The noise was almost deafening. The crowd howled and screamed its approval as, in the centre of the large arena, the wrestler emerged into the ring. Raising his hugely muscled arms into the air, he stalked around the ropes, letting the appreciative cheers of the throng wash over him with a confident, cocky smile.
There I sat, in the front row, a mere three feet from the canvas, my first time at a WWE wrestling event. My newspaper had sent me here on a press pass, to interview Mack, the WWE's current superstar, currently soaking up all the adoration in the ring. The first impressions of him that I jotted down in my notebook were, well, impressive.
He stood maybe 5'10", maybe taller, it was hard to tell from this angle. Short light brown hair. Goatee. Tight blue spandex shorts and nothing else. Massively muscular, the deltoid muscles on his broad shoulders bunched and swelled as he pumped his fists in the air. He had a light dusting of chest hair on his wide pectorals. His incongruously full lips curled up at one side as he shouted back at the audience, revelling in the noise and fury. He was, in a word, gorgeous.
A couple of more circuits around the ring, and the MC announced Mack's challenger, Luther, to a thunderous chorus of boos and hisses. A very short, unattractive man slouched to the centre of the ring, and gestured rudely to the audience. In the well-scripted parlance of the WWE, Luther was obviously the "bad guy", right down to the gnarling grimace and falsely stained teeth. Luther had to be less than 5 feet tall, but he still packed a great deal of muscle onto a stout frame, and he looked mean.
Although I wasn't there specifically to cover the wresting match, I still wrote some impressions down for color. As much as I tried to remain objective, though, I kept getting caught up by the sight of Mack's sweat-slick muscular body straining against Luther's better centre of gravity. At one point, Mack lifted himself up onto the bottom rope directly above me, grinning and waving to the frenzied crowd after delivering a stunning leg drop to Luther. The mouth-watering bulge in those spandex shorts, a mere arms length from my face temporarily rendered me paralyzed as I struggled to hide the tent in my pants with my notepad.
When Luther had been inevitably counted out, and Mack had accepted the wild approval of the audience and left the ring, I composed myself and rose from my seat. Holding my press badge, I circled the ring and walked through the doors into the staging area, only to run directly into a wall dressed in a dark blue suit. I looked up and saw a bull neck and head protruding from the top of the suit at least two feet above my own. Obviously a bodyguard, judging by the dark glasses and the earpiece in his ear. Now, I'm a big, burly guy, and with my salt-and-pepper beard and broad shoulders, I'm usually able to intimidate my way through pretty much any situation, but this guy was so big as to hint at being an entirely different species altogether.
"No admittance," rumbled the wall.
"How's the weather up there, big fella?" I asked, flashing my press pass and grinning up at the bodyguard. He took my press pass and inspected it momentarily.
"Jones?" he said, handing it back to me, "from the `Star'?"
"That's what's printed on it," I replied, wondering at my need to be lippy with someone who could obviously crush me under one foot by accident and not even notice. "I've got an interview scheduled with Mack."
"He's gone back to his hotel," man-mountain informed me curtly.
"What about my interview?" I asked, steamed. "My paper's supposed to be running a front-page in the sports section tomorrow, and I'd hate to go back and tell my editor that your boy fucked off on me, and we've got to lead with the curling scores."
Huffing in a put-upon kind of way, the bodyguard pulled a cell phone from the inside pocket of the suit.
"Wait here," he said, brooking no argument from the likes of me. I stayed put, figuring I had probably already pushed it as far as I dared. He walked a ways down the wide white-painted hallway, and conferred on the cell phone with someone. When he returned, he had an approximation of a smile on his face.
"Your paper's pretty important," he said. "You've got your interview. Mack's staying at the Westin Harbour Castle. Penthouse suite. Go now."
I hurried out of the Air Canada Centre, pissed off and swearing. Of all the nerve. Now, as a sports writer, I knew better than to think that I'd get respect everywhere I went, but I'd never had to chase an interview down like this before. I considered getting my car from the parking lot next to the stadium, but the long lines of cars exiting from the event, and the fact that the hotel was only a couple of blocks away changed my mind. The thick wet snow falling from the night sky didn't help my mood any, as I crossed Lakeshore Boulevard and walked under the Gardiner Expressway toward the lake.
The Westin sat on a pier at the base of Yonge St., jutting out into the Toronto harbour. Even this late in the season, the ferries were still running to the Toronto islands, and the hooting of their horns sounded slightly mournful in the hushed air as the snow fell. I crossed Queen's Quay, dodging the traffic still spilling from the Air Canada Centre, and entered the hotel. Stamping the snow off my boots and wiping it from my hair, I hurried across the lobby, stopping briefly in front of a large mirror to make sure I didn't look too much like a drowned rat.
