New Title 1 (7 page)

Interesting,
Straker thought.
But what’s even more interesting are her perfect giant state-of-the-art tits that I’d give a year’s pay just to suck for one second.
The most ludicrous fantasy bloomed: They were married, she was pregnant, lactating.
Yeah, man, I’d be sucking on those tits so much there’d be no milk left for the kid.

“Anyway, all of a sudden Felander drops Dare, Ruger, and Ghoula, the only really bi names in the fed.”

Straker shook himself, trying to get his mind off those breasts. “How old is Goon? What’s he look like? Where’s he from?”

“It’s more of eliminating where he’s not from, there’s no record of him having an amateur career, and a guy that size would’ve have gotten some press, and he’s not from any of the training schools. The first thing I did some months ago was check with Barry Sharpe at the Ogre Academy and Stew Hartley in Canada and they’d never heard of him. He must be some gym-rat that Felander met somewhere, but what I can’t figure out is how he became the caliber of worker he is with only a couple of months training.”

When she took a breath, her bosom gently heaved. Straker felt dizzy, mad with breast-lust.
Yeah, I’d like to milk ‘em, milk ‘em into a big bucket and drown myself in the milk. What a way to go.
He had to bite the inside of his cheek just to re-focus. “All right. You said you’ve been working on the case in an undercover capacity. How?”

“How do you think?” she casually replied. “I’ve been posing as a ringrat.”

««—»»

“I guess the best place to start,” Melinda Pierce said behind the wheel of her heather-green Ford Taurus, “is with the preliminary structure of professional wrestling at large. I take it you’re not a wrestling fan, Captain?”

Straker kept shifting the position of his ass in the passenger seat, and tried his best to not seem obvious in the way he covered his lap with his hand. Before they’d left HQ, he’d had no choice but to excuse himself. “Quick stop to the little boy’s room,” he gushed. “Be right back.” Whereupon he paranoically stepped up to the urinal, cast quick glances over each shoulder, then sprang his erection out and quickly masturbated. He felt silly and ashamed.
What the hell is wrong with me? I see a hot-looking woman and suddenly I’m running off to the bathroom to beat my meat like some teenager!
The draining that Miss Wilcox and her bologna vagina had inflicted didn’t leave much left; nevertheless, in his keen excitement, Straker only needed a quick series of shucks to coax an orgasm which left him rubber-kneed. Brow sweating, he looked down and saw the white string of his reproductive milk dangling from the egress of his penis like a piece of vermicelli. He flapped it off, stuffed said penis back into his pants, and rushed out to rejoin Melinda Pierce of the Roanoke Observer. He knew he was being paranoid, but she seemed to smile oh-so-subtly when he returned. Moments later, they were in her car and heading down Main Street. Destination unknown.

Straker replied, hips flinching, “Un, no, Ms. Pierce. I’m not a wrestling fan. Sometimes I see it on TV but only when I’m changing stations. What? We’re talking Hunk Hargan, Hunkamania, stuff like that? And what’s that other guy’s name with all the paint all over his face. Poison?”

“Venom, Captain, and, no, we are not talking about that echelon of professional wrestling. Those are the big feds.”

“Feds?”

“Federations. Think of them as the biggest and most profitable pro wrestling organizations. These guys wrestle five or six nights a week, and are frequently on national television. They make lots of money given the exposure. But Goon doesn’t wrestle for either of the big feds. He wrestles for DSWC—that’s the Deep South Wrestling Conference. It’s a regional conference, small-time compared to WWF and WCW. Think of it as the difference between the minor leagues and the major league. It’s a much smaller draw, but it’s still very consistent.”

Straker pretended to be listening, looking at those plush spread thighs laying in the driver’s seat, the elegant hands holding the wheel, the plenteous bosom riding in the sheer white floral-print blouse. “So I guess this guy Goon is a light-weight,” Straker managed. He grit his teeth imperceptibly, feeling the flare of another erection.

