JiminQueens2's blog

It was just before midnight when Stevenson finally picked up the microphone and began the introductions for the final match of the night. Most of the others had been getting impatient for the match to begin, but I knew that Kevin needed the breather after his semifinal, and as I looked over the other Daddies, I spotted an Asian guy who looked as calm and patient as I felt. Maybe it was just his personality, but I had a feeling that Kevin would be wrestling his Boy in the final.

I was standing pretty close to Stevenson, so I got the disconcerting echo effect when you hear the original and then hear the distorted version over the sound system. “All right, gentlemen,” Stevenson crowed, “It’s time for the final fi—“

I cleared my throat and glared at him. We have had this conversation before, my eyes said.

“—er, final wrestling match of the evening! The Boys are rested and raring to get in the pit, and I know they’re going to put an epic show for us all!”

The other Daddies and Boys cheered and yelled, most of their enthusiasm fueled by the nonstop flow of booze the whole night. I glanced at the curtain separating the back rooms from the main. Kevin and the other Boy had to be standing close to each other behind it, and I wondered what was going through my Boy’s mind. Were he and the other Boy glaring at each other? Or was this no big deal for them? I know that my Boy has to stand on his own, but I still hate being separated from him in situations like this.

“Introducing first,” Stevenson droned, “standing six foot one inch tall, and weighing in at two hundred pounds even, all of it solid muscle, please welcome to the pit – BOY – KEVIN – WHITTAKERRRRRRR!!!!!!!”

Kevin stepped from behind the curtain, still clad only in the jockstrap – it hadn’t been “white” for a while, and the oil had soaked completely into the fabric, turning it an odd off-gray. I watched as the crowd melted away as he made his way to the pit, Daddies and Boys alike. I smiled as a surge of pride went through me. My Boy was going to be a fine Daddy someday.

He stopped in front of me and held his arms out in a T. Someone handed me a fresh bottle of baby oil, and I sprayed it across his massive chest and, after he turned around, across his beautiful back and onto his bubble butt. I could feel the envious stares of the other Daddies and Boys as I worked the oil into my Boy’s skin, putting my hands all over him in the ways only I was allowed to do. I squatted down and sprayed Kevin’s left leg, then worked the oil into his thighs and calves. This close to his jock, I could smell Kevin’s essence coming through it, and it took every ounce of self-control I had not to say the hell with this and take him to the nearest bed.

As I finished with his right leg and stood up, Kevin smiled at me. I put both my hands on his shoulders and repeated what I’d told him after the near-fight. “Win or lose, I am so incredibly proud of you,” I murmured.

Or at least I thought I murmured – but Stevenson had crept close to us and had the microphone ready to catch my words. I almost took his damn head off, and Kevin even gave him a glare before getting himself under control and turning to climb into the oil pit.

“And his opponent,” Stevenson continued, “stands at six feet two inches tall and weighed in at one hundred and ninety power-packed pounds, coming down the aisle now, here is – BOY – WYATT – TAKETAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!”

The other Boy stepped into the main room from behind the curtain; I’d noticed him before, but hadn’t taken more notice of him than the other Boys, and certainly not more than mine. He was just a little leaner than Kevin was, but with lots of muscle where it counted, and with dark hair and eyes and the sort of face that would break hearts if your heart was inclined to break.

He made his way to the pit; the crowd gave way, but not quite as quickly or thoroughly as they had for Kevin. Like Kevin, he was clad only in an oil-stained jockstrap that was clearly unhappy about trying to keep whatever he was packing contained. He stopped in front of an Asian man, obviously his Daddy, who held a bottle of oil in his hand. I watched, feeling a stirring between my legs, as the Daddy lavished the same treatment on his Boy as I had on Kevin. No exposed inch was neglected, and when the Daddy pulled the front of his Boy’s jock to apply oil to the one placeit wouldn’t be needed, I almost came in my pants.

I glanced into the pit at Kevin. Kevin’s got one of the best poker faces I’ve ever seen; completely impassive when he wants it to be, giving nothing away to anyone. But after two years and everything good and bad that came with it, I can read Kevin as easily as he can read me. He was focused and ready for a good scrap, but he also was as turned on by his opponent and the other Daddy as I was.

