This is a work of fiction. In no way is this intended to represent any real aspects of anybody's sexuality. I made it all up. Any feedback is welcome and can be submitted to BuddyBoy520@yahoo.com.
This story is dedicated to my buddy boy. No bond could match the one that I feel with you.
1
A man has a tendency to feel small in the middle of a raging storm, no matter how big he might feel otherwise. It doesn't rain much in California, but when it does you know it. The rain still can make me feel a lot smaller than I am, but now it has another meaning for me. Every so often in a man's life, he comes across a stroke of good luck that's just too good to be anything other than plain old-fashioned fate working into his hands. I like to use my hands to make my own way in life, but sometimes I have to admit that there can be something greater at work than me. It was one of those nights that Bill came into my life.
There are parts of California that are so lonely they can make you feel like you're the only man in the world. I choose to make my home in a place like this. Being alone gives me a certain sense of well being that I don't tend to find in crowded areas. I have a house I remodeled myself on a large section of land I got relatively cheaply because of the isolated location. I'm not too far from one of the main interstates, but you sure aren't going to be taking my exit anytime soon, because unless you live in one of the Podunk towns that flank the opposites ends of my stretch of world, you've got no real reason to be passing through here. Unless you're looking for me. Bill may have been looking for me that night, although I'm sure he didn't know it at the time.
The locals pretty much leave me alone. In fact I don't see much of anybody unless I make it a point to make the drive of several hours to one of the major cities. Every once in a while I take the truck to load up on groceries and supplies. I also venture out every so often to find men who like to play rough with me. I mentioned I like to work with my hands, and I built myself some useful tools for exploring my interests with men who are willing to let me take them places. It's a crass generalization for me to say I like to inflict pain on other men, but as an introductory statement it will do just fine. People who don't share my point of view would slap me with that blanket statement and it would seem to fit. That's OK by me. A lot of people are unaware that anything is permissible in our society, it's the means by which we get what we want that people find sick and wrong. For instance, I like to push men to the limit of their endurance for pain. I use various methods to get this effect; restraints, paddles, clamps, other devices that don't have a simple name or reference point attached to them. Some men would pretend not to understand this. Then they would head off to a football game and get their rocks off watching men push, pummel, and tackle each other in front of thousands of spectators, obviously enjoying themselves but sublimating their desire for male to male contact through the constructs of a game. It's all a mind fuck. Remember that for future reference. Even less subtle would be the ritualized ceremony of pro wrestling, which is the closest thing to sadomasochism that you could get outside of a leather bar. You have the costumes, the gear, the rough contact, the personalities. Some of the guys I'm sure are not even aware of the psychological implications of what they are involved in. One of the greatest accomplishments of my life was showing one of these men the brute feelings that they play make believe with in the ring. It was the kind of opportunity that you shouldn't expect to be repeated twice in one lifetime, so I made the most of it.
So where was I? I think it was the rain.
I remember thinking that I hadn't seen a storm like that in a long time. I knew my pickup was able to make it through the rain, and I was sure glad I installed the cap on the bed a few months back, or else my gear and groceries wouldn't have been worth much by the time I made it home. So I took it easy and hoped the worst would pass, cursing the fact that I was caught out so late, in the dark, in the rain. I was almost home when I came upon the accident.
I was almost at the exit that led to my neck of the woods when my headlights came upon something that made my balls clench up. It was a body lying right on the side of the road, more specifically my side of the road. Fortunately I wasn't going so fast that I didn't have time to swerve, but it didn't ease my panic any. The guy was almost certainly dead-even in all the rain, it wasn't hard to see the large pool of blood he was lying in. My headlights had briefly illuminated an overturned vehicle in the ditch beyond the shoulder of the road, looked like a sports utility vehicle, although I wasn't entirely sure. There weren't any other cars on the road and I didn't have a cellular phone, so I knew it was up to me to see if there was anyone back there that needed help. I pulled over and backed up as far as I dared. I hopped out of the truck, getting soaked instantly as I trotted back to the scene, and that's when I got a good look at the dead guy lying on his back in the road. Big guy, huge. His rain-and-blood soaked clothes clung to his massive frame, and I could tell he was a major lifter, probably pro from what I could see. He was banged up pretty badly, and as I got in closer I could see his shaved head had a major gash on the side, probably cracked him a good one. I dropped to my knees and was getting ready to feel for a pulse when his eyes opened and he looked at me. My nerves were already jangled and I shouted as he tried to focus on me. His mouth moved but I couldn't hear anything and I immediately noticed the source of the blood. His arm was gashed open right at the crook of his elbow, a deep gaping wound pumping blood out steadily onto the pavement. He was half unconscious and bleeding to death in the middle of nowhere. I almost panicked, trying to keep my head straight.
