with a tournament or two on the horizon. If it worked for us once -- and fuck yeah, it did -- neither one of us were about to change it up now. He only whacked me harder, and set us up for even more rampant fucking, and we'd blow our loads together and go home happy and content.

By the second weekend, when we flew to Nebraska for the Big Tens, I was ready to take on the world. My confidence had never been higher. If I could stand up to Jase, if I could even stay on the mat with him, I could damn well stand up to anybody -- and give back whatever they threw at me. The work we'd done and the punishment he'd dished out made me feel like nothing could put a dent in me.

The other guys certainly noticed the difference. My skills had become razor sharp, and my aggressiveness was off the chart. Coach Wilson even went so far as to crack a smile.

Carter took it all in stride; he knew what was going on. We didn't have any secrets between us, and even if I wanted to, I sure couldn't hide my sore red ass. Brady and Willis were a little in awe; they saw it as a transformation by sheer force of will, a timely shift into beast mode right when I needed it most. Justin and Travis didn't question it. They just enjoyed it for what it was worth.

I only hoped I could sustain it through the weekend, and then for two more weeks to nationals so I could rest in peace.

"You're actually gonna sleep with him?" Justin ragged Carter, as we were settling into our hotel room. "Fuck man, you'll be lucky if he don't chew your arms and legs off in your sleep!"

Trav giggled. "I'll trade with ya if you want, he can't be much worse than this moose."

"Just yell out if you need any help and we'll chain `im up out back in the parking lot." Justin, being helpful.

Fact is, with all the extra training I sure wasn't having any problem getting to sleep. For the first time ever, on the night before a major tournament I wasn't the least bit hyped up. I stayed awake just long enough to swallow a nice big load from my brother, and then passed out and slept like a log through the night.

The onslaught began bright and early, with the team all jittery and amped on the ride to the arena, the locker room posturing, weigh-ins, and the last minute check of the brackets. Every wrestler from every Big Ten team was showing his hormones, angling hard for a little pre-mat intimidation. I was impervious. I had the thousand-yard stare going; I saw right through them all. Their playacting was no match for my killer instinct.

With fourteen teams in the Big Ten, two wrestlers had a first round bye. The rest of us had three steps to get to the finals, and another step or two to wrestle for 3rd if we lost a match along the way.

In the first round I got an easy draw. I wrestled a guy from Maryland and plowed right through him like he wasn't there. Next was Michigan State, and a little more resistance, but I put him to the mat early and kept him down all through the match. I was so focused on technique and execution I barely even saw my opponents; they hardly seemed human. They were just body parts to me -- arms, legs, and torsos in motion that needed to be restrained, tied up, shut down, taken care of. I went from one match to the next without thinking of anything but what was in front of me. I didn't even pay attention to how the rest of the guys on the team were doing. It wasn't my job.

The semifinals were tougher. I was up against Nebraska. He had the hometown advantage, an arena full of fans screaming for a stalling call every time I blinked, and the ref took notice. The stalemates got called awful quick too, whenever the Cornhusker boy was in trouble. I've never been one to complain about the officials but if they're not gonna let us just wrestle, why bother showing up? At the end of the third period I was short by a point. Tomorrow I'd be in the losers' bracket. I hadn't really expected to make it to the finals but it's never any fun losing.

So I became even more focused. My tunnel vision narrowed down to a microdot. At the end of the session I gathered up with my teammates and rode back to the hotel but I couldn't tell you who'd won or who'd lost. I don't even know what I had for dinner; I couldn't see the food on my plate. Everything, all my thoughts, all my energy, my entire being were focused on the match tomorrow. I crawled into bed with hardly a grunt to Carter; buried myself in the covers and went to sleep dreaming of clocks and whistles and sweaty ass singlets and the smell of ripe wrestler musk.

It's just a damn good thing my brother was a wrestler too. Who the fuck else would put up with shit like this? Who else would have a prayer of understanding what was going through my head?

In the morning I was over the anguish. I was recharged with energy, bouncing off the walls and ready to dismantle all comers. My first match was with Ohio State, and I bounded onto the mat like I was on springs. I felt sore and beat up from yesterday, but in a way that I could convince myself would only make me stronger.

It was a tough match; the guy was damn good. We locked up at the first whistle, pulling out all our strength moves to throw each other off balance. He'd try a head snap and I'd read his single-leg attack coming a mile off; I'd go for an arm drag but he shut me down easily. We were butting heads from start to finish, grinding through each period without either of us opening a lead on the other. It looked we were headed for overtime... but I had Jase in my corner. He saw an opening and barked out an order, and my body responded on command. I scored a takedown; the guy reversed me, but the clock ran out and I was one point ahead.

I barely had time to feel good about it. Next thing I knew, I was back on the mat and wrestling for third place against an Iowa guy who'd beaten me pretty soundly in our dual meet a few weeks before. I'd come a long way since then, thanks to Jase... but he'd been training for this too. It was one more grueling seven-minute marathon. We each gave it all we had; there were no more matches for us after this. Iowa came out on top, but it was a match we could each be proud of. He got his arm raised and we shook hands, with genuine respect for each other. And then he turned to his corner with a grin.

I glanced back over my shoulder and saw that fine ass, and I couldn't help myself. I hauled off and gave it a good solid smack. He spun around, eyes gaping, completely shocked.

"Just saving your coach the trouble," I smirked. "Great match."