“Quite the contrary. Goon is the best wrestler in the world.”

Straker blinked. “If he’s so good, then how come he’s not working for the ‘big feds’?”

“Because he doesn’t want to. In fact, his manager had turned down repeated contracts with WWF and WCW for many times the amount of money that Goon’s making now. Kind of like a small-town cop turning down repeated offers with state and/or county PDs.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Straker pointed out, feeling his gorged corona now nudging the bottom of his hiding hand. He felt tempted to give it a squeeze. “Nobody turns down bigger money.”

“Goon does,” she said. “And I’ll tell you why. In a fed as small as DSWC, Goon isn’t subject to the widespread exposure of television and nation-wide cards.”

“Cards?”

“A card, Captain, is an ensemble of wrestling matches. And another thing of note is this: Goon’s got the ultimate gimmick.”

“Gimmick?”

“You can think of a ‘gimmick’ as a ‘set’ in a movie or a persona. A ‘work’ is the script. The conclusion of each match is predetermined by the promoters. The ‘bookers’ are essentially the people who create and maintain the characterization of the fed. Who’s rivaling who, who’s turning bad, who’s turning good, etc. It’s a storyline, which the fans follow as diligently as Star Trek fans follow
Voyager
and
Deep Space Nine
and all that. And Goon’s the ultimate heel.”

Straker grit his teeth again. Just looking at those luscious legs made him want to come in his pants. “Heel?” he questioned.

“Professional nomenclature. Heels are bad guys, faces are good guys. And pro wrestling perpetuates via the proliferation of the ongoing rivalries that exist between faces and heels. Same as the rivalry, for instance, between the Redskins and the Cowboys, or, more appropriately, the rivalry between the Roman gladiators and the armed slaves in the arena. That’s all wrestling is, Captain. They’re the Gladiators of modern civilization.”

Straker knew that if he so much as brushed his crotch with his hand, he’d come, envisioning her. He’d mess his pants, indeed, like a torqued-up teen eyeing the hot biology teacher or one of the cheerleaders jumping up like a flying human wishbone on the sidelines.
I need to come again,
he dismally thought.
I can’t fucking stand this!

“But the Gladiators were real,” he finally was able to get back on track. “Wrestling isn’t. Everyone knows it’s fake.”

“It’s not as fake as you think, Captain,” she said, and then unconsciously brushed her hand flat against her right thigh. Straker nearly creamed his shorts, nearly groaned at the image.

“It’s true, most of these guys are athletes who weren’t good enough to make it in legitimate professional sports. Leon Black, aka Big Dan Tater, got cut from the L.A. Rams, Leapin’ Leonard got cut from the Bengals, Don Clemmens got cut from the Lions. Derrick Lotts was a college football quarterback, a starter, who got kicked out of pro camp on the second day, and Venom tried out with four minor league baseball teams and never got a hit. So, yes, these guys are what pro sports spat out, but they’re still unique athletes in their own way. You say wrestling’s fake? Well, in a sense, it is, but when a wrestler jumps off the top rope, launches himself ten feet into the air, and lands on his opponent, it is indeed a prearranged work, but that man is still leaping ten feet into the air and landing on a human being. These guys piledrive each other’s heads on the cement ring curtain, but if you don’t know what you’re doing, you wind up with a broken neck, and that instance has happened to several wrestlers. Several wrestlers have had their ears shorn off by a make involves getting their heads stuck in the ring ropes. Pro wrestlers blow out their knees at a much higher rate than pro running backs. Concussions abound, Achilles tendons snap like drawstrings, and wrestlers have suffered more broken bones than the athletes of any other professional sport. It’s something to consider before you scoff completely at wrestling as a joke. These men are high-tuned athletes—they have to be in order to circumvent serious injury any given night of the week. Which leads us back to Goon.”