As I lunged back to my truck, the only thing I could think about was stopping the bleeding before he bled to death. I knew I couldn't stop the bleeding with compression, the wound was too large, so I ripped open my toolbox and pulled out the biggest screwdriver I could find. I tore off my shirt on the way back and did my best at tying a tourniquet on the guy's arm. I was pretty sure to tie it at the shoulder, although the whole situation was so surreal that I couldn't be sure I was remembering it right. As I wound the torn fabric around the guy's huge shoulder, I noticed a large tribal tattoo snaking its way around his flesh. As I twisted the screwdriver, he groaned aloud at first and then let out a bloodcurdling scream that took me by surprise before falling silent again. I was rewarded when the bleeding stopped. I tied it off and considered my next move. The guy was barely conscious, and he was much larger than myself. I wondered how the hell I was going to get him out of there. I didn't dare leave him and go for help for fear someone would come along and flatten his head with their tires. Besides, the man's condition demanded immediate attention. I had no way of knowing if the guy had any broken bones but I knew I couldn't lift him into my truck without his help. I rushed back and pulled the truck as close to him as possible and then, returning to his side, I tried talking to him.
Over the roar of the rain I spoke to him for the first time, trying to get his attention. At first there was no response, then the open, unfocusing eyes. "I want you to try and stand so I can help you get into my truck, big guy.". His mouth opened and blood drooled out of the corner as he tried to formulate words. His uninjured arm flailed blindly up toward me and briefly touched my face, coming to rest on my shoulder. The hand was massive. But he could move it, which was a good sign.
It took some doing but I managed to get him into a sitting position, prompting him to vomit. After I was sure he wasn't choking on it, I started the chore of lifting him. He groaned pitifully between puking fits and soon I had him half standing. I'm not exactly a weakling myself, but this guy was a real challenge. I swung his enormous frame around as best I could and eased him back into the passenger side. Within minutes I had him in the cab with the door closed. I immobilized his head as best I could with a blanket from behind the seat, then I took off with him then, hightailing it to the nearest hospital. As I sped off with this hulking stranger next to me, I stole the occasional glance at him, wondering why he looked so damn familiar. I reached over and felt for his wallet in the wet backside of his pants and pulled it free, but didn't dare rifle through it in search of his ID while driving. Several times he tried to turn his head and look at me but I instructed him to remain still, and it seemed as if he understood.
When I finally reached the emergency room I was losing my cool. I roared up to the door and shouted at some EMT guys standing around outside to help me. I explained the situation and they took over, gingerly working to get the guy out of the truck and into the hospital. I followed them in and wandered in to report to the clerk. She was a motherly woman who looked like she had been there for about 48 hours straight, existing on coffee and cigarettes.
"Is this a friend of yours?" she asked me.
"No, I came upon an accident and he was in bad shape, lost a lot of blood and looks like he got banged up pretty badly."
As I stood at the desk telling her this, they burst through the door wheeling the guy on a stretcher. There was a flurry of excitement and the EMT guys were babbling to each other but I was too dazed to understand.
"I see you tied a tourniquet" she mumbled. I could tell that she too was caught up in the excitement of the moment.
"He has deep gash on his inside left arm" I replied.
"Well you probably shouldn't have moved him but it looks like you did the right thing. If that man survives, you will have saved his life. Did you get his ID?"
It was then that I remembered the guy's wallet and I pulled it out to tell the nurse what his name was. I quickly located the driver's license and said the name aloud before it sunk in.
"William Goldberg."
It all made sense now. The nurse was right. If he lived, I was going to be a hero. I had also just rescued the kind of man that revved my engine to full throttle. It was turning out to be one hell of a night.
