Rough Trade (12 page)

“I’m sure.” I said, putting my bag down and shrugging off my black leather jacket. I was wearing a black muscle tank top, and I made sure my biceps flexed as I deftly folded the coat and tossed it over a chair.

“Damn, you look hot,” he said, shaking his head. “But you always do.”

“Thanks.” I sat down in the chair and leaned back, stretching my legs out in front of me. “So where is the kid?”

Allen’s eyes glinted. “He’s already dressed and in the bathroom.” He lit a cigarette, flicking ash into a Diet Pepsi can. He always smoked in non-smoking rooms. That was Allen in a nutshell—he disregarded anything that he considered an inconvenience. He’d once explained to me that smoking rooms stank, so he just booked non-smoking rooms and smoked in them. He traveled a lot for work, so the hotels never complained or charged him a cleaning fee for unstinking his rooms. “So, get dressed and I’ll take some pictures.”

I stood up and stretched. Pictures were a part of the ritual. Over the last fifteen years, he’d taken thousands of pictures of me. He’d taught me how to pose, had taught me what gear looked best on me, and as my fame had spread in the underground gay wrestling circuit, those pictures had come in very handy. I kicked off my shoes and stripped down to my underwear—black Calvin Klein briefs with a red waistband. Allen always liked me in black and red, and to give him credit, the colors did look good on me. I unzipped my bag and removed a pair of black wrestling trunks with red stripes on the left hip. I slid off my underwear and placed it on top of my clothes. I pulled on the wrestling trunks and felt my dick start to stiffen a bit. Putting on gear was always a bit of a turn-on for me. I sat down and pulled on a pair of knee-high red socks, then my black kneepads, and slid on my black patent leather wrestling boots. I started lacing them up. I focused on the laces while listening to him mess with the camera. I took my time, thinking
let the kid sit there in the bathroom until I’m good and ready—might as well get him used to Allen’s self-absorption.
Finished, I tied the laces and tucked them inside the boots.

I stood up. “Well?”

Allen looked up at me and whistled again. “Your body just gets better and better with age. How do you do it?”

“Diet and exercise,” I replied.

He shook his head. “Still a smart-ass.” He pointed the camera at me. “Give me a double biceps pose.”

I obliged and stood there, going through pose after pose at his direction, remembering the first time I’d ever done this.

Fifteen years ago, I’d been in my early twenties and starting to explore my interest in wrestling. I’d always loved it, getting an erotic charge from watching the sweating muscular studs on television beating on each other in the ring. I’d always been a little ashamed of my interest in wrestling, thinking it weird and strange, and kept it a deep secret I didn’t share with anyone. One day in a gay bookstore in the French Quarter, I’d found a glossy magazine called, simply,
Wrestling.
I’d bought it, taken it home with me, and discovered inside its pages of glorious photos of hot men wrestling naked, an advertisement for a “connection” service. For fifty dollars per year, you could get listed in their quarterly contact newsletter and possibly connect with other guys into wrestling. I wrote the service a letter, a check for fifty dollars, and included a photo of me in a red Speedo a friend had taken at the beach in Pensacola over Memorial Day weekend. The service hadn’t been that great; over the first year I got a couple of letters and photos from guys all over the country, but despite corresponding with them I’d never actually met anyone.

Then one day I got a letter from Allen.

He was coming to New Orleans and wanted to meet me. He was a trained professional wrestler; had even done some pro shows for independent promotions in the Midwest.
You’ve got a great pro look,
he’d said,
and I’d love the chance to see what you got.

He’d included a photo that got me hard as soon as I looked at it. He was a big man, and in the photo he was wearing a tight pair of black trunks with a silver lightning bolt across the crotch. His smooth skin was oiled and tanned, glistening in the lights, and he was also wearing boots and kneepads—but the most exciting thing to me about it was he was posing in the corner of a ring, with his right foot up on the lower rope. He had long blond hair that hung to his massively muscled shoulders.

I wrote him back—and that was how it all began.

