Part Three - Dick's Retirement
To this day, it amazes me how easily everything fell into place for us. The second property we saw was the one we bought and although the main house required a bit of fixing up, the outbuildings were just what we needed, especially the barn. It was no more than 10 years old and, once insulated, could house everything necessary for the training facility. There was enough height to construct a second floor. The top would be for instruction, with practice mats and separate rooms for free weights, stretching and conditioning; while the ground floor would be for housing and showers, plus a dining and recreation hall. There also was a nice-sized pond 75 yards from the facility for fishing and supervised swimming, while the entire complex sat on 50 acres less than a mile from the nearest highway.
When the movers arrived with the tractor trailer containing our possessions, Dick got a phone call from the agent in Chicago, informing him there was a buyer for his house. Three days later, we had a buyer for mine and all properties closed nice and tight both in Chicago and Oklahoma.
My new job was to maintain the finances and find students for the classes, while Dick bought necessary equipment and worked with the contractors he hired to redesign the barn.
Our goal was to get the business facility prepared first, then work on the house at a leisurely pace. This was to be a June to August summer camp, two-week course with kids grouped according to age or weight, depending on whether they were age 6 to 11 or 12 to 18. Dick would teach them free-style and Greco-Roman techniques, while the emphasis would be to prepare them for high school and collegiate wrestling, both mentally and physically.
I was to be the official preparer and server of meals, cleaner of toilets and showers, and director of discipline and recreation. I anticipated this to be much more strenuous than his function, but no matter, because I was no longer salaried. Dick had made me a full partner in our enterprise and we pooled all our resources into one pot.
We closed on the property in November, which gave us about six months to complete the construction, then I could make pictures for flyers to send out. Because of his reputation, I had no problem making contacts. Almost every junior and high school wrestling coach I contacted knew who he was and some remembered competing against or watching him in the college days. Even the elementary school officials had heard of him. Most of my telephone calls were answered with, "Dick Hodges? Sure, send the flyer and I'll post it."
By the end of April, our barn remodeling was almost finished and all classes for June were booked, with more requests for information still coming in. I could now devote more time to the house, while still handling any phone calls or other business regarding the camp.
As for the home life, it was sweet. Dick would usually hang around until noon, at which time he would putter in the training facility, adding little extras as he saw the need and using the weight room to keep his body in shape. This, of course, pleased me immensely.
There was one item he didn't consider, but I enlightened him on it. "Ok, Dick, you got insurance for the property, now you better cover our ass."
"Explain."
"What if a kid gets injured or there's an accident? We don't want any lawsuits. Better go to Tulsa and talk to an attorney about insurance for that."
"God damn, you're clever. I'll reward you when I get back."
"How about a reward now and when you get back?"
He was such a pushover, I could talk him into anything. One of my first priorities when we first moved in was to get the master bedroom situated, so that when he came into the house we'd have something to do after dinner. Just before Christmas time Dick told me he was unsatisfied with his old bed and asked me to look for a king size, preferably with four corner posts, and it was only after I found one and had it set up did I learn about his desired position to receive the next blow-job. It was the first Christmas eve of our new life together.
He presented to me four ropes with four nicely looped slip knots at one end. After his hands and feet were inside the loops, it was my duty to pull the ropes until the loops effectively secured the wrists and ankles, then tie each of the open ends of rope to the four corner posts. So, he was bound in a spread eagle position, and as you might have suspected, he also had draped himself over the top of two stacked pillows - representing Killer Manjaro.
Yes, Dick Hodges desired to relive the night of our first encounter, but in the much more comfortable and private confines of our bedroom. Perhaps it was therapy for both of us - a way of saying "thanks" to the bastards that humiliated us back in Chicago.
"Think they hurt me, Jimmy?"
"They did then. What about now?"
"Feels good, now. They did us a favor."
Right or wrong, what they forced us to do in public led us to repeat the act for our own enjoyment. He received the first of these in mostly the same manner as had happened in the ring, with me first burying my face into and then licking his belly, followed by an expertly-executed dick sucking.
Christmas morning, he woke me up to go through it again, but this time asked me to look for hot spots.
"Where do you want me to start?"
"Jimmy, I'm a tough son of a bitch. You take all the time you need and explore all of it."