Riding up in the elevator, I mentally rehashed my notes, deciding the order of questions that I wanted to ask. My notepad was stuck into one pocket of my trench-coat, and my mini tape recorder was stuck into another. I was prepared.
I got off the elevator and knocked on the wide wooden door of the penthouse suite, listening to the bustle of activity on the other side. The door was opened by a blonde with a vacuous smile and preternaturally perky breasts.
"Hello?" she said inquisitively.
"Steve Jones," I said, "from `The Star.'"
"Oh, the reporter!" she grinned, opening the door wider and motioning me inside. "Sorry about the mix-up. My fault."
Somehow, I wasn't surprised.
"Mr. Reynolds will see you in the solarium," she said. Up until this point, I hadn't even been aware that Mack had a last name. She ushered me past at least twenty people milling around the suite, talking and laughing loudly.
"Managers...?" I asked.
"WWE people," she responded, making it sound very mysterious.
The solarium turned out to be a mid-sized bed-sitting room, warmly lit with a couple of table lamps, and surrounded on 3 sides by floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over the islands and the lake shore. It was a beautiful view. The distant lyrics of what sounded like a Garth Brooks song played quietly through speakers mounted in the walls. A huge king-sized bed took up one corner of the room, and on the opposite side was a sitting area with overstuffed leather furniture.
"Have a seat, he'll be right in," said the blonde, and she closed the door, leaving me alone. I walked over to the window, and looked out at the Toronto West skyline, stretching as far as I could see along the lake shore, until it was lost in the smudge of the snow. I was lost in thought for a moment, until I heard the door behind me open. I turned around as Mack walked in.
He was wearing a white robe, casually open to his midriff, and a baseball cap with a well-rounded brim. He smiled and held out one muscular arm to shake my hand, and suddenly I wasn't prepared any more.
"Mr. Reynolds," I said, taking his hand.
"Call me Mack," he replied, flashing a grin. "Only my secretary calls me Mr. Reynolds." His voice was deep and soft and masculine, and I realized I couldn't remember a single question I wanted to ask him.
"I apologize about the mess-up at the stadium," he continued. "There was a lot going on today, and you got lost in the shuffle. I hope you don't mind doing the interview here."
"No, no, no," I said intelligently.
"You want something to drink?" he asked.
"Um ... Coke?" I asked.
"If you don't mind, I'm going to have a beer," he said, going to the wet bar in the room, and cracking one open. He pulled a Coke from the bar fridge and handed it to me. He sat down in an overstuffed chair, and motioned me into one opposite him, tapping his other hand idly on the chair arm to the song on the stereo.
Mack was even more beautiful up close. I noticed things that I hadn't when he was up in the ring, like how warm and friendly his brown eyes were, and how the moisture from the shower he'd just finished beaded on his fine chest hair. There was an open frankness about his gaze that belied a great deal more intelligence than I had given the wrestler credit for. He was focusing that gaze on me now, not impatient, but smiling slightly as he waited for me to start.
I must have been staring. Slightly embarrassed, I did my best to pull myself together and act professional. I took off my coat, pulled the tape recorder and notebook out of the pockets, and sat down.
"Mind if I tape the interview?" I asked, "It's faster than writing."
"Go ahead." Again, that smile. It was a disconcertingly beautiful and unaffected smile, slightly lopsided. He watched me sit down across from him, and I could have sworn he was checking me out. Cursing my overactive imagination (and the beginnings of a hard-on I could feel stirring in my loins), I forged ahead and started the tape recorder and set it on the table beside my chair. I decided to start with the intelligence thing.
"Now, you seem like a pretty smart guy," I started, "how did you end up in professional wrestling?"
"Basically, the money," he said smiling more broadly and looking me right in the eye. "I'm putting myself through law school, and this is a good way to pay for my education, for somebody with my build. It's not full-time, it's a lot of fun, I get to travel, and it pays well."
"Law school?" I asked, interested, "So, if you don't mind me asking, you mustn't be much over mid-twenties?"
"You got it in one," he said, "Twenty-six."
He sat back in the easy chair, spreading his legs nonchalantly as he did, so the bottom of the robe separated slightly. I could see most of the way up his massive thigh. His legs were slightly hairy, like his chest. If he was aware of the effect that small motion had on me, he didn't show it, only gave me that same direct open expression, waiting for the next question.
Before I could ask anything, his secretary opened the door and poked her head in.
"Everybody's going out," she said. "You okay here?"
