Manhandled (20 page)

Adair forced his body to move, struggling to his feet in spite of the pain. He looked around the chamber and found the dagger
where Dakin had discarded it. Such casual contempt made him even angrier. With a grim sense of satisfaction, he concealed
the weapon under the bed, close to where he had fallen. With all the guards around the castle, he knew there was no possibility
of escape, but at least he would have a chance for his own revenge before they killed him. He waited, facedown on the fur-piled
bed, enjoying the luxury of stretching his unfettered limbs.

He was half asleep when the sound of boots on the stone-flagged hallway woke him. Night had fallen while he rested. When the
door grated open, Adair lay spread across the floor exactly as he had fallen when Dakin cut him down. Shadows flickered, then
steadied as Dakin set a torch in the wall sconce. Leather creaked as Dakin walked past him without comment. From the corner
of his eye, he saw Dakin set a box on the floor beside him.
So,
Adair thought coldly,
he went to get more things to play with before he hands me over to his men.

Dakin’s boot brushed against Adair’s bare thigh. To his anger and his shame, Adair’s body trembled and his cock hardened.
He did not want to feel this way about this man who had so abused him, beating his back raw, then raping him. But even while
Dakin had driven it up his quivering ass, he had wanted that massive cock. He had wanted it and dreamed about it for so long—but
not like that. Well, he’d had it, and now Dakin was going to pay for it.

When Dakin moved past, he tackled him around the legs, bringing his body to the floor. Anger and surprise gave him a momentary
advantage. Before Dakin could react, Adair had straddled his body and pinned his arms above his head. The wind knocked out
of him by the abrupt contact with the stone floor, Dakin twisted fiercely but did not cry out.

Adair looked down at the face of the man he had loved, the man who had brutally taken what he would have joyfully given. And
he knew he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t even hate him. Despite his anger and his hurt, he still wanted this man. And he had
given his word to obey and protect him. He’d thought he had nothing left to lose when he’d planned his revenge. He still had
his sense of honor, though, and he would not lose that by hurting the man he had sworn to obey.

Anger still burned in him. He looked for some sign of fear, but Dakin’s face was a mask of control. He would not hurt him,
but he would show him a little of what it felt like. He covered Dakin’s mouth with his, biting his lips, forcing them apart
and thrusting his tongue deep inside. He ground his aching cock against the answering bulge in Dakin’s groin. Adair came up
for air. He looked down at Dakin’s heaving chest, his lips bruised and swollen from the ferocity of Adair’s kiss. And he knew
he couldn’t do even this to him. He pulled the knife from under the bed. Dakin’s eyes widened. Now that he saw that first
touch of fear, he knew that wasn’t what he wanted. “No,” Adair said as he bent forward and gently kissed him, his mouth lingering
on the warm lips that trembled under his. He leaned his cheek against Dakin’s for a moment and sighed. “Damn you,” he whispered
as he slammed the hilt of the knife into Dakin’s palm.

He rolled off Dakin’s body. “I will not break my oath to you.” He gestured to the box. “My body is yours; do what you will
with it,” he said bitterly.

Dakin rose slowly to his feet. Head bowed, in the posture of one receiving judgment from his king, Adair knelt. It didn’t
matter what Dakin did to him. He couldn’t hurt any more than he already did. His face was quiet, without fear, without tears,
without expectation.

He didn’t look as Dakin opened the box and moved about the room. Then he felt a hand on his shoulder. “Look at me,” Dakin
said quietly, all the anger gone from his voice.

Slowly, Adair raised his head. Dakin pressed a cup of wine into his hands and looked at him with troubled eyes. Beside him
the box lay open, filled with clean clothes, bandages, and numbwort salve for his back.

Suddenly, Adair’s hands shook so violently he almost spilled the wine. Dakin dropped to one knee beside him and held the cup
to his lips. The warm liquid slid down his throat and steadied him, as did the arm around his shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” Dakin said. “I didn’t want it to be like that either. A madness took me when I heard about my cousin. I made
him go. He was afraid and I promised him he would be all right. He was very young. I wanted to get back at your father, to
make someone pay. I’m sorry it was you.”