“I saw your last video,” he said, taking another shot of me from behind as I flexed my back muscles. “I really wish you wouldn’t do that erotic stuff. That’s for private.”

I bit my tongue. He’d been against my doing wrestling videos for Top Rope Productions from the very beginning. “The fans like my cock,” I said instead of the harsh rejoinder I wanted to say.

“It’s a gorgeous cock.” He snapped another picture. “But you shouldn’t have let everyone see it—the videos where you could see how big and thick it is in your trunks were a lot hotter than the ones where you blow loads on your victims.”

Little do you know that part of the reason I started doing the erotic matches on tape was because I knew you wouldn’t approve,
I thought.

“Well, the kid thought it was a hot match.” He closed the camera and set it down, lighting another cigarette. “He’s been hot for this match ever since.”

“Well, bring him out, then.” I shrugged. “Don’t you want some pre-match shots of the two of us?” I knew he did; he’d also tape the match, and when we were done, he’d have us pose for “action” shots.

It was like doing a Top Rope shoot, only on a smaller scale and for free.

The entire time I’d been in the room, there hadn’t been a sound out of the bathroom. I remembered the first time Allen had had me hide in the bathroom while I waited for an opponent. I’d been nervous. The only person I’d done a pro match with at that point had been Allen—and while he’d been a great mentor, teaching me moves, holds, and techniques, I was still nervous. The guy I was wrestling was an old friend of Allen’s from his days on the indie pro wrestling circuit—and Allen had raved about him to me for so long that I was absolutely terrified I wouldn’t measure up, either as a wrestler or with my body.
Davey has his own private ring up in Cincinnati,
he’d told me,
and invites guys up to use it and work with him all the time.
He’d shown me a picture of Davey—his body drenched in sweat, his red and white trunks clinging to his body, his arms outstretched in victory over his head, a championship belt around his waist.

He was
hot.

The bathroom door opened and the kid stepped out. I inhaled sharply.

Allen had been right, damn him—he knew me all too well.

The kid was a few inches shorter than me, and “kid” was an appropriate description. He didn’t look like he was over eighteen. He had close-cropped brown hair, pale skin with reddish cheeks, and his body was extraordinary. His shoulders were broad and his waist so narrow I could probably close my hands around it and have the fingers meet. His chest was strong, his pecs firm with quarter-sized erect purple nipples. His legs were muscular and defined as well. He was wearing a white bikini that was barely a half inch wide on the sides, white kneepads, white boots, and a white Zorro-style mask over his green eyes.

My cock became instantly and achingly erect.

“Cage, meet Billy the Kid Weston.” Allen glanced down at my crotch and smirked, damn him.

The Kid gave me a big, nervous smile, sticking out his right hand. “It’s an honor to meet you, Cage.”

I took his hand after a moment and squeezed it until he involuntarily gasped. “It’s going to be a pleasure to kick your ass.”

He pulled his hand away and got right up in my face, our chests barely brushing against each other. “The only ass that’s getting kicked is yours, old man.” His voice was young, and squeaked a bit when he called me old.

“Okay then,” I replied evenly. “Loser gets fucked. Deal?”

“You’re going to love the way my cock feels in your ass, old man.”

Nothing gets my cock harder than a cocky young muscle stud—and we kept mouthing off to each other as Allen took the pictures he wanted. I was ready for the match to start. As we kept posing, I admired his body and imagined how it would look writhing in pain as I twisted it into submission hold after submission hold.

“Okay, that’s good.” Allen put the camera down and picked up the video camera. “You guys ready?”

“I’m always ready,” the Kid growled, getting up in my face again.

I drove my right fist into his abs. He doubled over, and I linked my hands together and brought them down on his exposed back, driving him down into the mattresses, gasping. “Too fucking easy,” I said, straddling his back and reaching under his chin with both hands. As I pulled his head back, I slid my knees under his armpits, anchoring them and slipping his arms over my quads. I sat down on the small of his back, stretched my arms straight out, and leaned back. I flexed every muscle in my upper body and let out a howl of triumph. He was breathing hard, moaning every time he exhaled as I cranked harder and pulled his head even further back. I’d ease up for a little bit, listening to him trying to catch his breath before pulling him back again. “I’ll break your pussy back,” I whispered in his ear. “You ready to give?”