"I'm fine," he replied, and with a smile at me, "I'm sure Steve will go easy on me, right?"
I sputtered a response, nearly choking on the swig of Coke I had just taken.
"Okay," she said cheerily, "I'll see you in the morning." She pulled the door closed.
"They love to party," he said, smiling and shaking his head.
"Not a party animal yourself?" I asked, unsure of where I wanted the interview to go.
"Not really," he replied, "I like to party occasionally, it's just that I've got to be careful not to overdo it. It's hard to keep good muscle mass when you party too much."
As he said this, he pulled open the top of his robe, and gazed down at his tight abs and huge broad pectorals that looked as though they had been chiseled from fine marble. Suddenly, it seemed that I couldn't get a lungful of air. The robe was now wide open right down to the belt, so that the trail of hair leading down from his navel caught my eye. The beginnings of a dirty blonde tuft of pubic hair poked out from the wide `V' made by the robe. Despite the last shreds of my professionalism, the sight of his strong tight torso and that treasure trail caused my dick to jump to attention faster than I could ever recall it doing before. I tried to hide the obvious tent in my dress pants, cursing myself for not wearing underwear. Surreptitiously, I checked to see if my state of arousal was blatantly obvious to Mack, but he was examining his exposed torso critically – could it be that he had no idea what he was doing to me?
"This is kinda my bread and butter you know? Gotta take care of it. But I'm not a prude or anything ... which reminds me, you want to smoke a joint?"
I did my best to smile and nod nonchalantly. He got up from the chair, deftly rearranging the robe, much to my disappointment, then went to the bedside table, and opened a drawer. While his back was turned, I rearranged my hard-on so it was tucked up and not tenting so much. He pulled out a joint, and turned with that same lopsided smile.
"This, on the other hand," he said, holding up the joint, "is a bodybuilder's best friend. You've gotta eat like a horse to keep your mass up, and the munchies can be a big help."
He sauntered back to me, reached over and grabbed the heavy wooden marble-topped coffee table single handed, and deftly maneuvered it closer, and then did the same to his chair, so we were now sitting practically knee to knee. He leaned forward, lit the joint, took a toke and offered it to me.
"It's good, smooth. B.C. pride," he said, looking straight into my eyes as I reached out to take it from his big beefy hand. By now, the intoxicating rush of testosterone that was coursing through my veins was making me reckless. My dick throbbed almost painfully, cinched between my pants and my belly. I leaned in to get the joint from him, keeping my eyes locked with his, and maintained contact with his hand for an added second, before taking the joint and leaning back to take a puff. He was right, it was very good smooth weed, and it went down easy.
We sat and smoked in silence for a bit, passing the joint back and forth, making long, electric contact with each exchange, that subtle smile playing on his face the whole time. Finally he broke the comfortable silence.
"But I'll bet you know all this stuff already. You look like you know your way around a gym."
At this point, it was my turn to smile. Flattery like this could really mean only one thing. And, flattery it was, as my body type could best be described as "high-school football player gone to seed." While it was true that I had been lifting pretty heavy for a good number of years, and had a naturally thick musculature and stocky build that carried my 260 pounds well, the first impression I give to strangers is typically of someone who knows his way around a good cheesecake, not a gym.
Regardless, I was flattered, and said so. He passed me the joint, and then, to my surprise, reached over and gave me a playful but firm punch on the chest.
"Yeah, good and solid," he said, smiling, and squeezing my shoulder and upper arm. Completely on impulse, I found myself flexing my biceps as he gripped my arm, and he grinned.
"Nice," he said, nodding appreciatively. "You've gotta have, what, 18 inch pipes?"
I nodded mutely, the interview completely forgotten by now, all my attention focused on the warm firm grasp this magnificent man had on my arm, a grasp that he wasn't letting go. In fact, he was leaning in more closely, taking the joint back from me. I hadn't even taken a hit.
"You ever done a shotgun?" he asked, taking a big toke and holding it. I nodded my head, knowing and delighting in what would come next.
He leaned in, tilting his head slightly so the brim of the baseball cap was out of the way, and gently put his hand on the back of my head. We pressed our open lips together, and he passed the rich pungent smoke from his lungs into mine. His tongue followed, lightly playing with mine as I drew the smoke in, held it for a second and passed it back to him. We stayed locked like this for a sweet eternity, sharing and re-sharing the smoke until we had to break the kiss, both of us breathless.
He leaned back in the chair, eyes closed, that beautiful asymmetrical grin in evidence again. "Fuck that's nice," he breathed. I couldn't speak. I could only watch in silent lust as he once again pulled open his robe, this time letting the belt slip open, and revealing the whole delicious package, including a nice long cock that was standing at attention just like mine.