A Christmas gift from the gods - Dick Hodges laid there bound over those pillows, while I put my tongue and lips all over him. And just as he suggested, I took my own sweet time. Big, beefy, thick and powerful, this 100 percent ruggedly beautiful male masterpiece basked in a timeless marathon of intense body worship. I found many, many hot spots and stored them for reference into my library of knowledge about the male physique - in particular, one Dick Hodges.
What was my favorite spot? All of it. He was my ideal of masculinity, just as he should be for you, so I won't ruin your fantasy with my reality. I lavished my praise onto every inch of skin from the fingers to the toes, inhaling the heavenly tastes and aromas of the ultimate man, until I again returned to kneel before his helplessly bouncing pecker. Merry Christmas, Mr. Hodges.
After I untied him, we wasted some time with a bit of snoozing and mutual cuddling, then Dick resumed his role as a dominant male and we proceeded to break in our new bed for the remainder of the day. This became our household Christmas tradition. Only on that evening would the ropes come out, and the 364-day anticipation helped us to maintain a very healthy relationship. Any time we had little spats or one or the other of us was in a bad mood, either he or I would say, "Christmas is coming soon," and even if it was only February, just the thought of what was to come made us smile.
On our first New Year's eve together, he asked for a little variation.
"Here, remember this?" He tossed me a bottle of olive oil. "Time for you to rub me down the way you used to, Jimmy."
Again, we returned to the days of his professional career, as he lay on his belly to receive my deep-muscle massage. It had been nearly three months since I had dug my fingers into him and somehow the skin felt different - smoother, more vital. No longer subjected to abuse in the ring, Dick's flesh seemed to take on a youthful glow, while the olive oil gave it a bronzed sheen, as though he were a mighty Greek warrior.
I penetrated every inch, from the back of the neck, hands and forearms to the calves, ankles and soles of feet. Then, he turned over and I saturated side two. Once I had finished the rub down, I applied the oil to his testicles and semi-erect penis. As he lay sprawled with eyes closed, I manually brought him to full erection, then mounted him. Now, he became a Greek god. His other-worldly power rushed to concentrate itself into his penis, causing my innards to first surrender, then counter-attack. The muscles crushed his cock, as I slowly raised my buttocks off his pelvis several inches, then slammed back down to sit on him, squeezing with all my strength. My rhythm was just the right pace and I could tell from experience that he was about to fire, when suddenly he opened the eyes and raised up to rest on his elbows.
"Turn around."
He laid back down flat and with a little difficulty, I closed his dick tightly in my vise, supported myself with palms on the mattress and turned to the left, swinging the right leg over him. After one more turn, the left leg lifted over his thighs and I sat with my back towards him, still crushing the tool inside me. Dick raised up, locked me into a full nelson and slowly brought my torso to lay atop his.
"How does it feel? Want me to break your back?"
"Do what you gotta do," I clinched my butt cheeks tight. "I'm still gonna torture your cock."
"Don't move your arms."
He released the nelson and I held position, still squeezing with my rectal innards. I saw his arms move on either side of me and he scraped oil from his thighs and flanks, then transferred the thick liquid onto my chest and stomach.
"Lay your legs flat outside of mine."
As I did, Dick intensified the deep oiled rub onto my stretched torso, pressing his thick and scratchy palms and fingers into my skin. Time and again he removed oil from his body and coated me, as I continued to relentlessly crush his throbbing pole. Then, I felt utopia. He cupped my cock into his oiled hand and stroked me, which caused my entire body to twitch. I arched my back and felt his hot, heavy breath burning my ear, while both his dick and mine surged with increased strength. I crushed his and he stroked mine, until my balls shrunk to the size of peanuts and jettisoned their seed onto my chest and stomach. Writhing and contorting in uncontrolled ecstasy, my inside muscles flexed and spasmed in conjunction with my orgasm, which further stimulated his impaling cock. My contractions subsided and he slowed the manual strokes, then squeezed out whatever was left in my shaft. That's when I heard a pitiful moan and felt his body undulate beneath me, as he flooded my insides with his own semen, urged on by my relentlessly crushing and flexing rectum.