Adair looked at him, not believing what he saw in Dakin’s eyes—deep shame, regret, and unspoken longing. Dakin held out the
medallion he had torn from Adair’s neck. “I’ll get you a new chain. After you’ve healed, you’ll find a horse and travel gear
in the stable. Go home to your father. I want no more revenge.”

“He doesn’t want me. Let me stay. Please.” For a moment he was afraid that Dakin wasn’t going to answer.

“How can you want to after what I did?”

Adair caught his hand and raised it to his lips. “I only know I can’t leave you.”

Hesitantly, Dakin leaned closer and gently brushed his lips against Adair’s. Adair leaned into the kiss and parted his lips.
Dakin drew him closer, holding him lightly to keep from hurting him. But Adair threw himself into his arms, heedless of pain
as he clung desperately to him.

Dakin eased out of Adair’s grip and led him over to the bed. “Let me take care of you.” Adair lay facedown on the bed while
Dakin eased the salve over his sore back and buttocks. He moaned as the pain eased and the burning cooled. His body still
ached, but the pain was bearable— anything was bearable as long as Dakin was touching him. The king’s hands soothed and caressed
him, Dakin’s lips touching his shoulders and back as his hands moved down. Dakin slid down between his legs and gently parted
his fiery buttocks. Adair gasped at the first touch of his warm tongue traveling down the sweaty crevice. Dakin’s lips touched
Adair’s outraged orifice. Adair trembled in pleasure, sliding his legs farther apart. He sighed as he felt the tip of Dakin’s
tongue probe the tight ring, then slide deep inside. He could feel the ridge of Dakin’s nose between his cheeks as he kissed
and licked the opening he had so brutally used. He started to fuck him with his tongue, but Adair pulled away. The feeling
was incredible, but this wasn’t what he wanted.

“Please,” he said. “I want you inside me. I want it the way it should have been.”

He could see the desire in Dakin’s eyes, but the king shook his head. “It’s too soon. I don’t want to hurt you again. Besides,
I want to hold you, kiss you, not just use you. Your back is too sore to take you that way.”

“I don’t want to wait. I need you now.”

Dakin gave in to Adair’s desire, and his own. He sat in his chair while Adair knelt over him and slowly lowered himself onto
Dakin’s hard, red cock. It was painful at first, but his body soon opened itself in welcome. Dakin kissed him, licking the
sweat from his shoulders. Adair’s mouth glided over Dakin’s neck and nuzzled through his damp chest hairs to find the pebble-hard
nipples.

Adair clung to Dakin, raining kisses on his face and hair. He rode in slow gentle rhythms, savoring the warmth and fullness
inside him. Dakin’s cock was not an invader now, but a part of him. He quivered as Dakin’s hands caressed his sides, then
slid over his hips and boldly took command of Adair’s jutting cock. Dakin’s hands were powerful, holding his cock firmly and
sliding the skin up and down. His broad thumb moved over the cockhead, greased with the stream of lubricant that flowed from
Adair’s inflamed rod. Adair moved his hips faster, slamming himself on Dakin’s shaft. Dakin’s fingers teased his slit, and
he felt the juice boil up out of his balls and burst free, lashing Dakin’s chest with glistening white ropes. He rammed himself
down one final time. His head arched back as his body jerked and shuddered, totally out of control. Quickly, Dakin delivered
a series of hard thrusts with his hips and bathed Adair’s bowels with royal seed.

Adair collapsed against Dakin, gasping and panting against his heaving chest. They clung together, exhausted but content.
“Don’t let me go,” Adair whispered. “I want to sleep with you inside me and wake up in your arms. Then I’ll know it’s real,
that I didn’t dream this.”

Dakin’s softening cock started to harden at Adair’s words. He rocked it deeper inside. His muscles corded as he stood up,
still holding Adair in his powerful arms. He walked to the bed and sat down, easing them both onto their sides. He held the
boy in his arms, feasting on his mouth. Adair sighed, his body surrounded by and filled with Dakin’s strength.

“Don’t worry,” Dakin whispered into Adair’s ear just before he buried his tongue in it. “I’m never letting you go.”

Greg Herren

T
he kid wants a rematch.”