The other Boy climbed into the pit; Kevin had moved to the far side to give him room. I saw Stevenson try to “help” the other Boy – Wyatt, I reminded myself – by giving him a hand into the pit, specifically, a hand on Wyatt’s perfect ass. But the other Daddy nonchalantly stepped between Stevenson and his Boy, not even glancing in Stevenson’s direction.

I smirked. Between my throwing cold water on Stevenson’s fight fetish and the other Daddy’s smooth cock block, it was hard to say which one of us Stevenson hated more right now. But that meant he wouldn’t have any reason to favor one Boy or the other, and the other two judges had no reason to do so, either. The match would be settled on the Boys’ merits, something I wholeheartedly approved of. Especially the merits shown off so nicely by those two tight jockstraps, and the oil-coated merits shining brightly in the bright lights.

And then, the bell rang to begin the match.

Wyatt extended a hand, which clearly surprised Kevin. He looked at the hand, looked at Wyatt, and then gingerly took it, clearly expecting a trick. But Wyatt only shook it briefly but firmly, and then let Kevin go and crouched into a wrestling pose, with Kevin matching him.

The two Boys locked up in a collar and elbow tie-up, slipping and sliding a little on the oil-soaked tarp. Then Kevin jerked his hands down sharply, and Wyatt went down to the tarp, landing right on his face. Kevin dropped down and wrapped his arms around Wyatt’s chest, sprawling as he did so and getting all his weight on the other Boy.

Kevin slid his body over Wyatt’s until his legs were near Wyatt’s head. Quickly, he crossed his ankles to complete the scissors and began to squeeze, his massive quads and hamstrings bulging and the oil on them reflecting the lights in the party room. Wyatt manfully struggled to his feet, with Kevin’s thighs still crushing his face, and the spectators on the other side of the pit got a terrific look at his oil-coated ass framed by the jock, while my side got an eyeful of Kevin’s huge chest and beautiful six pack. Wyatt’s hands were around Kevin’s ankles and he was trying to pry them loose, but Kevin quickly threw his weight to the side and the two Boys tumbled to the mat, Wyatt still writhing in Kevin’s powerful scissors.

Kevin was resting on his side, propped up on one arm, while Wyatt flopped around on his stomach and still tried to find some way out of the scissors. Kevin glanced around the watching crowd, and, grinning ear to ear, gave them a single bicep flex as he tortured the helpless Wyatt.

The other Daddies roared their approval. Kevin somehow found me and winked, then turned his attention back to Wyatt. He made sure that the scissors was locked nice and tight, but now he turned his attention to the other end of Wyatt’s body. He got a good, solid hold on one of Wyatt’s ankles, and slowly but surely pulled it over his head, now putting tremendous pressure on Wyatt’s lower back as he was bent backwards, which Kevin helped along with constant jerks of his body that bent Wyatt a little further backward every time.

Wyatt’s grunts of pain every time Kevin jerked his body was barely audible at the edge of the pit where I was, so I’m sure the other Daddies and Boys couldn’t hear them. But Kevin sure did, and the smile on his face grew wider and wider every time. This was a side of him I’d never seen before, and I kinda liked it.

Kevin kept glancing at Stevenson and the other judges, but they clearly weren’t going to ring the bell this early – he and Wyatt only had been wrestling for a few minutes at this point – and Wyatt wasn’t going to quit from the headscissors bow and arrow combo. So Kevin decided to switch positions.

He let Wyatt’s leg go and concentrated on the scissors, letting his legs slide down Wyatt’s chest and coming to rest over his abs and lower back. Wyatt didn’t seem to be fighting back, and Kevin got his legs completely around Wyatt’s waist and started squeezing. This time Wyatt’s howls were audible even over the Daddies and Sons in the room. And they were eating it up, loving the punishment my Boy was inflicting on his opponent.

“Your Boy must be very strong. My Boy normally would break a hold like that easily.”

The voice had come from my right. I glanced over, and sure enough, Wyatt’s Daddy was standing next to me. Now that we were up close and personal, I could see he was just a little shorter than me, but his arms and chest were just a hair bigger than mine. “He is strong,” I replied. “I train him as hard as I train myself.”

Wyatt’s Daddy let his eyes travel over my body, noting every muscle and sinew. He nodded approvingly. “So I see.”

