The Ring Boy part 2

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

Paw Wolfywits Chapter 4

PAW WOLFYWITS

iv.

Aw, shucks, Wolfman. Why do you have to be such a beautiful man? Stretched so tightly. Your spine arched so gracefully. Your chest rising so majestically. Your abdomen... well, your fur and muscle seem to spell the words "Bring it on," and I aim to please. I give you my target. Lay the blunt end of my Slugger on your tummy, dead center, two inches above your belly button.

I drool at your response: a lifting of your head, a strain to peer over your chest. Your eyes follow the line of my bat, to my hands, up my torso to my face. You wink. Drop your head. Exhale, tighten and prepare.

You winked at me? Daring me? Fine. I swing full circle. Human strength, about a seven out of ten, and my Slugger pounds into your gut with a deep, wood-to-meat thud. Nothing from you. No grunts, no groans, no escaping of air, you remain frozen, tensed, waiting for more.

More is what you get. A succession. A rain of blows delivered with pinpoint accuracy. A hammering of your muscle between pelvis and sternum. Three times and four. My bat a pick ax grounding up dirt. Five times and six. My bat a mallet pulverizing a side of beef. Seven, eight, and nine, my Slugger brutalizing an inanimate object. The sounds of wood beating belly excite me; the absence of sounds coming from you angers me in an exciting way. Still no groans? No gasps or grunts? The combination of my physical exertion and mental frustration opens my sweat glands. I'm soaked. I drop my bat. Clothes come off.

You watch me undress. Make good use of your respite. Your breath is your only sound, as your chest and middle rapidly rise and fall. The corners of your mouth turn up ever so slightly. Do you like what you see as I join you in nakedness? Do you like your torture so far? Does it excite you? Do I?

As I pick up my bat, your arms strain against their chains. You arch your back. Elevate your chest, flatten your belly, steel every muscle and nod to me. Giving me your approval? Inviting me? Challenging me?

All right, you rough and tough slab of meat. Time to go Dark Ages on you. My toes touch urine and I further regress the era. Primeval. Two alpha-male beasts will do battle. Supremacy of the forest goes to the victor, and I will win. I will break you if it kills me. Or you. No more counting, just beating. No more control over velocity of my blows, either. I'm gonna pound on you until you make a sound. My wood pulverizing your belly reverberates like a symphony. Dissonance. Expressionistic, and you will provide the counterpoint. Your melody a pained G minor: a grunt, a gasp, a groan, or perhaps a gurgling as I rupture every organ you've got inside your seemingly impenetrable wall.

Is that what you want? Are you forcing me to destroy you? I don't care one way or another. Don't know who you are, where you come from or where you belong, and I am no longer in control of my actions. I am a madman beating on you with maniacal strength. My Slugger should have already burst through your abdomen, snapped your spine, broken my bench and cracked my concrete floor, but yours is a muscled defense not to be breached. I continuously wail on you, and nothing stops me until your dick flips onto your belly and gets in my way.

The damn thing is one hundred percent erect. What kind of freakish freak of nature are you?

I drop my bat. Kneel between your thighs at the end of the bench, my knees in your piss and loving it. I bury your cock inside my mouth. Take it all. Extend my tongue. Slather your nuts while crushing your dick-head in the back of my throat. Nothing subtle. No slow-build, I violently scrape the length of your pecker, my lips arriving at the rim of your mushroom lickety-split, lickety-lick.

You breathe. Recuperate from your beatings, while I mercilessly stroke orally, squeezing with lustful insanity. My frenzied hands hot-rub your belly. My frantic fingers knead your tortured muscles. My clamped-tight mouth crushes your mighty cock, reducing it down to a harmless twig while my head bobs up and down with a rapidity that could snap my neck from its axis.

I don't care. I've lost all common sense, and besides, it doesn't take but a couple dozen strokes before you flood my throat with your come. My long-sought goal is finally achieved. You twitch. You squirm, and yes, at long last, you surrender your music to my ears. You gasp, grunt, moan and groan, as I maintain tempo sucking and swallowing. No pity for you. I drain your nuts and then some. Torture your post-orgasmic, sensitive cock as though you'd never even come. I've got you emitting sounds that nearly make me come untouched. But I do touch.

I spit out your dick. Stand over you. Straddle you. Spit in my hand and jack myself. You close your eyes. Smile at me. Groan for me when I sit on your belly to complete my ecstasy. Like you, it doesn't take much for me, and my cock spurts a volley of semen dotting your neck and chest. Second spurt, third, and the finale leaves a pool on the pit of your stomach.

Spent, I stand over you. Lean down and pressure your chest with the palms of my hand, as you open your eyes, gaze at me and wink. "Thank you, Mr. Thomas."

"Huh?"

* * * * *

Chapter 5 is the end and will post one week from now, or you can read all five chapters at Jardonn's Erotic Tales.com