We both laid there for quite some time, silently panting for breath, until his fading unit slipped past the rim of my asshole.
"Turn over."
I did as asked and we laid chest to chest, squishing that olive oil between us. He wrapped his arms around me and gently squeezed. "Next week, you're taking me to Tulsa."
"Ok. Why?"
"I'm flying to Chicago."
"Ok. Why?"
"Kyle's coming. His mom and dad, too."
I raised up to quiz him further. "What for? The barn isn't ready."
"Upstairs is. Enough to get him started, anyway."
"Where are they gonna stay?"
"There's plenty of room in this house."
I started to protest, because the house was nowhere near ready for guests, unless they wanted to sleep surrounded by walls with peeling wallpaper and bathe in rusty tubs with leaky faucets and walk on floors that sounded near collapse. Instead, I kissed him. Kyle was coming. What else mattered?
"Well, Mr. Hodges, I hope you're happy now that we've ruined my favorite sheets."
"Yeah, better get some new ones. Next time we'll use the conditioning room."
"Or put a plastic cover on the bed."
"I ain't laying on plastic. Gives me the creeps."
Another holiday ritual was born: purchase new sheets for the bed.
The Bixby's were good people and fully forgave us our dilapidated house. The parents and I played many games of three-handed cribbage, while their son began his first lessons in doing it the Dick Hodges way, both in wrestling and in life. The boy who gave him the incentive to "keep fightin' 'em" - to explore and accept his new career, turned out to be one of Dick's prized pupils. He attended the camps free of charge each year, becoming one of the top amateur wrestlers first in high school, then the University of Illinois and the Olympics.
Our narrator in the other story said that Dick Hodges faded into history, which is true, but that history is very much alive. Thanks mainly to the internet, Dick and those like him - real men, real athletes who were cast out of the world of professional wrestling are once again known and appreciated for their contributions and accomplishments.
There are countless web sites devoted to them and many of these "old timers" who are still alive now are in demand for speeches and even seminars on wrestling techniques and the history of the sport.
I'm not bitter about what happened to pro wrestling. It changed along with society. Our culture demanded more drama, comedy and sex at an accelerated pace. Besides, all is not lost. Pro wrestling can be entertaining as hell, plus with men like Olympic medalist Kurt Angle and the offspring of legends from Dick's time (like Randy Orton, son of Bob, grandson of Bob, Sr.), the traditions begun by earlier generations continue.
I look at it this way: that night, Dick Hodges was taken from professional wrestling and given to me. Without that incident, who knows what would have been left of him when he retired? Every time a pro wrestler enters the ring, his body deteriorates a little more, not to mention that one wrong move can result in permanent damage to neck or spine or any number of vital parts. Dick was given to me with a body still vibrant and full of life, which has been allowed to age naturally and remain a dominant force.
Another statement made by that narrator claims that I was with Dick until the end, which is also true. But the end has not yet come. He still teaches the summer camps and wrestles with me the other nine months of the year. Dick and Jimmy are still together, partners for life, the hero and his ring boy.
the end
Part Two - Dick's Homecoming
"Any mail today, Jimmy?"
Sadly, there was. It was the third consecutive day he had asked and I could no longer keep lying to him.
"Hobson at the Tribune would like to write an article about the match - you know, from your perspective."
"Nah, to hell with him. There's nothing to say about it anyway. No letters from the fans?"
I had already filtered out the ones that included threats on his life, but reluctantly, I handed him the ones that were merely sarcastic and hateful. "It's all negative shit, Dick."
He read them, one by one, sometimes laughing, sometimes shaking his head in disbelief. After going through half a dozen, he handed both these and the remaining unread letters back to me.
"Well, I get the gist of it. Guess they don't want to see the likes of me in the ring again."
"Only losers write threats they don't have to back up. You know that."
"Yeah, well, fuck 'em. They don't know anything about it."
"That's right, they don't."
He put on an effective facade, but I could tell those vicious words had hurt him again - just as they would anybody who once had enjoyed a celebrity status. One letter had been withheld from him and now I put it in his hand.
"Here, try this one."
He opened and read the neatly hand-printed message:
Dear Mr Hodges,
It was bad what they did to you. I want to be like you when I grow up. My dad said I can try out for the wrestling team when I am old enough. I wish you could show me how to wrestle. Nobody is as good as you. It makes me sad that you are sick.