A yelp of surprise turned our attention back to the pit. Kevin was sitting up with his hands between his legs, looking like he trying to grab Wyatt’s wrist and I guess pull him into an armbar. But Wyatt wasn’t having it, and for the first time, the oil put in its two cents. Wyatt’s arm slipped out of Kevin’s grasp, and Kevin fell backwards, landing flat on his back.

Wyatt pounced on Kevin, and the two of them slipped and slid all over the pit and each other. The oil was making it difficult for either one of them to get much of a grip on the other, and they kept rolling back and forth, first one on top, then the other, scuffling like two little boys in the schoolyard.

“My name is Ryu,” Wyatt’s Daddy said. His hand tapped me mildly in the gut, more to get my attention than anything else.

I shook it briefly. “Keith,” I replied, then turned my attention back to the match. Keith had managed to get Wyatt in a headlock, and the Boys were on their feet, so Wyatt was bent over, with his ass sticking out for everyone to see. Meanwhile, Kevin was flexing his chest as he held Wyatt in the lock, and the oil highlighted every muscle.

Kevin adjusted his grip a little. His left arm still held Wyatt’s head in a viselike grip, but his right hand reached in to grasp his bulging bicep. I smiled; I’d taught him that one. His forearm was pressing on one of the arteries in Wyatt’s neck, at least slowing the blood flow to Wyatt’s brain. And Wyatt’s head was turning an interesting shade of purple.

But with that much oil and staggering around so much, it was inevitable that Kevin would put a foot wrong. And when he did, he reflexively put his hands out to break his fall down to the mat, freeing Wyatt from the headlock. They hit the mat with Wyatt on top, and Wyatt immediately slid his arms under Kevin’s and clamped on a full nelson.

Wyatt began to thrust his hips foreward, mimicking fucking Kevin’s ass. The whoops and hollers from the crowd made me furious; I wanted to haul off and belt the nearest man. But the nearest man was Ryu…and somehow, I didn’t want to hit him. Not in that way.

Wyatt released the nelson; he’d made his point. Kevin flipped over onto his back and threw his legs in the air, trying to get another headscissors on Wyatt. But Wyatt was clearly ready for him now. He caught both of Kevin’s legs and held them close to his chest, then got up on his knees, driving Kevin’s body higher into the air and putting all of his weight on his neck.

“Get out of there, Kevin!” I yelled, but if he could hear me above the roar of the crowd, he didn’t acknowledge it. Wyatt let him up from the press, but he quickly flipped my Boy back onto his stomach, then spun around himself and straddled him, facing his feet. He got as good a grip on one of Kevin’s legs as the oil would allow, while his own leg held Kevin’s other one down on the tarp.

(Keith’s narrative resumes)
It was standing room only in front of the oil pit. With eight Boys wrestling, it was going to be a single-elimination tournament, and those of us whose Boys were stripping down got ringside seats. One of the other Daddies – whose Boy was not wrestling – had suggested that they do loser rounds, too, with the ultimate loser – the Boy who lost all three of his matches – being humiliated the rest of the night. But I put that shit idea to bed right away.
“There are at least forty Boys here tonight, and only eight have the balls to get in the pit,” I pointed out, with an edge to my voice. “So who are the ultimate losers?” And I smiled as both he and his Boy turned beet red and turned away.

And then Stevenson grabbed a microphone and began to announce the evening’s festivities. “Gentlemen and gentlemen! Let’s meet our wrestlers for the evening!” He began to rattle off names; Kevin’s was the fourth. One by one, the Boys came out from the back room and took their places on the stage, each one clad only in a white jockstrap—no elaborate patterns or logos, and each one doing a complete in-place turn so that we could check out the assets. Most of the others were built like my Boy: big, muscular, single-digit body fat. The one exception was this blonde twink about half the size of the other Boys. I silently hoped that he was a black belt or something, because otherwise he was going to get killed.

“Here are the rules,” Stevenson said. “There are no rounds and no periods – the Boys wrestle until there’s a winner. Wrestling only, no punching or kicking, and no scratching or hairpulling.” He grinned at that last, but the joke fell flat. “I’ll be one of the judges, along with Ramirez and Nesbitt.” He gestured at two other Dads standing next to him. “When we feel that one Boy has established complete dominance over the other, we’ll award him the victory.”

“Now let’s get the first two oiled up!”