“Goon,” Straker said, as if to seem as though he were being attentive. His only real attentiveness, however, was sighted on Melinda Pierce’s 38D breasts. In his mind, he saw his face buried between them, his eyes crossed in bliss.

“Even in DSWC, Goon has refused major heel slots that would earn him two or three times the money he makes now. He’s the hottest property in the fed. Goon works as the ultimate hardcore, whenever he wrestles the fans know they’re going to see someone do heavy juice. Felander books all the finishes and no one objects. Why? Because he can take punishment like no other. Chairs, tables, two-by-fours, etc. have all been broken over Goon’s head more times than you’ve taken that shirt to the cleaners.”

I’m gonna have to take these shorts to the cleaners in about one minute,
Straker thought. “Juice? Aren’t the chairs, tables, and two-by-fours all fake?”

“That’s where you’re wrong, Captain. That stuff’s all the real McCoy—it has to be because it’s all in proximity to fans. Juice is real blood, not the capsules that actors use; some wrestlers carry little razor blades to open up cuts above the hairline, Goon does what they call ‘hardway juice,’ he actually has the other wrestler bust him open with something. Quite regularly, you’ll see Goon jump off the top rope, do a somersault, and land on his back on the cement ring skirt. I suppose you’re going to tell me it’s phony cement?”

Straker shrugged. His balls felt large as Roma tomatoes now, filling up with enough sperm cells to populate entire planets. “I don’t know. I probably know as much about professional wrestling as you know about the Battle of Hastings.”

“October 14th, A.D. 1066, King Harold Godwin attempted to defend the island of Angle-land against the forces of William of Normandy on a coastal rise called Senlac Hill, otherwise known as Hastings. Three Norman assaults failed but a fourth succeeded after Harold was killed by a stray Norman arrow which hit him in the eye, but that’s beside the point, Captain. The fact remains, these men, professional wrestlers, must remain in extraordinary condition in order to do what they do night after night without crippling or killing themselves. And Goon is the best of the best. You’ll see, Captain. You’ll see tonight.”

Jesus Christ I’ve got to come,
Straker thought. His dick felt like a yard hose about to split from too much pressure.
I can’t even be in the same car with this piece of work without wanting to spew all over myself.

His thoughts drifted back. “What? What do you mean, tonight?”

“We’re going to a wrestling match tonight,” she said. “And you and I are both going undercover.”

««—»»

Her keys jingled at the end of a silver judo stick when she let them into the motel.

“I need to use your bathroom,” Straker said.

“Sure. Right in there.”

Straker traipsed away, closed the door behind him. Two seconds later, his erect penis was out, and he was shucking it like an ear of corn.
Aw, fuck! There’s just something about her,
he thought.
I just…can’t… help it…
About ten jerks did the trick, and out it came, his forth orgasm of the day and another piece of vermicelli relegated to the toilet. They just kept getting better, thinking about her, and that’s what he didn’t get. Straker had long since dismissed his sex drive as fairly dead once he’d reached thirty. He didn’t give a shit anymore, and that was fine—he had better things to occupy his mind than sex. Additionally, he saw attractive women all the time, and didn’t flinch…

But Melinda Pierce was quite a bit more than merely attractive.

She was the woman of his dreams. She was sex incarnate. She was a vision equal to that which launched a thousand ships in the Trojan War. Straker sighed, rubbing the last drop of semen with his index finger against the cringing glans. The sensation drove him to his tiptoes, and when he imagined Melinda Pierce doing the same, only with her tongue, and he was half hard again even before he got it back into his pants.

He rushed back out, collecting himself. She’d rented a cheap motel room off Route 154, with Observer funds no doubt. “Here are the tickets,” she said when he emerged and nearly hit the floor. She’d kicked her shoes off, extending her long legs across the couch, and she’d removed her blouse to reveal the exorbitant breasts satcheled perfectly in a tan-lace bra.

“What’s the matter? You’ve never seen a woman in a bra before?”