“Of course he does,” I said carefully into the phone. I glanced around my office. Everyone was working. They all knew I was
gay, but they didn’t know I had been a gay wrestling video star under the name Ross Matthews. During the three years I had
done videos, I had made about fifteen tapes and was one of the company’s biggest sellers. “I’ll get back to you, OK?”

I hung up the phone and looked out my window. Gino Matarese wanted a rematch. My win over him had been my last taped match.
A week after I’d beaten him, I’d been playing tennis when my foot turned and I blew out my knee. Instinctively, I reached
down and touched my right knee. That was two years ago. My knee was fine now, after lots of rehab and physical therapy, but
my doctor had advised me against ever wrestling again. Forced retirement. It sucked.

I thought about Gino Matarese, and felt my cock stir in my pants. Damn, he’d been a hot one. Lean, defined, sculpted muscle,
a pretty face, and an ass to die for. After I’d beaten him I’d dragged him back to the locker area and fucked his pretty brains
out. It had been doubly ironic that he turned out to be my last match, since it had been one of the hottest wrestling experiences
of my career. I’d followed his career since my injury. He’d taken my place as the number one star. His tapes sold well, and
he had been on a winning streak for two years. I was the only person to beat him.

Of course he wanted a rematch.

And fuck if I didn’t want to wrestle him again.

I
needed
to wrestle again.

Watching the tapes and beating off wasn’t the same as wrestling. I missed the body contact, the sweat, the feel of trapping
another man in a hold he couldn’t get out of, both of our bodies straining and struggling, muscle against muscle, seeing who
was the better man.

My cock was rock-hard.

I got up and went into the bathroom, carefully locking the door behind me. I undid my pants and let them fall to the floor,
slipping my right hand inside my underwear and stroking my cock. I pulled it out as I remembered Gino Matarese, in his purple
square cut that outlined his perfect ass, the bulge in front from his erection. I remembered my legs around his head, squeezing.
I remembered him on his hands and knees, that beautiful bare ass turned up to me, as I slipped my cock inside him and began
to ride him hard.

I gasped as I came into the toilet paper I had spread out on the floor, my body shuddering a bit as I squeezed the last drops
out of my cock.

Knee or no knee, I was going to fight him again.

The day of the match finally arrived. I stood in the locker room, wearing only a black jock. Gino had requested we wrestle
in jocks only, and barefoot. This wasn’t unusual; the company made lots of jockstrap wrestling videos. What was unusual was
that Gino had never done one, and that we were wrestling in the ring. Jockstrap videos were usually made in the mat room,
which had walls that were painted black and wall-to-wall mats. I’d done a couple jockstrap videos early in my video career.
I preferred Speedos in the ring myself, but hey, since I’d won the first match, I was cool with letting Gino pick the setup
for the rematch.

Doing the rematch itself was unusual; the company didn’t see much point in filming rematches, which made sense, since the
tapes would compete with each other for sales. Apparently, though, my match with Gino had sold so many copies (and was still
selling) they figured it was worthwhile to tape the rematch. Usually, if you wanted a rematch with someone you wrestled on
tape, you arranged it yourself and it was private.

I stood in front of the mirror and flexed. I’d shaved my torso so the tanned muscles gleamed in the overhead light. When I’d
first wrestled Gino I weighed 175 pounds—all lean defined muscle on my 6-2 frame. I now weighed 195 pounds, having added twenty
pounds of muscle. My body fat was still the same. My muscles were thicker, heavier, stronger. I tested my knee. It felt fine.

Gino Matarese was going down.

I walked out of the locker room and down the hall to the ring room. When I entered, I was stunned to see Bob Foster himself
loading a tape into the video recorder. Bob Foster was a reasonably attractive guy in his late forties and a hell of a wrestler.
He’d started the company fifteen years earlier with a stock of blank videotapes and a cam-corder. He’d starred in a lot of
the early tapes, took out classified ads in gay porn magazines and gone from there. He rarely handled the camera himself anymore.
He primarily scoped out talent these days, finding hot guys who were interested in wrestling, inviting them for a workout,
teaching them moves, and getting them ready for the camera. Bob had found me at my gym. He was shirtless now, revealing his
lean torso, wearing only a pair of navy blue cotton sweatpants.