Russian Bouncer Fights Story

When someone knocked on Ox's door at 3 a.m., Ox knew who it would be. He'd expected Boris would find him, but he'd hoped for more time. No good hoping for that now.

Ox lives in a loft apartment across the street from Winks, the gay bar where he works as a bouncer. He'd barely made it into bed before Boris knocks. Ox stays bare-chested but slips into a pair of tight black jeans. He also pops in a double-sided mouthguard, just in case. He leaves the lights off as he descends the stairs to the street door. He opens the door and looks outside. Across the alley, lit by the faint residue of streetlights, Boris waits for him, his greatcoat draped over obviously bare shoulders. Two big guys sizing each other up: Ox 6'6" and 315 pounds, Boris 6'0" and 310. Neither of them says a word. Ox raises his open palms above his head and steps into the alley.

The first baseball bat hits him from the right, full contact across the lower abs, just above the pelvis. The second comes from the left, a similar blow but slightly higher. Ox stands still to accept the attack, absorbing three heavy blows from both sides before dropping to his knees. The batter on the right then brings his knee up sharp and hard to Ox's chin. Ox falls back. The batters turn to Boris, wait for instructions. Now Boris crosses the alley, slow strutting steps, heavy boots thocking the pavement. He looks down at Ox, and the wide brim of his hat shadows his hard features. "I don't believe it, Yuri Petrovich. Get up. Let's finish this inside."

Ox does sense the bruises starting, but Boris is right. The bats haven't incapacitated him. It hurts, of course, but he has little trouble getting to his feet and leading Boris upstairs to the apartment. The batters remain at the door below for obvious reasons.

Once upstairs, Boris removes his greatcoat and hat, leaves them tossed over a chair. He then sees what few have seen--a wall covered with t-shirts. Some torn, some blood-stained, most at least slighty dirty or at least stetched out a bit. Like wallpaper. If Boris is impressed it doesn't show. "The same habits, I see. Quite a collection. You've been busy." He slips off the boots.

Ox remains silent. He knows what's coming.

"You left us, Yuri. You left the Syndicate. Very hard for poor Sergei, as I'm sure he told you." Boris avoids the windows, avoids direct light. He's bare-chested now, too, his thick and heavily muscled shoulders glow in the scant streetlight. "How is he? How is your...'brother'? I think that is your word for it. Do your parents know you have such a brother?"

Ox says nothing, but he clenches his fists.

"I wouldn't, Yuri. No, you know better. I must finish what Nickolai and Constantin began. You know this. And you will not strike back, not if you value Sergei. He is in hospital. Easy to find. Mercy General. Room 258." Boris slips off his pants and stands naked, the light on his pale skin making sculpture of his deeply etched physique. "Go on, you know how this is done. You have done it yourself." Boris' thick sex has already begun to swell.

Ox takes off the jeans, throws them aside.

Boris closes the distance between them. He runs his left hand through Ox's hair, then grabs the heavy curls at the back of the head. Ox doesn't resist as Boris lands several hard rights to the face. In the ring, Ox's opponents would never get this many free shots, but it still takes a while before the blood tickles from his nose. Boris keeps the punches short and hard until he senses the nose breaking. Once he's certain of that, Boris pivots to his right, uses his left hand to slam Ox face first into a brick wall. Ox doesn't go down, but he's having trouble breathing. He turns back to face Boris again and gets caught with an elbow to his chin that sends him back against the wall. Boris throws another elbow, a little lower this time. Without Ox's developed neck musculature to absorb its power, the blow might have done serious, possibly even fatal damage. A third elbow strike at the base of Ox's neck gets him dizzy. It's even harder to breathe now, so he spits out the mouthguard so that he can gulp the air. Boris uses his forearm against Ox's throat to force him back against the wall and restrict Ox's breathing even more. When he senses Ox passing out, he releases him and lets him drop to the floor.

But it's not over yet.

Ox stays on his hands and knees, struggling still for air. He doesn't notice Boris slipping into the heavy boots again, not until the first kick to his gut. One kick doesn't finish him off, though. Boris drives those boots in Ox's abs again and again, attacks the growing bruises. Ox doesn't curl up, but he rolls onto his back, so his gut is an even clearer target. Boris stomps down, harder and harder. Ox's standard "in the ring" stoicism doesn't help now--there's no masking the impossibility of breathing while the attack continues. Finally, mercifully, Boris kicks Ox in the head, and the bigger man blacks out.

Boris takes the boots off again. If he continued the assault, he could kill Ox, but that's not the point. Pain is the point. Humiliation is the point. He gets lube and a condom from a pocket in his greatcoat. He flops Ox over onto his stomach. He forces the lube deep into Ox's ass. He puts the condom on. Just as Ox regains consciousness, Boris penetrates him. Although Ox can't prevent his muscles tightening up, he doesn't cry out, doesn't struggle. Boris is all force, right from the start. His left hand pushes down on the back of Ox's neck. His sex, swollen thick as a beer can, slams into Ox's hole, pulls out, rams back in again, over and over.

Ox does what he does in the ring. He delays his response to the pain, accepts its presence but refuses to allow it to draw any response from him. When he boxes, this helps to create the impression of invincibility. At the moment, he's hoping to rob Boris of any pleasure. This doesn't seem to matter, however--Boris keeps thrusting until he shoots. Boris pulls off the condom and tosses it onto Ox's back. Then Boris gets up and dresses. Ox stays on the floor.

"So, Yuri, you know what comes next. You come back to us. Take a little time to heal, but not too much. When Sergei returns from hospital, you can come together." Boris drapes the greatcoat over his shoulders again, picks up the hat. "Perhaps you could bring the boy as well, the one who interests you so. This...Rick, isn't it? He seems a good prospect, no?"


As soon as he says it, Ox knows he's said too much.

"No? Another 'brother,' is he? He seems a bit young for you. We'll be watching you...and him." Boris puts on the hat and heads downstairs. "If you don't return, I will. And perhaps I'll visit the boy."

The downstairs door closes. Brief, low tones from conversation in the alley. Then silence.

Ox gives way to the pain, allows himself to feel the ache in his gut, his face, his ass. Every breath hurts, but soon he's able to breathe almost normally. He should go to Mercy General, have them check him out. He should let his boss at Winks and the guys at Rusty's gym know he's leaving. He should decide whether to go back to the Syndicate or off to another city to hide again. But he doesn't do any of that right away. He does something few have ever seen him do.

He cries.

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