Two of the Boys jumped off the stage and approached the oil pit. Stevenson and the other judges produced bottles of baby oil and began to squirt it all over the two of them, then two other men – presumably their Daddies – rubbed the oil into every nook and cranny on their body. Ready for battle, the two Boys climbed into the pit.

Kevin was the third match of the first round—I made sure he was nice and greasy and that every muscle he had gleamed in the lights—and his first opponent for the night was the blonde twink who really shouldn’t have been in the pit at all. Kevin went easy on the kid and carried him long enough to put on a good show for us, but it wasn’t that long before he had the kid in a schoolboy pin with the kid’s head pulled up into his crotch. Stevenson and the other “judges” rang the bell to signal that Kevin had won.

His semifinal opponent looked Spanish or Italian, with more hair on his chest than some of the Daddies watching. This one was tougher; the kid put Kevin in a couple of bad positions that made my stomach drop down to my shoes, and Kevin put him in some but couldn’t seem to put him away. They went back and forth for a good twenty minutes, but then the other Boy slipped and landed flat on his ass, and Kevin pounced on him.

He grabbed one of the guy’s legs and wrapped his other arm around his head. It was a nice, tight cradle, and it was clear the other Boy wasn’t getting out of it. Stevenson rang the bell, giving Kevin the win.

Kevin sprang to his feet, but almost went down again as his balance got a little wonky. The other Boy, clearly furious, climbed to his feet, and as Kevin approached him for a handshake, the son of a bitch took a swing at my Boy.

It didn’t connect. Kevin ducked the swing and immediately countered with a jab cross combination. The other Boy went down like a poleaxed cow, and he didn’t look like he was getting up any time soon.

I heard a roar of outrage, and one of the other Daddies started to climb into the pit. I immediately jumped into the pit and got between him and my Boy. The other Daddy was sputtering, “He hit my Boy! I’ll fucking kill him!”

“I’ll fucking kill you,” I said coldly, “if you lay a finger on my Boy.”

Stevenson and Ramirez had grabbed the other Daddy and pulled him away from the pit. “Your Boy threw the first punch,” Stevenson said coldly, “so maybe you should clean him up and get your asses out of here.”

I didn’t move a muscle until the scumbag was hustled out of the common room; a couple of the other Daddies and Sons cleaned up the mess my Boy put on the tarp. Once the mess and its Daddy were out of the room, I relaxed and turned to look at Kevin.

In the two years we’d been together, I’d never seen such a look of admiration and devotion on Kevin’s face as I saw there now. He walked, a little uncertainly because of the oil, over to me and hugged me. I didn’t even mind that he was getting oil all over my uniform. I hugged him back to the thunderous cheers of the men around us.

“I love you, Daddy,” he murmured.

“I love you, too, Son,” I murmured back.

And then came the tap on the shoulder. I schooled my features into as neutral an expression as I could manage and turned. It was Stevenson, of course; man never met a mood he couldn’t sit on. “I hate like hell to break this up,” he said, and if there had been the slightest hint of mockery in his voice, I would have taken a swing at him and the hell with it. “But your Boy still has one more match tonight.”

“In a minute,” I replied coldly.

I turned back to Kevin and took his head in both my hands. “Win or lose tonight,” I told him, “You are my Boy, and I love you and I am proud of you.”

Tears welled up in his beautiful eyes, but he smiled the sweetest smile I’d ever seen and said, “I’m proud to be your Boy, Daddy.”

I climbed down out of the oil pit, then turned to help Kevin down. Someone brought us towels; I only needed one, but Kevin needed a few to get all of the oil off of him. Stevenson was babbling, “We’ll give him and the other Boy half an hour or so to rest, then turn them loose!”

He was practically drooling at the thought of Kevin and the other Boy – who I didn’t even remember at that point – tearing into each other. Well, he could fantasize all he wanted, but Kevin was coming home with me that night, not him, and nothing was going to change that.

Well, something did change that, but that’s the next chapter…

We were in the shower. Kevin was standing in front of me while I washed and massaged his powerful back. I kept my hands above Kevin’s waist, but my dick was standing straight out, and Kevin obviously felt it. He glanced over his shoulder and smiled at me, then turned to face me and started to sink to his knees.

“No,” I told him.

He stopped and looked up at me, puzzled. “Daddy?” he asked.

