arch boys janitor fight
Chris works
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.
It's Max.
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.