arch boys janitor fight
maintentance at Arch Dobbs' gym. He pals around with the guys, but most of the
time he's invisible--just the dude cleaning up when the day is done. Underneath,
though, he's one of those men who watches the fighters and wonders what it'd be
like. But he doesn't talk about that here. He'd be welcome, of course. Arch's
gym attracts guys who like to box for lots of different reasons, and most of
them aren't even thinking seriously about amateur bouts. Some guys don't even
spar all that often. Somehow Chris is shy about wanting to fight, so he trains
himself. When the gym empties out at about nine, and after Chris has the joint
ready for the early risers, he's got the place to himself. He keeps the lights
dim while he works the heavybag and shadowboxes a couple of rounds. Given the
chance, he'd probably do pretty well against some of the guys who train in the
daylight. For the moment, though, he's untested and likely to stay that way.
Not that Chris is too old for the action, either. He's 27, about 5'8" and a fairly steady 155 to 160 pounds. The muscle's pretty evenly distributed and lean, maybe a little extra in the pecs, delts and upper arms. He's got a real nice curve on the triceps. Add that to his dark-haired, deep-eyed, bronze-skinned, Latin gorgeousness, and it's no surprise to learn that a lot of Arch's boys have noticed him after all.
It's Saturday night, a night when Chris usually doesn't train much. He has other things on his mind, his standing date with Max in particular. Max wouldn't exactly fit in here. For one thing, he's barely over 5'0" and weighs about the same as Chris. The result is that he looks like a jockey-turned-bodybuilder. Not a bad look, but not exactly inconspicuous. He's around 5 years older than Chris, and some suspect the little guy's had some cosmetic surgery or botox around the eyes. Yeah, we're talking money, though Chris has never asked about where Max gets it. They live most of their lives separate from each other. Once or twice a week, though, they get together. Sometimes a Monday or a Tuesday, but almost always on Saturday.
As Chris finishes his session with the heavybag, he hears somebody knocking on the front door. Probably one of those high school kids left his homework in his locker--that's happened before. Chris chucks the bag gloves into a dark corner as he makes his way towards the door. He's been in this situation before, but none of the guys ever asks him why he's sweating. They just get their stuff and go without much more than a greeting. Chris looks through the slats of the blinds to see who's there.
Chris lets him in. Max seems a little overdressed for the autumn weather--a three quarter length coat pulled tight around the throat. He's carrying a large gym bag, and he drops it as soon as he's inside and Chris has the door locked again. He grabs Chris around the waist and pulls him in tight for a rough kiss. They usually keep the sex rough, but Max has a surprise tonight.
"I want to get into the ring with you, babe. I want to hit you, and I want you to hit me." Chris just stands there, stunned by the idea, so Max pumps it up a little. "I've seen you watch the fights. You get all breathless and sweaty, fists clenched, jaw tucked in. It's like you're there yourself. And I remember what happened last week when we started pounding each other's chests. You went from zero to sixty in two seconds. So I went shopping." Max opens the gymbag, grabs a pair of boxing trunks and tosses them to Chris. Gold trunks, the gym's color. Then Max sheds the coat like he's Clark Kent in a phone booth. He's already wearing a satin robe and trunks, but his gear is dark blue--the color of Rusty's, a rival gym on the other side of town.
Chris was already shirtless for his workout, his sweatpants ride low on his hips. He stands there holding the gold trunks and sizing up Max. Has Max been training at Rusty's, a gym famous for its power punching? Has Chris' self-training been enough? While Chris considers all of this, Max closes the distance between them. With one finger, Max traces the line between Chris' pecs, his abs, right down to the crotch. He's in tight again. "Flex your gut for me, babe." Chris doesn't give it a second thought. He flexes his abs, fully expecting Max to keep tracing the lines between the muscles. Instead, Max punches Chris in the gut, knuckles bare and impact solid but light. The shock of it makes more of an impression than the actual blow.
An instant hard-on.
Max strokes Chris' groin. "See what I mean? You'd like it. You know you would. We'll keep it in control. Just tell me how hard to hit you and...ummmphf." Max's voice breaks off into a grunt because Chris has landed his own punch, a light uppercut to the navel.
"That what you had in mind?"
The next few minutes fly by. Chris trades the sweatpants for the boxing trunks, they wrap each other's hands and glove up. Max gets his gloves on first, and he slips into one of the rings for some shadowboxing to limber up. Chris watches for the little guy's technique, but there doesn't seem to be any. Finally, they're both in the ring, staring at each other from opposite corners.
They begin circling each other slowly, batting the air between them with jabs, hooks, crosses--short run combinations of three or four punches. They maintain eye contact as their circling brings them closer and closer. Finally in range, Chris taps Max's chin with a light jab, not even enough impact to register as a slap. Max counters with a hook to the ribs that wouldn't bother anybody. Doesn't matter, though. They pull into a clinch. Max rubs his gloves over Chris' chest. Chris grabs Max by the hips, pulls him in, and caresses those solid glutes. They kiss again, almost attacking each other with their mouths.
Max pushes Chris away and throws a couple of body shots, a little harder now. Caught off guard, Chris falls back a step. Max moves in and continues working Chris' gut, but the element of surprise is gone. Call it a medium force assault--no real fire behind what would otherwise be solid power shots. But Max's guard has gone down, and the shorter man doesn't seem to realize that he's left himself open. Chris tosses a jab or two, then follows that with a straight right and a left hook. Again, not a lot of heat, but more than before, so Max's head bounces back and forth from the impact. Max moves in, and they're back into another clinch, their bodies pressing against each other, their mouths locked in a fierce kiss.