“No sex,” I said. “Not right now, anyway.”

“But we always…”

“I don’t care what we ‘always’ do, Boy,” I said firmly as I pulled him back to his feet. Kevin flushed a deep red, and I choose to believe that he wiped his eyes because water from the shower was running into them. I decided to relent a bit.

I started washing his chest, two wonderful mounds of muscle. “I told you about the party tonight, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I didn’t tell you the whole thing, though. There’s going to be wrestling – oil wrestling. Probably not naked, but I don’t know for sure. Depending on how many of your peers decide to participate, or how many of my peers order their Boys to participate, it’ll be either a win-or-go-home or a round-robin. So, are you interested?”

Kevin’s cock was still at attention; he straightened his body so that the rest of him followed suit. “Is this an order, sir?” he asked.

I smiled, partly out of affection, partly because the sight of him standing naked at attention was just so laughable, and he relaxed. “No, Son,” I said. “This is entirely up to you. If you want to wrestle, then I’ll let them know you’re in. If you don’t want to wrestle, then…we can ‘always’. But if you do want to wrestle, then that’s not a good idea. I want my Boy to win, and you’ll need your edge for that.”

Kevin put his arms around my neck, and drew me into a kiss, so it was clear what he’d decided. I was disappointed at his choice, but Kevin’s kisses are my kryptonite, and my dick, which had softened a bit while we were talking, sprang to life again. I wrapped my arms around his magnificent body and opened my mouth so that our tongues could get acquainted…but then Kevin broke the kiss and stepped out of the shower.

“‘Not a good idea’,” he said mockingly. Then he smiled and added, “Sir.”

(Kevin's narrative)

The party started at seven-thirty; Daddy and I made our entrance just before nine. Daddy looked amazing, but he always does. He had on a pair of leather pants that hid his incredible package and ass surprisingly well. He didn’t have a shirt on, just a leather vest and a Sam Browne across his chest. One of his nipples was hanging over the Sam and my tongue twitched every time I happened to glance at it. Which I did a lot. The Muir Cap over his close-cropped red hair – same color as mine – completed the package. He looked spectacular, and I smirked at the thought of how jealous every Boy in the room was going to be.

I looked pretty spectacular myself, if I do say so myself. I had on the first pair of leather pants Daddy ever bought me, and I knew that my ass looked great in them. The only difference between my pants and Daddy’s was that Daddy’s pants were intact, but mine had a hole in them. A large circular hole, right around my crotch. I was wearing a tight pair of jeans shorts under them, and a blind man could have seen what I had to offer underneath. I also had on a leather vest, but Daddy hadn’t told me that I deserved a Sam yet.

And around my neck, I wore the collar. The collar that marks me as Daddy’s.

The hall was packed – Daddies and Boys everywhere. Most of them were wearing outfits similar to mine and Daddy’s, but none of them looked as good as we did. I’ll fight anyone who says otherwise.

Normally, all my attention at parties like this is on Daddy, because I’m there to do as he tells me to do. But tonight, my eyes were wandering all around the room. Not at the other Daddies – never at the other Daddies – but on the Boys. I was going to wrestle at least one of them, and I was sizing them up, watching how they moved, trying to decide the best way to take them down and take them out.

Daddy Stevenson, the Daddy who organizes these parties, spotted Daddy and me about a minute after we walked in. “Keith! Good to see you and your Boy!” he said. He put his arm around Daddy’s shoulders and escorted him to the bar. I followed in their wake as I’d been taught.

Daddy Stevenson got Daddy and me a beer each, and gestured at me with his chin. “He ready for a good fight?”

“He’s ready for a good wrestling match,” Daddy countered. “If that’s changed, I’m taking him out.”

“Jeez, Keith, I was exaggerating. Lighten up!” I had to look away to keep from glaring at him – he was an asshole, but he was also a Daddy, and I was a Boy. “Yes,” he continued, patiently, “just wrestling. No fists. Not here, anyway.”

It occurred to me that while Daddy Stevenson was, in fact, a Daddy – he didn’t have a Boy. I wasn’t surprised. He was trying too hard, and it showed, and no Boy would ever choose a Daddy like that.

“Then yes, my Boy is ready and willing. Aren’t you, Son?”

“Yes, Daddy,” I replied.