Your pal,
Kyle Bixby
With a stern expression, he carefully folded the paper, returned it to the envelope and handed it to me, "Keep this, Jimmy. Don't ever lose it. That letter is our future."
Before I could analyze what that meant, Dick's lead doctor entered the room. He looked over the charts and vitals, then told Mr. Hodges that he could go home in the morning. After giving him a list of instructions and prescriptions that would be needed to complete the healing process, the good doctor left the room.
"Thank god, I'm so sick of this place I could put my fist through a wall."
"Rearing to go, are ya'?"
"Better believe it. Are you gonna get me off tonight?"
"No problem." Of course I was, just as I had done for the past nine. "I suppose you know this is Saturday."
"Yeah, my two week anniversary."
"You wanna watch tonight's broadcast?"
He gazed out the window for a few seconds, then turned to stare me down. "No, Jimmy, I don't think I will - don't give a shit what's going on there. It'll only make me want to kill somebody - and we can't have that, can we?"
"No, we can't. Besides, I'd want to help you and we'd both end up in jail."
I hadn't even mentioned it to him on the one week anniversary, but instead had made a reason to leave for awhile so I could find a nearby tavern where the broadcast was displayed on their television set. As I suspected, the three assassins were pummeling a couple of guys I'd never seen before, probably some suckers they'd called in from the hinterlands. I hoped these jobbers had demanded a tidy sum of money, because they were getting the holy shit beat out of them, while the fans in the arena were going bonkers.
Sunday morning I drove Dick to his house. There was no celebration - no one there to greet him. He had no family, unless you could call a one-night-stand, unknown father and an alcoholic mother his family. Wrestling was his ticket out of that miserable childhood, as he excelled in the sport during both junior and senior high school, then parlayed his skills into a full scholarship to Oklahoma State University.
For two weeks, he had lived in that hospital bed with no visitors - not the wrestlers, not the fans, not even the promoter, which to me was beyond belief. How much money had Dick Hodges made for this man? Surely enough to warrant a phone call or letter, but neither of us had heard anything from him since the night of the mugging. He was about to hear from one of us.
"Tomorrow morning, I'm gonna pay a visit to my old boss."
"Slater?"
"Yep."
"What are you gonna do to him?"
He laughed at this. "Physically, nothing. I'm gonna hit him in his pocketbook."
"How so?"
"We're cashing in, Jimmy. He's paying my hospital bill, buying out my contract. I'm selling this house and you're selling yours. We're going home."
I wish I could have been with him in that man's office, just to hear what was said and how it was done, but the end result is that Dick came home with a huge wad of cash, and true to his word we put both houses on the market.
Two items of importance took place before we moved back to Oklahoma. One was an exploratory trip to make things ready for our return. Dick had decided that the Lake Eufala area was the best place to be, so we met with a real estate agent in nearby Tulsa to put the plan into motion.
"Give him that letter, Jimmy."
I handed the agent an envelope from one Kyle Bixby, smiling as the agent opened and read the words.
Dick explained it to him. "I'm opening a training camp for youngsters. The place will need 30 to 50 acres with a livable house. I'd like to have water, either a pond, stream or access to one of the lakes. These are phone numbers where you can reach me. Find at least three possible locations and call us." He handed the letter back to me for safekeeping. "We'll be back when you're ready to show."
The agent went to work on our project, while Dick and I returned to Chicago. First thing he did when we got home was to write a letter to that boy and show it to me.
Dear Kyle,
This is your pal, Dick Hodges. Your letter sure made my day. In fact, thanks to fellas like you writing to cheer me up, I'm not sick anymore.
I'm glad you want to be a wrestler. Because of wrestling, I was able to go to college and meet lots of really great people.
You'll be hearing from me again real soon, because if things work out for me, I'm going to teach you and other young fellas how to do it the Dick Hodges way.
Yours truly,
Dick Hodges
"Sign it and send it, Dick. That'll make the kid's day."
"Hope so. I gotta hunch about who he is."
He explained to me the moment in the ring when he was about to give up.