2
I had avoided the media whenever I could, although they came looking for me. Several times there were people coming up to the house asking to talk to the man who saved Goldberg's life. I answered them politely until it got to be annoying and then I ducked them whenever I could.
About a week had gone by and I got a surprise phone call one day from a very groggy sounding man. I knew right away who it must be.
"This is Bill Goldberg" he said.
"I know," I said, "That must mean you're still alive, which is a good thing. I don't think I could have lived with being the man who almost saved Goldberg's life."
He snorted and said "Don't make me laugh, my head hurts too much. Have people been bothering you?"
"Only when I try to leave the house."
"Well don't expect me apologize. If you hadn't come by when you did that night, I wouldn't be here today. I owe you my life, man."
To this, I didn't know what to say. He was right of course, but I didn't want to come off sounding like he owed me anything. "I only did what anyone else would have done."
"No, anyone else probably would have either run me right over or taken off to get help and left me to bleed to death. I owe you big time, and I won't forget that."
I wasn't sure what to say. I wanted to tell him that I had a few ways in mind that he might be able to make it up to me. Instead I wished him a speedy recovery.
Then he told me he had to hang up. "They have me doped up and I'm supposed to be saving my strength. But I'll be in touch again, we can talk some more about that night."
That was all until six months later. Goldberg had made a full recovery from the accident. I caught a glimpse of him on TV talking about it for the first time in public. He never said exactly what it was he was doing on that road at that time, but apparently he had simply drifted off the side of the road, rolled his SUV and that was it. He mentioned my name as the man who saved him and I felt something rise up inside of me. I hadn't wanted to feel it up until this point but I finally realized that I now shared a special connection with this man. For whatever reason, I was the one who happened across his accident and I saved the man's life. For the first time I started to feel like something was at work.
I got another phone call. He told me he wanted to see me and talk to me. I got the impression he had taken some spiritual element away from his accident, maybe he thanked God for being alive. Maybe he was obsessed with his near-death. Whatever the reason, he wanted to see the stretch of road that was the scene of his crash. He wanted me to take him there. So we arranged it.
4
I knew he was coming when I heard his brand new truck roar up into my driveway. I didn't want to be standing there with the door open-for some reason I didn't want him to know I was as excited about his visit as I was-so I waited until I heard his hulking frame lumber up onto my porch. A surprisingly gentle knock came next, and I opened the door to see him there, 290 pounds of solid man muscle. His face, when it wasn't twisted into one of his trademark grimaces, was actually very gentle and personable. He looked older in person than he did in photographs and on TV. We shook hands.
"You're bigger than I remember," he said.
"So are you," I returned. We laughed.
"Actually I'm surprised I remember anything," he added. He spoke with the amazed attitude of a younger athlete who has made an art out of keeping a large distance between reality and image. I recognized this immediately but I was still surprised at his attitude while out of his "persona." His demeanor was humble and even shy, although he seemed slightly uncomfortable with this, as if he were used to a different manner of approach.
We hit it off right away, immediately settling into a way of speaking with each other as if we were old friends, although we weren't. He was a celebrity athlete. I was an average guy who wanted to tie him up and beat the hell out of his hard ass. None of it mattered.
Without a lot of pretension, I drove him out to the interstate where he had rolled his SUV. We passed it first on the way up and he fell silent, gazing across the grassy division as if he were looking at his own grave. When I turned around at the next exit, we approached the actual location and I pulled off. It was early evening and it was still light. I talked to him about the night I came across the scene of the accident while he looked around at the ditch and the pavement. We stayed there for a good ten minutes or so, not saying anything. There was always something unnatural to me about being stopped alongside an interstate, the stillness suddenly interrupted by the noise of passing vehicles, and this was downright eerie. I was relieved when he said "OK, let's get out of here." We jumped back in the truck and headed out.
5
We sat in front of my fireplace drinking beer while I watched the fire reflect off of his face. He was absolutely beautiful, and I began to wonder if he knew how I felt about him, if he picked up on it. It occurred to me that I knew very little about his personal life, and I really didn't care to know. It did not matter to me.
We did talk about his career as "Goldberg" and the business of professional wrestling. Although I avoided the common accusations that the sport was all faked, I thought I had a grasp on what it was-a carefully choreographed sport where a man's talent and prowess was giving the audience the show that it came for. I was surprised when he seemed impressed with my assertation, and I think he was amazed that I didn't write his profession off as pure showmanship.