“Good,” Daddy Stevenson said. “We’ll probably start in about half an hour. He should come pick out a jockstrap to wrestle in.”

“Kevin,” Daddy ordered, “go with Daddy Stevenson.”

“Yes, Daddy.” I followed Daddy Stevenson to the back, past the stage and the huge oil pit in the middle of the room. It was big enough for half a dozen of us Boys to wrestle in, at least. Daddy Stevenson led me down the back hallway, then opened a door and flipped on the light switch.
We were in a cluttered office, with a jumbled pile of jockstraps on the desk, all of them white (“Best color once the oil starts to sink in,” Daddy Stevenson put in, even though I hadn’t asked). I started picking them up at random, testing the pouches. I have big hands, and I know from experience that if my closed fist fits comfortably in the pouch, my junk will.

It didn’t take me long to find three that would fit the front, but to test how they’d fit from the back… I started to undo my pants. Daddy Stevenson flushed, and turned his back. I guess he was afraid of what Daddy might do to him if he watched me try them on. He didn’t have to worry; Daddy would never get mad if someone looked, only if they tried to touch – but I didn’t enlighten him. Because, Daddy or no, he didn’t deserve the show.

The pound on the first one hugged my balls and soft dick nice and tight, but the straps were too big for my ass. The second one was just right. I pulled on my shorts and pants over it and said, “All set, sir.”

Daddy Stevenson turned around. He glanced down at my crotch, and I had to force down a smile at the look of disappointment on his face that I had gotten dressed. “Come on,” he said, “I’ll take you to where the other Boys are waiting.”

It’s Sunday morning. My name is Keith Whittaker, I’m lying in a strange bed with a man I’ve known less than twenty-four hours lying next to me, and even worse, Kevin, my Boy is nowhere to be seen. I should be concerned, worried, even frantic. But I ache too much, the really good aches in my muscles after a killer workout and the even better aches in my dick and ass after mind-blowing sex.

Ryu is still asleep, his body curled up inside of mine, my free arm around his waist, his beautiful chest swelling and shrinking as he breathes. There’s just enough light that I can start to see the contrast between his golden skin and my pale, between his hairless body and the thin coat of red fur on my arms around him. I wonder if Kevin and Riamu—sorry, Wyatt—are in the same position. Or maybe the opposite? I’m a little taller than Ryu, but Wyatt’s taller than my Boy.

What a night it had been...

Saturday is leg day for my Boy and me. We finish with leg curls; I’d done my last set, and I was watching Kevin do his – enjoying the view, I admit. Seeing his ass moving up and down as he lifted and released the weight made me think of the other activities that made it move like that, and I was starting to chub in my jock.

Later….I told myself sternly, but then I noticed that Kevin was starting to struggle a little with the weight he was lifting.

I squatted in front of him until we were nose-to-nose and barked in his face, “Come on, two more reps, you’ve got it, Son! Don’t quit!”

“Never quit!” came the automatic response. And with it, three deep grunts as Kevin did the last two reps, and added an extra for good measure. The weights crashed back into place as he straightened his legs, panting with exertion.

I straighted up, then leaned over and patted my Boy on his bubble butt. I sometimes think that the term “bubble butt” was invented because nobody can think of a good word to use with “ass”. “Good work, Son,” I murmured as he untangled himself from the leg curl machine. He was a little unsteady, so I helped him as he stood up.

“Thank you, Daddy.” Another automatic response, but no less genuine because of that. Two years together, we had settled into a very comfortable routine.

I had met Kevin at a Nighthawks game – minor league hockey, in case you were curious. I’d played in high school and college and when I moved to this “city” – which had fewer people than my old apartment building in Chicago – I’d started following the team. It was an early season game against a team without much of a history with the Hawks, so attendance was pretty sparse.

Towards the end of the second period, I got up to take a piss. The men’s room was empty, so I picked a urinal and got down to business. A couple seconds later, I heard someone else come in and, out of the corner of my eye, saw him take a stand a couple to my right. The Hawks’ arena is older than I am – no partitions between the urinals – so we both got a good look at each other as we stood there.