I peeled my singlet halfway down and trotted off to the showers, probably a little too cheery for a guy who'd just lost his match, but fourth place in the Big Ten is nothing to be ashamed of. I'd barely stepped through the locker room door when it burst open again and that Iowa guy came barreling in after me with murder in his eyes. Ah fuck, I guess they don't grow a sense of humor out there in the cornfields. I didn't feel like a goddamn fight; I turned and faced him with the idea of trying to smooth things over but he plowed right into me, bulldozed me all the way past the lockers, shoved me into a toilet stall and ducked his head down and started sucking and gnawing on my nipple.

His hands were inside my singlet in a heartbeat, reaching down and snagging my cock, rubbing and stroking. I grabbed a handful of his hair and pulled him off my nipple, mashed my lips against his. We made out hungrily; he was sloppy and wild, his tongue like a goddamn wet paintbrush slapping around inside my mouth. I gripped his cock through the Spandex, squeezed and tugged at it, then yanked his singlet down, reached into his compression shorts and pulled it out bare.

He broke off the kiss and jammed his face into my armpit, licking my rank sweat and breathing in the scent. I stroked his head, massaged his shoulders and neck. Damn, he was aggressive, like he hadn't had a good hard romp in a year. Those Hawkeyes must be a pretty repressed group. And the way his tongue attacked my pit was getting me pretty fucking horned up too.

I flexed my hips to grind my hard cock against him and like a shot he was on his knees, pulling my singlet and shorts down to my ankles and stuffing my cock into his mouth. He sucked and sucked while I cradled his head, my fingers buried in his hair teasing the tender spots on his scalp where his headgear had been. I gasped appreciatively as he slobbered all over my meat, swallowed it until he gagged. His big raw cock jutted out in the open air, bone stiff and pointing right up at my face, a nice big glob of precum oozing out and dribbling down the shaft.

Maybe they didn't have the same tradition in Iowa but I sure was eager to introduce him to ours... winner takes cock. Any guy that hungry wasn't about to raise a fuss. I lifted him up by his armpits, spun him around and yanked those shorts down. He bent over the toilet willingly, bracing himself with his forearms against the wall. One more good sharp smack on a muscled cheek drew an earthy grunt out of him, and I knew he was ready. I rubbed some spit onto his hole and took the plunged, shoved my slobber-soaked cock in all the way, as deep as it would go.

His grunts were pained and yearning and held down very low, like someone who hadn't taken much dick before but wanted it desperately. I pumped that world class ass for all I was worth, working off all the weekend's anxieties and giving him a memory to carry home. His body responded nicely; his muscles flexed and rippled as I thrust in deep, eased back and thrust in again, over and over. The sweat poured off both of us, dripping off my chest splashing onto his back when I leaned in for a better angle, mixing with the sweat that rolled from his shoulders, trickled down along his spine and into his crack.

His grunts rose in pitch and intensity but were still choked back to a muffled whimper. His muscles tensed and twitched with every stroke. Suddenly he began panting and yelping in a near panic. He held his breath; veins seemed to sprout from his neck. Then his hips bucked hard, his hole clamped down on my shaft and a stream of hot cum blasted out of him, hosing down the wall. I picked up my pace and fucked him hard as he spurted again and again.

He'd almost calmed down by the time I was ready to blow. I grabbed his hips and held on tight, slammed into him deep and pitched forward. I unloaded into him, gushing my juice into that hot wrestler ass, pouring out surge after surge. God, it felt good... it almost made up for getting beat.

For a moment we just sweated on each other and let ourselves cool down. Then we pulled up our singlets and gave each other one last look. His said, "I won't tell if you don't." Mine just welcomed him to the show.

We headed to our separate lockers, stripped down properly and trudged to the showers, each of us minding our own business like total strangers... him carefully avoiding the whole idea of looking my way, and me taking my share of stray glances at that ass. I stowed my sweaty gear, dressed in the team warm-ups, and... oh fuck... how were all the rest of the guys doing? For the first time all weekend it occurred to me that I wasn't in this alone. Jase trained me well, I guess.

It wasn't until after the final matches, when they assembled everyone for the podium ceremonies, that I found out how they all did. Travis at 133 had finished in 6th, and Brady took 8th at 157. Willis didn't make it onto the podium; he was still getting used to his new 149 pound body, but he'd have plenty of great matches to come. Carter, my brother, one-upped me as usual -- he snagged 3rd at 174. And Justin, the heavyweight, showed us all up by making it to the finals and taking 2nd.

Oh, and my 4th place at 165 put me on the podium too... and standing one level down, right beside me, was my Indiana brother Noah. We were so far apart in the brackets I hadn't even caught sight of him until they were handing out awards. I grabbed that son of a bitch and gave him a good healthy squeeze, until I heard his spine pop.

"Wow," he said, "somebody's got a little gas left over. Who you been fucking?"

We piled into the van and rode back to the hotel, all of us feeling good about ourselves, our brothers, our whole team. Most of all we felt good because the pressure was off, at least for a week and a half. Tonight we'd sit down to a big team dinner and we'd eat like hogs and laugh and listen to the coaches tell how proud of us they were, and we'd act like we were having the best goddamn time of our lives.

And then we'd all head upstairs, four to a room, and the real fun would begin.


Championship season is always a rollercoaster. The Big Ten is the top wrestling conference in the nation, and even if you're in the bottom half, you're part of something special. But the guys won't have much time to enjoy their success, because now they need to gear up for nationals. And if the Big Tens are a scene, the NCAAs are a whole new level entirely, with old friends, bitter rivalries, bone-crunching action, rampaging hormones... and all televised on ESPN. So stay tuned!

By the way, for those who've been waiting patiently (or impatiently) for part 2 of My Hustler, it was posted in the Beginnings section at the end of last week.

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! The link to lend your support is here:

https://donate.nifty.org/

Next: Chapter 68


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