They separate. Both of them throw straight rights and lefts in short combinations, some of the blows landing solidly on chins, chests and abs. They're both hitting harder, so the sound of leather smacking flesh gets louder and louder as the intensity increases. Soon it seems clear that Chris is the better boxer: he punches faster and with greater accuracy than the little muscleman. But Max has more power: he wings hard, clubbing shots that force Chris backwards. Overall, Chris lands about three times as many blows, but Max is doing more damage. After about thirty seconds or so, they pause the action for a moment. Both men breathe deep. Both men glisten with sweat. Both men have erections visible against their trunks. They launch towards each other again, but their punches slide over shoulders or under arms, and they're in a clinch again, crotches grinding in another kind of combat. They're kissing again, tongues at war with each other, invading each other's mouths.
Now Chris fires a body shot or two while they're still kissing. He's holding the embrace with his left and punching with his right. There's much more heat in it now, but not quite full power. Max grunts with each blow and allows himself to be backed into a corner. Once there, he drapes his arms over the ropes and contracts his abs in a hard flex. "Go for it, babe," he tells Chris. "Go full out. Punch through me. I want it. Give it to me."
Chris hesitates a moment, not certain if he wants to kiss or punch the man willingly waiting, muscles flexed, feet planted, lips moist. Then he launches what turns out to be a short attack. An uppercut just above the navel. Hooks into the obliques, just beneath the ribs. Another uppercut, this one a bit higher, following the ridge of tendons between Max's abs. Max lets out a soft "ummmph" after each shot, and he says "yes" or "babe" once or twice, but Chris doesn't really hear him. He's close enough to kiss Max, but he keeps firing body shots along that center ridge. Three hard punches later, and the target is the solar plexus. The shock of the hard blow to that nerve center does more damage than its force. It feels like a knife cutting through him, stopping the breath mid-gasp. Max's legs buckle under him, and he slides down to his knees. He buries his face in Chris' crotch for a moment, then works his way upward, licking and kissing and caressing his lover's taut, victorious body. By the time they stand facing each other, Max has moved Chris back against the ropes.
"Your turn, babe," Max says. "What do you want me to do?"
Chris can't believe what he hears himself saying. "Hard shots to the head. I want to see how much I can take. I want you to knock me out."
Max's eyebrows almost reach his hairline. "Are you sure?"
"I want it. Give it to me."
Max isn't sure about this. He'd expected to hurt and get hurt, but he hadn't known this was coming. He doesn't want to bruise that face, doesn't want Chris to bleed. Maybe if he aims for the chin and the temples?
"Do it," Chris moans. "Please."
Max takes a step back for leverage, then he lets fly with a thunderous left hook. THOCK! Chris' head snaps to the right and then back into place as if he hadn't been punched. But the impact sends him leaning towards the right just in time to meet Max's right hook. THUMP! Chris falls back against the ropes, and he reaches out and uses them to steady himself. A right to the temple. BOOM! Chris is wobbling now, feet flat on the canvas. A left uppercut...WHAM! That sends him back into the ropes, but his hands grasp nothing this time and he starts to fall. A right cross. WHAM! He spins forward into his lover's thickly-muscled arms.
Max guides Chris to the canvas gently. He rests his head against Chris' chest and feels relief when he hears a steady heartbeat and regular breathing. From this position he can see Chris' mouthpiece several feet away, but he doesn't remember seeing it fly. He remembers the impact of his gloves against flesh, bone, and muscle, almost as if they'd moved on their own. He'd lost control, and that scares him a bit. If Chris is ok, then maybe...
Chris groans. "Damn, man, you got some kinda ammo in them guns."
"Did I hit you too hard? We never said--"
"No way. Just right." Chris starts to sit up, but Max holds him down on the canvas. He's seen refs insist upon this, but he's not certain how long Chris should stay down. Chris doesn't understand. The room's still spinning a little, but he feels fine otherwise. "I'm ok, Max. Let me up."
But Max won't move. He's on top of Chris, their stomachs touching. Between his efforts to keep Chris on the canvas and Chris' attempts to get up, a new struggle begins. Soon they're grinding against each other once more, sweaty flesh and smooth satin, salty gloves and damp mouths. They roll and press their bodies together until the friction and a few well-placed tugs remove the trunks. Max ends up straddling Chris' waist, his own erection thumping Chris' upper abs and pecs. Chris' rod bobs against Max's ass. Max caresses Chris' chest with the gloves, and Chris slides his gloves up Max's arms. Then, just as Max pulls in for a kiss, Chris hits Max's jaw with a light left cross.
"Oh, yeah," says Max, then he pounds Chris' chest hard five or six times, and Chris fights back, his gloves flailing against those solid pecs. Max feels ready to shoot by then, and Chris writhes beneath him, barely containing his pleasure. They both shoot at the same time, then Max collapses in a heap next to Chris.
"Can I get a locker here?"
"There's a couple empties. You gotta join the gym, though."
"I think I can handle that. Do you want some help cleaning up?"
Chris laughs lightly. "Nobody's gonna notice. All the sweat and blood and stuff in here, it's just one more stain on the canvas."
"I meant we could take a shower."
Max laughs now, too, and their laughter builds. Suddenly it's as if they're both kids discovering their bodies. This could be good, they both think as their laughter subsides. After a minute or two, they go back into the shower together.
They almost forget to take off the gloves.
view all stories