"I turned my head and saw this man holding a boy in his arms. Everyone around was screaming for Manjaro and them to finish me, but this boy was crying. I do believe his lips were telling me to keep fighting, so that's what I did."
I had to look away for a second in order to maintain my composure and somehow managed to do so, "Whether it's him or not, it's one hell of a story."
"Sure is. I gotta make sure kids like him know what wrestling's all about. It ain't about beating people up."
There is no doubt in my mind that Kyle Bixby's letter saved Dick from a dreary future. It gave him not only a new purpose and optimism, but also (and perhaps even more important) it prevented him from hating - from staying bitter about what had happened to him. Living with resentment can age a man quickly and eat at his insides, just as surely as a stomp to the belly can rupture them.
With that said, let's return to the previous Sunday, because the second item of note was the homecoming celebration for Dick Hodges. Oh, it wasn't anything fancy, but it was quite memorable. Within minutes of entering his house, both of us had stripped down and pulled the coverings off of his bed. I soon found myself smothered under a mass of muscle and fur, looking up to his steel-blue eyes.
"Hell, Jimmy, how come we never thought of this before?"
"Guess we never had time to think about it before." I planted my palms onto the small of his back and coaxed him to massage our hardened dicks, as they were crushed between our bellies. He slowly thrust his body forward and the friction of fur and hard skin nearly made me spasm right then and there, but Dick had other plans.
"Jimmy, can I get in you?"
"You mean my ass?"
"Yeah, I've been thinking about it for days."
Hard to believe, but this thought had never entered my head. I was perfectly satisfied sucking him off and masturbating myself later, but all I really wanted was to please him, so of course I said, "We can try. This is all new to me."
"Me, too."
There was nothing erotic about our first attempt at intercourse. In fact, it was nearly a comedy of errors, starting with the lubricant. First, we tried spit, but by the time he had his dick hard enough to take a stab, the spit was dried up and so was his mouth. With my legs draped over his shoulders, Dick stood on his knees jacking like a madman, only to find my virgin asshole wouldn't budge an inch.
Frankly, I was scared to death, but finally, we decided to use a bottle of lotion, and at my suggestion he put some on the rim of my rectum with his fingers, then opened me up with first one, then two of his thick digits.
It was a start, but after he had his cock slicked up and ready to go, he was shaken by a howling shriek of agony, as the bulging head of his organ plowed past my rim.
Immediately, he pulled out. "Oh, shit. I didn't mean to..."
"Don't worry about it. It's not your fault. Just give me some time."
He looked down at me like a faithful hound who knew he had done something wrong, but then I broke into laughter and so did he.
"Hey, Dick, maybe I should have gone to the library to get a book on this."
"Yeah, why didn't you? What the hell am I paying you for?"
"Guess I forgot to read about Dick's dick."
"Besides that, you've had two weeks with nothing else to do. I oughtta terminate your paycheck."
He let go my legs and faked throwing a punch into my gut, then I returned the favor. Soon we clinched into a pretend wrestling match, smearing lotion all over ourselves and the sheets, until I found myself once again crushed under his heavenly chest. He pecked my forehead and cheeks with dry kisses, then our lips came together and his tongue found it's way to mine.
Dick started making love to me like he was a man and I was a woman, slowly sliding his body down, leaving kisses on my neck, then chest, then stomach. Neither of us spoke, as he once again reared up on his knees and draped my legs over his shoulders. After relubing, he gently pressed inside me and waited for my acceptance, then slowly came forward inches at a time.
It was all so simple, once we stopped thinking and started feeling. I was broken in with merciful strokes, until I not only received his peter, but also participated in its stimulation. Unconsciously, I contracted the muscles of my rectum each time he achieved maximum penetration, while he expertly turned and twisted his hips, spearing me from left, right, above and below.
We were no longer rookies. My man's glorious cock was thoroughly satisfied, as he filled me with a dominating masculinity only he could give. And for the first time since our discovery, he masturbated me, drawing a line of lotion on my raging erection, then stroking me in the rough palm of his hand and fingers. All the while, his penis remained buried to the deepest part of my rectum, which brought me a nearly-instantaneous orgasm.
Make no mistake, we certainly were not professionals, but the first opponent had been defeated. Fear was no longer part of the equation, because from this point forward, we learned by exploration - by doing what felt natural to us.