He opened his eyes and looked at me playfully.
"You like what you see, big fella?" he asked.
At last I found my voice. "Like?" I said incredulously, "Like? That's putting it mildly. I want to see more."
Without a word, Mack stood and dropped the robe to the floor. I drank in his perfect body. His big solid pecs stood out as he flexed them, the striations in the muscle fibres suddenly rippling across his chest. His chiseled abs were also dusted with a fine coat of hair. I longed to run my hands down their furrowed firmness, but I just leaned back into the couch, spreading my legs slightly and reaching down to hold my dick through the fabric of my pants.
"Flex for me," I instructed him. My cock throbbed in my hand.
Mack pulled a magnificent double-bicep pose, his wide lats spreading into a classic bodybuilder `V'. There was a dark patch of hair in the damp hollow of each armpit, and my eyes were drawn from there out to his truly massive biceps, the size and shape of softballs. They seemed to strain mightily against the tight tanned skin that enclosed them as he flexed.
"Beautiful," I said admiringly, as he moved his body lithely through a series of impressive poses, showing off for me, his beautiful dick bouncing up and down as he did so, precum dripping from the head, telling me that he was enjoying this display too.
I stood up, and began to unbutton my shirt. He put his hands on mine, and looked me in the eye.
"Wait, let me do that for you, papa bear."
Slowly and sensually, he undressed me, running his hands over my furry chest and belly as he untucked my shirt and unbuckled my belt. As my pants fell to the floor and my circumcised cock sprang free at last, he smiled.
"Nice," he said. "I love a big man's dick. Thick and juicy."
He knelt in front of me, turning the baseball cap backwards, and rubbing my belly as he licked the glistening rivulet of precum off the underside of my cock, stopping to roll his tongue gently around the swollen head. He reached up to play with my nipples as he slowly sucked my entire length into his mouth, opening wide to envelope the wide girth of my thick meat. When he hit bottom, he moaned around the head of my cock crammed against the back of his throat, and snaked his tongue out to lick the base of my balls.
He was an expert cocksucker, alternating between gently running his tongue around my dick shaft, and sucking strongly. When he rocked forward, I could feel the head being constricted by his throat as it went all the way down. When he pulled back, he flicked the slit at the end of my cock with his tongue, letting the head almost come right out of his mouth. I was in heaven.
With one hand, he reached down and stroked his own meat, which was rock hard and throbbing. A stream of precum was leaking from the head, dripping onto the carpet. His dick was also circumcised, and I guessed from looking at it that it was about 7 inches in length, of nice thickness, overall a beautiful tool.
I put my hand on the back of his head, and started pumping my hips, fucking his face slowly and deeply. He closed his eyes and moaned, and stroked his cock faster.
After a few moments, his body suddenly tensed, the cords standing out on his neck, and his big biceps bunching up hugely. He groaned loudly around my cock and I looked down just in time to see a long rope of cum shoot from the end of his dick between my legs with such force that it made an audible splat sound against the front of the leather chair where I had been sitting. Six more high-pressure jets followed in quick succession, each one hitting the chair wetly.
Watching such an impressive money shot was too much for me. I pushed his head right down to the base of my dick, so his nose was buried in my crotch and I could feel the first few inches of my cock shoved down his throat. I blew a huge load, my dick flexing and throbbing on his tongue as I pumped my hot seed into his belly. He gagged and sputtered, but didn't pull away, and swallowed everything I gave him.
When I was done, I released the hold I had on the back of his head, and he leaned back and smiled up at me.
"You liked that, big daddy?" he asked laconically, swiping the last drops of cum from the end of his dick and licking his fingers.
"It was a good start," I said, smiling mischievously. "And it sounds like we've got the rest of the night."
He flexed playfully for me, and said: "You want some more of this?"
"I want to fuck you," I replied, watching the lust shine in his eyes as I said it. His reaction told me he wanted that too, but he was too much of a smart-ass to let it go for free.
"I'll wrestle you for top," he said, grinning. The thought of sweating and straining against that chiseled, solid physique made my cock jump and thicken again.
"You're on, but don't be surprised when I end up owning your ass. I outweigh you by at least 40 pounds, and have a lower centre of gravity."
His cock had stiffened again too, and he grinned and stood up.
"Let's do it, big bear..."
As we headed over to the big king size bed, I realized the tape recorder was still running on the table beside the chair, forgotten. There surely wouldn't be much on it that I could use for my story in tomorrow morning's paper, but I was pretty certain that I'd keep the tape anyway ... for my own personal use.