Maybe it was the beer and maybe it was the fact that I had such an unattainable man alone in my house, but somewhere along the line I started to think about the homoerotic qualities of what Goldberg represented and what he did. As I listened to him talk, I wondered if he realized exactly what it was inside of him that drove him to seek out the sport. I knew that when Bill had communicated with me long enough, he would leave my house and my life. Maybe he felt some sort of gratitude toward me now, but eventually that too would fade and we would become strangers again. If I was going to make a move, it would have to be now. So I decided to take my chances.
"Did you ever get a thrill out of beating on those big guys like you do?"
"Well yeah, I guess in a way it makes me feel like I'm the best at what I do, like I'm number one."
"I meant do you ever look forward to the contact and the matching of the power of two men? Does it ever get you excited?"
The change in his attitude was instantaneous. "Hell no, what the fuck do you think I am, some kinda queer?"
"I never said..."
"Well I'm not a queer so forget about it," he growled.
"Hey, relax," I said, and the effect this had on him was visible. He softened and apologized to me.
"It's OK if you're that way, it doesn't matter to me. I like you. I know a lot of gay guys who are involved in wrestling, but I just don't go that way."
"I wasn't asking if you were gay, I never thought you were. But you did say you owed me something, right?"
The hostility returned. "Like what? You think I should fuck you cause you pulled me out of a wreck?"
It was time to take control of the situation. "Why are you here," I shot back.
"Because I wanted to meet you and see the place where I..."
"No, I mean, why are you able to be here?" I repeated.
He seemed backed into a corner here and before he could answer I launched into him, raising my voice and dropping the amiable attitude I had displayed to him since the moment we met. "The night I saw you on the road you were soaking wet and bleeding. I almost squashed your head with my tires so don't think I'm looking at you like you're a fucking hot-shot wrestler because I saw you broken and battered on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere. I could have kept right on driving and maybe called the police when I got back here, which would have left you a dead fucker because your arm was slit open and you were losing blood and you were too fucked up to help yourself. So who helped you, Goldboy? Who dragged your big ass out of the ditch, who let your fucking blood seep into the cushions of my truck, who made sure you made it to the hospital in time to save your life?"
He was speechless and when he spoke again it was in a much quieter and less threatening voice. "I still don't know what the fuck you're talking about."
"I want to show you something," I said.
6
We stood in the basement of my house, and he just looked around curiously, his face a mask of imposing, unsmiling masculinity. I took him downstairs to where I kept my appliances. It's not exactly a dungeon, I'm not much for artifice and the trappings of what some people might call a "leather" lifestyle. I'm interested in bonding with another man through the transference of the intense emotion involved with pain. You don't need a costume for that, and if you do then you probably don't understand.
We stopped in front of a large table-like structure I had built with large leather straps that would bind a man's wrists and ankles. In addition there were straps that could be fastened across the neck, the small of the back, and the legs, adding to the immobility of the subject. He just stared at it.
I pulled out a simple wooden paddle, the kind you might have seen in the principle's office forty years ago. His face started to break and I didn't know if he was going to laugh or wrinkle his face in disgust. He chose the former and started to chuckle.
"What's so funny," I asked him, uninsulted but unsmiling. "You think your ass could take much of this?"
"It's just funny to see you standin there like that, that's all," he grinned. His smile dropped a little when I did not return it.
"I don't think you'd be laughing much if you got on my table."
He considered it for a moment and said "No, you're probably right," his chuckle tapering off into a smug closed-mouthed grin. I wanted to smack it right off his face but I held my ground.
We stared each other down for the better part of a minute and his grin melted. He looked around nervously and I could tell I was losing him. He snorted absently while staring at the ceiling and shuffling his feet. When he looked at me again he just gave me a confused-sounding "What?"