His homecoming was a huge success, and after we returned from that trip to Tulsa, we had many days with many hours to further acquaint ourselves with this new sport. Dick approached it in the same manner he had wrestling: with 100 percent dedication, enthusiasm, respect and training.
He felt compelled to practice with me anywhere from two to four times per day, as he experimented with almost every position imaginable. Yes, in time he did decide to suck my dick and yes, we both became proficient at this exercise. No, he did not desire to be fucked and I would not have done so had he asked. Such an act would not be appropriate for a hero, and for me he could be nothing else.
________________________________________
next part in a week
is a companion piece to the Man of Black and White. These were written in 2008, and are background stories for what led to 2010's A True Ring, one of five tales in the Jardonn book, Suspicious Diagnosis.
THE RING BOY
by Jardonn
Part One - Dick's Recovery
Dick Hodges was a dying breed. He was a wrestler in the purest sense of the word, but the "sport" of professional wrestling had disappeared before his very eyes. To me, he was the ultimate athlete and possessor of the most perfectly designed structure ever to house the soul of a man, although had you looked at him after his final match - the one that ended his career, you would not have agreed with me.
I was witness to the atrocities perpetrated against him. I, along with hundreds of others, saw one man suffer at the hands of two - then three, then an entire gang, as the referee and other officials stood by and allowed the destruction of Dick Hodges to continue uninterrupted. He was a man of integrity - a man who played by the rules, and in order to defend these principles, he had fought them to the bitter end. Despite the overwhelming odds, this man summoned every ounce of strength time and again in his struggle to break free and defeat them, until finally, his tortured body could take no more. It took nearly three hours before they could finally pin him for the three count and in this time he suffered like no man should ever be made to suffer.
Lord, how they beat him - with fists and forearms, with stomping and kicking boots, with illegal devices and metal chairs that opened his skin until blood flowed, and worst of all, with 400 pound belly flops. These caused unholy damage to his internal organs, but as if the beatings weren't enough, he also was stripped naked and degraded before every person packed inside the arena. Granted, it is hard to imagine something so vile could have taken place in a public forum such as this, but the worst was yet to come.
This is the place in the story where I became a part of the tragedy. I was his ringside assistant and although I had done everything in my power to help him escape this massacre, a man of 170 pounds is rather useless against monsters nearly twice his size and weight. Each of my feeble attempts to interrupt their assault upon my outnumbered friend was easily swatted down, as though I were a mere fly - a meaningless buzz of annoyance. My final try at stopping them resulted in me being crushed and trapped in a corner turnbuckle by one of the hulks, as I stood helplessly watching the others remove his boots, socks, wrestling trunks and jock strap.
Once he was prepared, they brought me forward with my hands held behind the back and head guided by a huge paw grasping onto a clump of my hair. They forced me to kneel between the thighs of their victim, who was hideously bound with wrists and ankles tightly pulled in four opposing directions and secured in the grasps of four men. Adding to his agony, the body was draped over the top of a 400 pound mountain of a man named Killer Manjaro (he also being the instigator of the belly flops), as they both lay horizontal in the center of the ring, one atop the other.
So, with the target cruelly displayed in a naked, spread-eagle posture, chest thrust high into the air and belly mercilessly flattened, my face was forced down onto that belly so hard that I could barely breath. Then, they raised my head just a bit and ordered me to put my tongue to him. As I did, Dick looked up to confirm it was I who was forced to desecrate his helpless body, and once he saw this he let out a mighty groan of anguish, then collapsed his head back down out of my sight.
I tasted his manly sweat, his incredible strength and even his tormenting pain, as my tongue delicately massaged the skin and further saturated the belly hairs. This part of his body had taken a horrendous amount of punishment - punches, foot stomps and even the abdominal claw - yet, I could still feel the solid muscle underneath, stretched and flexed to defend his innards. The unyielding power of the man brought sensations to me never known before, but just as I was beginning to lose myself in this undefined stimulation, my head was brutally yanked upwards and shifted to his crotch, where my nose was soon buried into the briny smell of his masculine pubic hairs. With my lips pressed against the flaccid penis, they mockingly turned my head side to side, forcing my nose to inhale the smell of a beaten man. In the distance, I heard taunting words, as the other wrestlers ordered me to suck the man's dick.
