Saturday, November 7, 2015

The Ring Boy part 1

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. 

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.


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.

next part next weekend

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