I didn't answer, but he got my meaning. "No fucking way," he said, and he walked away. He moved like an animal. A bulky animal, but there was a beautiful grace to his movements as well. Something rose up in my throat, echoed by a warmth in my groin. Once he stopped and looked back at me disbelievingly, then his booted feet stomped up my basement stairs. I heard them shuffle across my living room floor as the wrestling champ threw open my front door. There was a shattering of glass before the door slammed shut again. I was already halfway up the stairs when the roar of his truck reached me and he tore out of my driveway. When I reached the front door, I laughed when I realized he had shattered a small pane of glass in the stained pattern that flanked my doorjamb when he had hurled the door back. Beyond I could see his truck turn the bend that led into the trees that separated my house from the approaching road. A few more minutes and he would be back on the interstate and back to wherever he came from. I smiled as I looked at the broken glass. I had mixed emotions about what I had done, but one thing was for sure. I made an impression.
7
It was a few months after that when I began to figure something was up. I was out in the expanse of field between my house and the roadway; shirtless, sweating and sucking out of a water bottle on top of my riding mower; when I noticed a familiar SUV drive by on the road. It was just out of the corner of my eye, and I probably wouldn't have noticed it at all, except that this road is so infrequently traveled that you tend to be naturally curious about anybody who happens to be on it. I smiled to myself as I pictured him nervously driving by the house. I was lucky enough to catch a glimpse of the truck as it sped by a minute later in the opposite direction on its return to the highway. I wondered if he was embarrassed to have actually caught a glimpse of me out there and what he was feeling inside right now. I grinned inside as the slow realization crept over me that he would eventually return.
It happened several weeks after that. I was relaxing in my den, enjoying the sounds of the storm outside, when I heard the door. I didn't even have to look outside to know who it was before I opened it and saw him, soaking wet from the rain. He didn't smile and neither did I, but he had this sort of beaten look in his eye that really clenched my nuts. I motioned him in and he entered, his head lowered and sulking as he glanced at the frame where he had knocked the glass out. "I replaced it," was all I said. "Looks pretty good, doesn't it? Almost like new, after your little tantrum." He didn't say anything. My voice was steely hard as I said "You understand that I intend to shatter you like you did to that glass?" He didn't answer. He didn't look me in the eye, but he grimaced at the floor like a kid caught cheating on his math test in front of the class. I could tell he was scared, and it turned me on, but I knew it probably wasn't out of fear of what I would do to him. He was afraid of why he had needed to come back here in the first place. Still, I wanted to get something clear.
"Just so you know, I don't intend to injure you. You won't leave here with scars or broken bones. But you're gonna be a new man after tonight." Again, no response. It pissed me off and I smacked him hard across the face. Although I'm not sure it hurt him, it did enrage him and his face flushed. As he looked at me for the first time he took a step forward, arms raised at his sides, but I stood my ground, my eyes not leaving his. The change in him was subtle but when I didn't meet his challenge it confused him and he backed down from it. Very evenly I said to him "You came here of your own free will. You are in my house and you will not raise your hand to me. Furthermore, you will treat me with respect. If you cannot understand this, get back in your fucking truck and get your sorry ass out of here." His gaze left me again and found the floor.
I had no idea it was going to be so easy. I didn't think he would bend so effortlessly, but I was beginning to see beyond the veneer that he had cultivated, probably years before he got into professional athletics. I saw no reason why he would be different than many of the other men who have developed a carefully calculated air of masculinity, especially those that surface in pro wresting. While enjoyable to spectators, little thought is usually given to why the men are so good at acting. I figure many of them have things that they are hiding from in their lives, things that they feel they have to overcompensate for. As this massive man in front of me stood visibly trembling, I knew I had been given the opportunity that I had longed for all my life, to take one of these men and strip away those layers of pretense and disguise until I had reached the core and taken him to a place where his physical size and prowess did not matter any longer and he is forced to see himself as he truly is, however that may be. At this point I had no idea if Bill Goldberg was gay or not. Maybe he didn't either. I did not care one way or the other. I was going to rip into this man like it was the one thing in life I was made for.
8
I have to admit, I didn't say much to him at first. I was in total awe of his body. He was dressed in a pair of casual shorts and a simple black polo shirt. Even through his clothes, it was clear that the down time he spent while recovering had done little to dull the exquisite musculature of his bulky frame. I picked up a billy club next to the table and tapped it lightly over his thick legs while I spoke. "You may be a big shot wrestler outside of this house, but in here you're gonna do whatever I tell you, you understand?" The sound of his voice surprised me when he said yes. It sounded disarmingly afraid, although he had to know that it would take a lot for me to inflict any real harm to him. My own build, while powerful, was no match for his. But this was not about a fight, and I knew he understood that. "I'm going to take you places and show you things tonight. You have a high tolerance for pain but I have a feeling you've never been stripped down like this before. You're going to submit to me. If you do not want to do this you can leave now but once we begin, you are mine. It's not over until I say it is. Do you understand this?" When he said yes, I put my hand on his shoulder and pushed down to force him to kneel. He didn't comply fast enough so I delivered a firm blow to the back of his knees to help him along.