They pressed my face down harder and harder onto his pelvis, so I took the organ into my mouth, mainly for fear of crushing the precious gonads beneath it. Once his tool was engulfed, another newfound sensation overwhelmed me. It was as though every character trait, every powerful muscle and every facet of what made him a man had been concentrated into this singular body part. The essence of Dick Hodges was buried inside my mouth and I began to worship him with an enthusiasm worthy of the years of pent up yearning I had kept hidden inside.
All this time, I thought I had admired him as the supreme athlete - as the bastion of the sport I loved, but my affection for him was much deeper than this. Not until his mighty phallus was under my control did I realize what he truly meant to me. Because of this, I was oblivious to everything else surrounding me - the taunting wrestlers, the screaming crowd, the cruelly complacent referee and other officials - they all disappeared, leaving only myself and Dick Hodges in the center of that ring. As his cock began reacting to my touch, I sensed that Dick also was losing himself in our newfound connection. His penis grew to full strength and seemed to reverberate with a masculine power befitting the man himself. He fulfilled my every desire of what a man should be and I accordingly praised his incredible cock with a gusto worthy of him.
My reward was an amazing explosion of manly semen, and even though it was my first experience at receiving such a gift, I greedily gulped and inhaled every single drop into my throat, then transferred it down to my gut. Reluctant for the moment to end, I continued slavishly servicing his tool even after its contractions had stopped, until I was ruthlessly pulled off of him and thrown over the top rope to crash on the floor below, which is the last I remember of that event.
When I awoke, the arena was empty - except for Dick Hodges. He laid prone in the center of the ring, still naked with chest up and limbs sprawled. I stood hypnotized, gazing at him. His eyes were closed, as the mighty chest would rise to inhale oxygen, then fall to the dual sounds of a wheeze and a moan. This was a tragic scene. What once was an amazingly skilled and perfectly tuned wrestling machine had been reduced to a battered, bloodied shell of a man. How badly he was injured I could not tell, but to think that nobody cared enough about him to find out sickened me beyond description. All the wrestlers he thought were friends, all the fans who once adored him, even those who didn't care one way or the other, all had left him there to rot - the carcass of wrestling's past, thoroughly stripped of everything and wasting away in the ring he called home.
The "Loser Leaves Town" match had ended and Dick Hodges had lost - right or wrong, fair or unfair, he had lost - not only the contest, but everything that mattered to him. There was one thing, however, that he had not lost - me. I was his ring boy and had been since the early days of his professional career in Enid, Oklahoma. From the moment I heard his name announced and he entered the ring for the first time, I knew this man was something special. Fresh out of college (where he had won the state championship for his weight class the past two years) and the 1960 Olympics (where he had medalled the silver), he reinforced my awe of him with a cat-like quickness, coupled with a naturally powerful strength that rendered his first opponent a quivering rag, begging for mercy.
Dick Hodges seldom won his matches by pinning a man, but rather by forcing him to submit to his expertly applied nelsons, scissors, joint locks and sleepers. He was poetry in motion and with each of his matches I had the pleasure to witness, my admiration for him grew by leaps and bounds, until I found myself wishing to somehow be a part of his world. Even though I had just graduated high school and planned to attend college myself in the fall, I wanted to follow him up his rapid ladder to success. Once I finally got to meet him in person, my knowledge of both the history and the science of wrestling convinced him that I could be an asset. We immediately connected in our conversations about the sport and when I made the suggestion that he should employ an assistant - namely me - he agreed.
My summer fling soon became an obsession and the plans for college were postponed. I found myself instead learning all about the male physique, so that I could help him keep his body in top-notch condition. I read every book and magazine article I could find in order to educate myself. My responsibilities went from securing his robe during the matches, to rubbing down his muscles both after and before events. Plus, I taught myself the inner workings of joints and ligaments, along with whatever sorts of salves, vitamins, oils and ointments worked best to keep him limber and feeling 100 percent. I also became a sort of buffer zone between him and his sometimes overly enthusiastic fans, screening his mail and those who wished to meet him in person. My knowledge grew, as did our friendship, while promoters moved him from Enid, to the Kansas City, Missouri circuit and then, finally, the Mecca of all professional wrestlers - Chicago, Illinois and the lucrative television market there.