And I was impressed. I glanced up at his face…and I had to force myself to keep my body focused on the job at hand because of the shock. It wasn’t entirely like looking into a mirror, or even at a picture fifteen, twenty years ago, but it was pretty damn close. This kid – couldn’t have been more than twenty – had a full head of flaming red hair, just like mine, ice blue eyes, just like mine, and a square, pugnacious jaw, just like mine. Under the tight t-shirt and jeans he wore, I could tell he was built like me, too, broad, muscular chest tapering down to narrow hips, but without the slight gut that I’d put on since I turned forty. His legs were thick, too, and as he stepped back, zipped up, and moved to the sinks, he had an easy, graceful way of moving that I recognized. Like me, he had spent a lot of time on the ice—and since he was built like me, I was pretty sure he’d been a defenseman, too.

He washed his hands, then glanced over his shoulder at me. The warm, inviting smile he sent my way made me decide that I didn’t really need to stay for the third period. I finished, zipped, washed, and followed him as he left the men’s room.

The second period had ended and people were flooding – well, more trickling, given the number – to the rest rooms and concession stands. As soon as he was out of the men’s room, Kevin stepped aside to a corner, clearly waiting for me. I didn’t make him wait long.

“Hi,” he said. “I’m Kevin.”

“Keith,” I replied. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

Fifteen minutes later we were in my car heading to my apartment. We didn’t talk. I couldn’t have put three coherent words together anyway. It was enough of a stretch to drive the car without flooring the accelerator. And to park the car without wrecking it and the car in front of me. And to get my keys into the locks without breaking them off.

But as soon as we were in the apartment, and I was inside with Kevin behind me, Kevin spun me around and was kissing me, hard and aggressive. I was taken aback for a couple of seconds at his raw aggressiveness. But then I remembered who was the man and who was going to be the Boy here, and my tongue started counterattacking his mouth.

Kevin broke the kiss, stepped back a pace, and smiled. “I was waiting for that,” he murmured.

My only response was a growl and to grab him by the shirt. I pulled him back into a kiss; this time, he didn't fight back. My hands ran down his back to cup his round, muscular ass, and then pulled hard. Kevin knew what I was after; he hopped up and wrapped his legs around my hips. I staggered a little under his weight, but neither of us broke the kiss.

I carried him to my bedroom, my dick screaming the whole way to get the hell out of my pants. I could feel Kevin hard as a rock against my gut, even through his jeans. I grunted a little as my arms scraped against the door frame, but I wasn’t going to break the kiss until the right moment – which was when we reached my bed and I tossed him off of me and onto the bed.

He sold it; his arms flailed in the air and he let out a theatrical grunt as he hit the mattress. He lay there, supporting himself on his elbows, looking up at me with challenge and a large smirk on his face. The little asshole. I’d give him something to smirk about. I pulled off my t-shirt, then undid my pants and dropped them, and my dick almost tore through my underwear. The smirk vanished and Kevin’s eyes widened. Whether it was my thick, muscular upper body or the size of what was shortly going to be rammed down his throat, I’m not sure.

“Get up,” I growled.

He got up.

“Take off my shoes and socks, then take my pants all the way off. Now.”

He dropped to his knees in front of me, but he didn’t obey right away. As his face came near my cross, he paused just long enough to take a deep, long breath through his nose. He glanced up to meet my eyes, and smiled – no smirk this time. Just a sweet, expectant smile.

Inside, I was even more excited than before, but there was a power dynamic to maintain here. “I gave you an order, Boy,” I snapped.

“Yes, Daddy.” He undid my shoelaces and took off the shoes, then helped me step out of my pants. As he lifted my left foot and took off the sock, however, he brought my foot up to his face, took a deep breath, looked up and me, smiled…and took my big toe in his mouth.

I’ve never had a thing for feet, mine or another guy’s, but having this kid’s tongue dancing on my arch was too much. I couldn’t wait any more. I yanked my foot out of his grasp, then grabbed my underwear and savagely yanked them off. My dick hit my gut almost hard enough to bruise it.

“Get your mouth on this, Boy,” I snarled.

Kevin’s eyes widened a bit at the sheer size and girth of my cock, but he didn’t hesitate. He took it into his mouth and got to work. My knees went weak, but I gritted my teeth and kept them from buckling. This kid was good. Hell, this kid was great.

Long story short: I eventually got my other sock off and I got my rocks off. Kevin’s shirt and underwear didn’t survive the evening. I think I came three times that night, and I know Kevin did. He borrowed a t-shirt when I drove him home the next day, and he returned it when he moved in a week later.