As he knelt in front of me, breathing heavily, I let my hands wander over his huge shoulders and his freshly shaven head. I pulled off his shirt then ordered him to strip off the rest of his clothes. I was like a pig in slop getting to see him naked like this, but I wasn't about to let him know that. I gave his ass a few slaps as I thought about it. He was a little too eager to strip and show off his body, so I had to bring him down a peg or two. I tugged on his hip and he turned around, allowing me a view of him from the front. I was so fucking pleased. His body was incredible, but seeing his genitals, his manhood, exposed like this was almost too much. I didn't drop my aggressive pose though. I reached out immediately and felt his chest and his abs, moving down until I gripped his limp penis in one hand and his sac in the other. I chuckled humorlessly. "Whatsa matter, you cold?" His face burned red with shame. Although his penis was not really small, the massive size of his thighs did not make it seem any larger, and I cut right to his anxiety about it. I guessed that when aroused, he would probably have a very short, very fat erection that suited the rest of him. Eventually I hoped to explore it, but nothing we were doing here was about sex yet. I shoved him down to his knees again and set about blindfolding him. He did not attempt to stop me and I knew I was in for a real ride with this guy. It was going to be satisfying for the both of us.
I started out with his ass. I had him lie face down on the table, then strapped his hands and feet down good with the thick belt restraints. Although he was heavy, the table was larger and heavier than him. There was no way he was going anywhere, even if he struggled. After adjusting a final strap that ran across the small of his back, I could sense panic setting in for him. He was big, but the table was solid and the straps unrelenting. He was trapped. His breathing quickened and he started to say something, gushing nervously about how he didn't expect to be blindfolded and restrained. Although I understood what he was feeling, his words annoyed me and I lifted the heavy paddle, bringing it down hard on his ass. His cry was one of surprise and barely suppressed rage. He was finally feeling what it was like to be incapacitated and his attitude was changing drastically. He struggled while I whacked his ass again, hard. He cried out again, "get me the fuck out of here!" It only took me a minute or two to force the ball gag into his mouth. "Too late, fucker," I spat at him, "Shoulda gotten out of it while you still had the choice. Now you're mine." His body was tense, and I let him struggle for a few minutes so that he could see he was completely restrained. When I saw him relax, I began.
I set down the paddle and moved in close, feeling his ass with my bare hands. His skin was slick with sweat, and I gave him a few whacks as I kneaded those mounds of muscle. He groaned audibly through the gag. As I started spanking his ass, he was mostly quiet, drawing heaving breaths through his nose and whimpering occasionally. The feel of his flesh under my bare hands was incredible and I made the occasional lewd comment about how sweet his ass was. Increasing the strength of my blows, I could tell he was really struggling to handle the sting of my hand, and he was visibly relieved when I slowed down and finally stopped. I soon brought him back to reality when I undid the buckle on my belt, freeing it from around my waist and doubling it up in my hand. I held on to the buckle and let the free end of the thick leather belt come crashing down into his ass. He yelped slightly but kept trying to keep his composure. I decided to mind fuck him and I took it easy at first, using light strokes all over his back and his ass. I let him think the belt wasn't so bad as I kept it up steadily for a few minutes, then I really laid it on him, raising the belt high above my head and bringing it down hard. It made a slap across his flesh that was very satisfying, and I could feel him getting closer to where I wanted him, occasionally groaning through the gag. When he was whimpering steadily, I decided to remove the gag. The sounds that a man makes in this situation are part of the whole experience and I wasn't about to miss out on it.