Dick Hodges's mercurial rise to the top brought him one of the highest salaries in professional wrestling at that time, and true to his word, he now paid me the same percentage from these lucrative paychecks as he had from the paltry ones back in Enid. Regardless of his success, Dick Hodges had remained loyal to me and I in turn was devoted to him, so I stepped up and into the ring knowing full well that I was all he had left in this world. In one evening, everything we had worked so hard to achieve had come crashing down with a mighty thud. Kneeling beside him, I fought back tears that welled up from the sight of his bloodied face and pectorals, plus the quickly-forming bruises that painted his chest and belly.
"Hey, Dick," I clutched his jaw and gently shook his head. "Can you hear me? It's Jimmy."
His eyes opened and a minuscule smile of recognition appeared. "It's bad, Jimmy."
"Don't move. I'll be right back."
Quickly, I left the ring to retrieve his robe, then returned to gather the wrestling attire which had been stripped from him and scattered about the mat. After bundling everything inside the robe, I again knelt beside him.
"Do you think you can sit up?"
"I'll try."
He brought the arms forward and placed the palms of his hands onto the mat, then with my help, he flexed the pulverized belly muscles and rose to sit upright. After a few minutes, I had him on his feet and we began the long trek to the locker room.
"Forget that shit, Jimmy. Leave it here. I won't be needing it."
Sadly, I dropped the bundled equipment and used all my strength to support him. With one arm draped over my shoulder, this broken man staggered down the steps to the arena floor, then up the aisle to where his clothes awaited.
After I dressed him, we left the arena for the final time and Dick Hodges was driven to the hospital, where he would remain until the doctors gave their approval for his release.
I stayed with him nearly 24 hours a day, sleeping on a cot right there in his room. Turns out that he was just as tough on the inside as on the out, because even though the pictures showed bruises to his spleen, stomach and one kidney, there was no serious internal damage that couldn't be mended with time. The external blood had come from cuts to his forehead and chest, while most of the blood that had spewed from his mouth with each crushing belly flop and stomp to his gut had come from cuts made by his own teeth - the result of fists and boots delivered to the man's jaw.
The first two days were the hardest, as the cuts were bandaged and fluids used to help filter out the internal bleeding. He urinated red countless times in the bottles provided and since I was usually the one to position those bottles for him, my optimism increased as each evacuation produced less red and more yellow. He slept through most of this both night and day, while I sat silently reflecting on what had happened to him and wondering what the future might bring. As for my cot, I found it nearly impossible to sleep there - not so much from the discomfort, but because I couldn't force my brain to shut down.
A singular thought - a curiosity - kept spinning inside: what would be said about the event in the ring? How would the oral service I was forced to inflict upon him affect our friendship? Would it be ignored, as though it never happened and the sensations never took place? Or would he see me from a perspective of hatred - as a reminder of the humiliation he must have felt? Very few words had been spoken between us, but of course he was heavily sedated, drifting in and out of sleep during these first days. Then, on the sixth night, he stirred me from my cot.
"Jimmy?"
Already wide awake, I immediately responded, "I'm here, Dick."
"Come here."
I stepped to his bedside. The dim light from the exterior window cast a pale shadow upon him and I could see that he had lifted the hospital gown to expose his full-on erection. Without a word, I placed my hand on his engorged cock and lightly squeezed, which produced a slight moan of acceptance - the signal to move forward.
The door was already closed and I checked my watch to find that it would be another 20 minutes before the next scheduled nurse visit, so without hesitation I leaned down and took his organ into my mouth.
I heard him whisper, "Don't ever leave me, Jimmy," and with what seemed no more than a dozen strokes, he produced an even and steady flow of semen, tinged with the slight taste of blood. I eagerly ingested every drop.
After releasing him from my mouth, I wet a washcloth to remove the spit, then covered his genitals once more underneath the gown. "I'm not going anywhere. You'll have to chase me away."
The mending of Dick Hodges had taken a major step forward, as had our friendship.
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next part next weekend