I’d never been with a woman, but now I had a Son.

And he was winning. This particular part of it, anyway. Slowly but surely, he was forcing Mr. Anderson back, and then down. And when Mr. Anderson’s knee touched the mat, Dad smirked and said, “On your fuckin’ knees, bitch!”

“Fuck you!” Before Dad could stop him, Mr. Anderson had yanked his right hand free and plunged it deep into Dad’s gut, doubling him over. Mr. Anderson jerked his head straight up, and it hit Dad right in the face with an audible CRACK! I gasped in horror as blood started to gush from Dad’s nose, and he staggered backwards, clearly stunned.

Mr. Anderson strode forward and grabbed Dad with both hands, then turned and threw him bodily into the wall. Dad hit hard enough to bounce, and he dropped to his hands and knees, blood still dripping from his nose and his sides heaving as his breaths came in short, heavy gasps.

Mr. Anderson went right back to work on him. My heart was in my throat as he drew his leg back—and then kicked Dad right in the gut! Dad went down flat again, and Anderson turned to me with a smirk.

“Looks like your dad is history,” he said, “and you’re gonna be my bitch!”

I watched anxiously as Mr. Anderson grabbed Dad by the hair and forced him up to his feet, still bleeding from the headbutt. He had Dad by the throat, and was laughing in his face. “Ready to give it up, Reynolds?” he asked mockingly.

Dad’s only response was to spit in Mr. Anderson’s face. It didn’t hurt him, of course—but for a brief second, his grip on Dad loosened.

And that was all the opportunity Dad needed.

His right foot lashed out, catching Mr. Anderson just north of the border! Mr. Anderson staggered back, gasping and wheezing, as Dad slowly got to his feet. Next to me, Anderson went pale, and his jaw dropped open.

Dad had his fists up, and Mr. Anderson didn’t realize that Dad was coming for him until it was almost too late. Dad’s left fist shot out and only just missed Mr. Anderson, who dodged out of the way. But he was too slow to make the second jab miss, and it smashed into his face, snapping his head backwards!

Dad threw his left again, this time a hook. It caught Mr. Anderson right under the ribs, and as Mr. Anderson curled his body around Dad’s punch, Dad struck with his right, pegging Mr. Anderson right on the jaw!

Mr. Anderson’s body stiffened, and down he went.

Dad stood over him, waiting for him to get up and continue the fight…but the seconds ticked by, and Mr. Anderson made no move to get back to his feet, even though we could all see that he was still conscious.

“You had enough?” His voice was harsh and raspy from all the yelling he’d been doing.

Mr. Anderson didn’t answer.

Dad kicked him, hard, in the side, and Mr. Anderson yelped in pain. “I said,” Dad demanded, “YOU HAD ENOUGH?”

Mr. Anderson didn’t say anything, but all three of us could see him slowly nod his head in assent.

Next to me, I could hear Anderson gasp.

All thoughts of Dad and Mr. Anderson went out of my head. I turned to look at Anderson. His face had gone completely white, and he was staring at them with a look of complete horror in his eyes.

I grabbed him by the back of the neck and pulled him toward me. “We had a bet, remember?” I snarled. His mouth was working, but no sound was
coming out. I smiled. It was not a nice smile.

With my free hand, I punched him right in the gut. He doubled over, gasping, and I shoved down on his neck, forcing him down to his knees. I let go of him while I undid the straps of my singlet, then pulled it and my sweat- and pre-cum-soaked jock down.

I was rock hard, and when Anderson saw how long and thick my dick was, his eyes got even wider in horror. “Open wide, asshole,” I growled, and then I shoved myself into his mouth. “And if you bite it, I’ll knock your fucking teeth out!”

He didn’t bite it. But then again, probably because I didn’t last all that long. It was no more than a minute before I came, squirting out my juice with my dick still in his mouth. Anderson started gagging and trying to spit it out, while Dad and Mr. Anderson watched, Dad smirking, Mr. Anderson in horror.

I pulled out and watched Anderson writhing on the mat, beaten and completely humiliated. Dad, his nose still bleeding, picked up Mr. Anderson's shirt and pressed it against the lower part of his face while I collected his clothes and mine. Dad said, “We’ll let ourselves out. And if you two ever want a rematch, you know where to find us.”