He was gasping for air when I finally removed the gag, the slop of his saliva had coated the bench where his head lay. Snot was running out of his nose from breathing and his cheeks were wet with tears from under the blindfold. I removed it and the look in his eyes really made my dick hard. Feral, afraid, and something else. There was a distinct absence of aggression that told me I was getting somewhere. His face was becoming real, and he looked beautiful. "Don't make me put those back on you again," I said. He nodded as best he could. I released my dick from my pants and it stretched out, finding its true length while brushing tenderly against his cheek. I tapped it on his face and he squeezed his eyes shut, as if to get away from it as I rubbed it all around his cheeks and his chin, marking him with the scent of my maleness. Then he surprised me. He opened his mouth and tried to find the head of my dick. I laughed aloud, holding his head still. "You think that's what I want from you, cocksucker?" I contemptuously shouted at him. We made eye contact and I spit forcefully into his face. He flinched and made a sound of surprise and disgust. My dick had softened somewhat and I pushed it back inside my pants. I set about unleashing his limbs now, and I only worried briefly that he would try and escape. He gave me no trouble as I ordered him onto his back. The grain of the wood was impressed all over his massive chest and stomach, and I kneaded his chest with my hands, feeling the powerful muscles underneath his skin. My thumbs flicked over his nipples and he reacted immediately, sucking in his breath. After a few more seconds of this, his cock began to rise. His eyes were squeezed tight as if I was hurting him, but I knew that he was really just trying to avoid the shame he felt at getting an erection over something I was doing to him. He gasped aloud when I gripped it, squeezing hard around the thick shaft of his cock. My initial impression was correct; his erection was incredibly thick, although longer than I had anticipated. In fact, I was surprised at how generous his endowment was compared to how average it looked in its flaccid state. I gripped his ballsac next, tugging gently at it while his cock bounced, and then I shocked him by yanking hard on it, squeezing just as hard. He bellowed loudly in pain, his erection quickly deflating and I chuckled to myself. "You didn't think you were getting off that easily, did you?" I said to him.
I ordered him onto his stomach again and he willingly complied. Presented with his glorious ass again, I began to explore it with my fingers, pulling his cheeks apart to expose his hole. He whined in embarrassment but did not try to stop me by clenching his ass. As I slapped his ass cheeks with my left hand, my right fingered his opening, slicked up by sweat and spit, and I began to poke my fingers inside of him. He groaned aloud as I penetrated him with my fingers, first one then two, working him all the way up to three. He ground his hips into the table as I prodded inside of him, stretching his unbelievably tight ass apart. His expectant whining was maddening, and I realized it was time for the paddle. Picking it up, I began again.
This time he was all mine, crying out loud and grunting satisfactorily with every whack that the hard, flat wood made against his buttocks. I didn't spend much time working him up to full throttle, but instead I lunged right into it, slapping strongly against his ass as he fought to control his cries. After several minutes of punishment, I could sense something breaking, and I was a little shocked by the wail that escaped him this time. He began howling in pain and weeping uncontrollably. He cried like a child who has lost the most dear thing to them, heaving and sobbing with abandon, and still my paddle crashed into his ass, and still he did not move. At this point he could have gotten off of the heavy table, but he grasped the edges and held on, raising up onto his knees and holding his ass up in the air. He was blubbering now, words I didn't understand, in between his sobs, and then I realized what he was saying. He was calling me daddy. I was seized with a sense of urgency and emotion as I paddled harder and the pitch of his voice climbed higher, this huge man willingly subjecting himself to the spanking of his life, far beyond any conflict or hold he had encountered in the wrestling ring. "Oh daddy, daddy I'm so sorry" he was saying, the vowels of his words drawn out into long sobbing noises. I ran with it and began to verbally assault him.
"You're fucking worthless, you faggot," I hurled at him, hammering at his ass.
He sobbed louder, a man-boy wailing from some dark part of his being: "No, daddy!"
"Yes you are, you miserable lazy fucker! You've got no idea what you're doing, no sense of who you are, you're doing NOTHING to better yourself like I taught you!" My words were punctuated by the vicious staccato slaps of the paddle.
His voice was hoarse now, "Oh God, no! NO!" he wailed, the "O" trailing off into a long series of wracking sobs. His knuckles were white as he gripped the wood. His ass was flaming red now, and I knew I should stop soon, but I had just a little further to take him. "Daddy, no, STOP, pleeeeease......." His head was trashing back and forth and I slowed down and delivered a series of punishing slaps that made him scream out.