I had to give him credit—most guys gave in and submitted to the camel clutch almost immediately. He held out for longer than most guys—but he finally surrendered to the inevitable, slapping my leg and half shouting, “I submit! I submit! I SUBMIT!”

I released the pressure and let him hang there, his arms still draped over my quads. It was tempting—oh so tempting—to put him through it all over again, but I hadn’t even broken a sweat yet, so I shoved his arms off and stood up. I flexed both biceps over him for the video camera, and looked over at Allen. “This is it? I expected a bit of a challenge—at least to break a sweat.”

“Fuck you,” the Kid gasped out below me. He was rubbing his lower back with his right arm.

“I don’t like your attitude,” I replied, dropping onto his lower back with my right elbow.

He howled and rolled away from me almost the edge of the mattresses, clutching his lower back. I slowly walked over to where he lay. His cock was hard inside his tiny white trunks. I knelt down beside him, grabbing his cock through his trunks. “Looks like you like getting your ass kicked,” I said, squeezing it ever so slightly.

“Fuck you,” he gasped out.

I sat down on his chest with a knee on either side of his head. I reached down with my left hand, grabbed a handful of hair, and pulled his face up into my crotch. I rubbed his face against my hard cock. “You want to suck that, don’t you?” I whispered as he tried to pull his head back. I let go of his hair and his head dropped back against the mattress. I reached down and slapped him lightly before getting up and walking to the opposite side of the makeshift ring. “Whenever you’re ready for more, boy—I’ll be right here.” I looked over at Allen. He’d stripped down to a pair of navy blue wrestling trunks with a yellow lightning bolt across the crotch—which was his trademark. His ring name had been Bobby Lightning. His cock was hard, and there was a wet spot on the front of his trunks where the tip of his dick was. I was never really aware of him and his camera whenever I wrestled; and it had been good training for the video work for me. Some guys could never forget there was a camera trained on them, and it showed in the video later.

But Allen had trained me well, constantly screaming at me to not look at the camera. It hadn’t taken me long to learn how to forget about it, to focus instead on the body of my opponent and what I was doing to it.

There’d been plenty of times when Allen had straddled my head and shoved my face into his crotch, growling at me to kiss his lightning bolt.

I watched as the Kid slowly got to his feet, trying to catch his breath. He glared over at me. Despite how easy that first fall had been, he was still cocky.

I love stomping the cocky out of boys.

“Fucker.” He spat the word at me.

I smiled and pulled my trunks down a bit, so he could see the head of my cock. “You’re going to have to work harder if you want me to fuck you, boy. I don’t fuck pushovers.”

“The only person getting fucked is you!”

I laughed. “It takes a man to fuck me—and you’re just a little boy.”

He launched himself at me, which I hadn’t been expecting. He crashed into me and we went backward into the wall with a crash. He started punching me in the stomach, knocking the wind out of me before I was ready for it. I doubled over a bit, and he grabbed my head into a side headlock and dragged me back out onto the mattresses while I tried to catch my breath. He was squeezing pretty hard, and then he hip-tossed me over onto my back, managing to hang on to the headlock. I twisted, grabbing his wrists and trying to power his arms apart to no avail. He just tightened his grip and I could feel my teeth grinding together.

He’s a strong little fuck.

I managed to get to my knees as he gripped tighter.

I drove my elbow into his abs, and felt his grip loosen.

I did it again, much harder, and his grip broke as he fell back onto his back.

I jumped to my feet. He was lying there, trying to catch his breath. I walked over and brought my right boot down on his stomach. His knees came up, and I stomped him again. I reached down and grabbed a handful of hair, dragging him up to his feet again. His legs were a little wobbly, and I slugged him hard in the abs.