I felt enraged. Had he really asked me to stop? Had he dared? The bellow that escaped my lungs shocked even me. Over top of his sobbing, I screamed at him "I'M NOT GOING TO FUCKING STOP UNTIL I'M GOOD AND READY, YOU FUCKING SPINELESS PUNK!"
His reaction was desperate, shattering. He was already at the limit that he thought he could take, and here I was indicating I was not finished. His voice sounded even more like a child as he screamed his fear and pain aloud, his tearful face clenched tight and his chest heaving out wracking sobs of anguish that were almost in time with the rapid smack of my paddle against his red, sore ass.
Suddenly I knew he was there. He was mine. I stopped. He wept deeply, making guttural noises of release as he collapsed on the table. I ignored him briefly as I put down the paddle and rooted inside a drawer for a bottle of lube. I had one more role to fulfill with him and I wasn't about to let him down.
My cock was raging inside my pants and this time I removed them, shucking my shirt too and stepping back up to the edge of the table with my prick out in front of me like the prow of a ship. I knew I had to be inside of him, it would complete this act of bonding between us, although at this point I was so content that the ejaculation I searched for was a mere bodily function, a release of the tension our session had built in my balls. It didn't take much prodding to get him to turn over and his bulky legs pulled back instinctively to allow me access to his body. I did take the time to squirt a jet of lube into and around his ass, briefly allowing my fingers to plunge back into his already loosened sphincter, until I positioned my straining cock and crashed rudely into his hole. His cry of shock at my entry told me all I needed to know about his previous status. It was clear I was the first man to ever be inside of him, and the realization made me almost lose it right there. Whatever complex motivations and decisions led him to his elevated status as a heroic athlete and performer, he was a hulking giant that I had reduced to a submissive and willing recipient of my ministrations, his cries and whimpers echoing all over my being with every plunge of my enraged cock. He engulfed me fully, still sobbing slightly but groaning deeply now as this final act of intrusion into his body completed our act. The shallow sobs of pain gradually gave way to the deeper sounds that reflected the pleasure of a man being fucked.
Now it was my turn to lose control. I managed to hang on for quite some time, despite my intensely aroused state, and enjoyed his ass for the incalculable gift it was. He was rock hard now, crying out in pleasure instead of pain as I stroked inside of him, and I suddenly wanted that, wanted to pleasure him as much as he had just pleasured me by submitting to me. I was amazed at the size of his body, and to be thrusting up inside of him made me feel like I was trying to maul a bear. But I knew I had thoroughly fucked him ragged in his mind already-he would submit to anything I did now and I knew it, and I played it for all it was worth. His hands gripped the sides of the table again as his monstrous legs pressed against my chest, his hefty erection bobbing between them as my belly pressed against its base with every thrust. I just watched, mesmerized by his perfect maleness. I knew I could release when I felt his ass clench around me and his gasps and sighs grew frantic. His face was contorted in a way that reminded me of his trademark grimaces in the ring, and his eyes were open and fixed on his twitching dick, which he made no attempt to grasp with either of his free hands. One final hoarse grunt signaled his orgasm, and his untouched cock erupted in thick white spurts that streaked repeatedly over his pecs. I thrust deeply inside of him and let go.
My own orgasm was monumental. In the last few seconds I became overwhelmed by what was happening and when I went over the edge I thought briefly that I had indeed lost our little match here today, my own submission to his power indicated by the surge of my juice into his body. He was oblivious, still gasping and twitching as his ejaculation slowly subsided, tapering off to a slow oozing of fluid onto his belly.
I withdrew from him and led him gently upstairs to my bedroom where we collapsed on my bed. His eyes were beautiful, there was no pretense, and his face was peaceful and exhausted. We lay there together in a dreamlike state for quite some time, drifting in and out of sleep together. Several times I was awakened by his hands exploring my body, his eyes wide and staring, and at one point I rolled him onto his back and sucked his erection deeply into my throat, fellating him until he climaxed, whimpering again like a child who has just discovered his body's capability for pleasure. I kissed him and he happily accepted it, our arms locking around each others chest. I drifted back to sleep with him in my arms, his head pressed against the fur of my chest, a mountainous man who had just given me an incredible gift. In exchange, I had given him release and pleasure. It occurred to me that it was an even trade after all.