Date: Mon, 16 Jun 2003 13:40:47 -0700 (PDT)
From: Pete Brown <petebrownuk@yahoo.com>
Subject: Fighter! (M/M)

FIGHTER!

By Pete Brown     petebrownuk @ yahoo.com

Read all of Pete's stories at
groups.yahoo.com/group/petebrownseroticstories


I woke up with my usual morning hard-on and lay awake
for a few moments in that delightful state half way
between full consciousness and sleep.  My hand slid up
and down my prick, and the little eddies of pleasure
as my foreskin slipped over my cock head caused my
erection to get even harder.  I wasn't going to work
that day so there was no need to rush, and I had lots
of time for a really good wank.  On the other hand,
part of my brain said I ought to "save" myself for
later, as I wouldn't want to disappoint.  "What the
hell?", another part of me responded, "You're only 28
and you regenerate quickly.  If you cum now, you'll be
ready again tonight."

Pleasure won, of course, so I continued to slide my
hand up and down my prick, then increased the pleasure
by using two hands and allowing my moist, sensitive
cock head to rub against the palm of my other hand.
My legs moved languorously around under the duvet as I
wanked away, and the prickly sensation from the hairs
on my legs and arse as they slid over the sheets
increased my sense of general well being and
happiness.  Now I started to really turn myself on, by
gripping my prick really hard between my fingers, so
that my meaty flange was teased and stimulated almost
unbearably as it slid between them.  I moved my other
hand from my prick and rubbed at my nipples - they're
too sensitive, actually, for a guy in my profession,
but at times like this it's great to be able to bring
yourself almost to the point of climax just by
tweaking your nubs and gripping them between your
finger nails.

I don't really know what I'm thinking about when I'm
wanking - sometimes I remember one of the women I used
to fuck, back when I still did things like that before
I learned about proper sex, and sometimes it's about
one of the guys I've just fucked.  But a lot of the
time I don't think about anything at all - the sheer
pleasure I can get from my own body is enough.  I've
always thought it strange that some men can only get
it off by looking at porn, as I've never had that
problem - the sheer excitement from physical
stimulation has always been enough.

My breathing was quickening now, and a faint sheen of
sweat was breaking out on my forehead and chest, and I
knew I was near to shooting.  I ought to have left my
nipples alone and moved my hand back to catch my cum,
but I was enjoying it too much so I just shot into the
bed, or, rather, just at the last moment I forced my
prick upwards so it mainly shot along my own belly.

I carried on trying to wank as I shot, and groaned
with the exquisite agony that always causes me - I
want to carry on wanking, but it's just so amazing how
I want to shout and laugh and moan all at the same
time if I do.  My arse even jerked backwards, as if it
was trying to pull my prick away from my hand that was
still trying to tease it.

Once it's over, though, it's over, and I lay there for
a moment listening to my heart and my breathing - I
always like to do that when I'm with another guy, too,
and I hate it when they spoil this magic moment by
wanting to talk.

My hand moved up from my cock across my ribbed belly,
trying to scrape up as much of the cum from me as I
could.  A lot of it was entangled in my pubic hair
(although not all that much, as I keep this trimmed
quite short), and the treasure trail across my belly
was also drenched in it.  I got a fair bit of it,
though, and brought my hand up to my mouth and licked
my palm and fingers clean.  I've never understood why
guys don't like eating cum -  OK, the smell isn't all
that great, but the warm sliminess of it is one of
those extra little pleasures that's really not like
anything else.  I hate it when a guy who's been
sucking me off won't take my cum in his mouth and I've
sometimes had to be, shall we say, quite forceful to
make him do it.  And some guys don't like you kissing
them when you've got a mouthful of their cum - idiots,
to miss out on that extra sensation you get when two
tongues are coated with man juice.

Without thinking, I turned over onto my front and
moved to get more comfortable for a few more minutes
in bed.  Oh shit - more cum stains on the sheets!  It
seems as if I'm always having to launder the sheets,
as I really don't like those little hard patches
underneath me as I slip my nude body into bed (that's
another thing I hate - men who get dressed to go to
bed: totally naked is the only way to sleep).  I
suppose I ought to get a cleaning lady or something,
but it's only a one bedroom apartment, and it doesn't
take all that much effort for me to clean it myself.
It's just that it always seems to need doing at a time
when I'm not ready to do it.  And some guys can be so
fastidious - when you've just fucked them, or are just
about to fuck them, why on earth should they be
concerned about cum stains on the sheets, or if the
towels in the bathroom are not absolutely pristine
white?  It's not as if they're going to catch anything
from the bedclothes or towels, after all - we're going
to be in much more intimate contact than that and any
germs that are going will pass from my tongue, or my
fingers, or my prick, just as easily!

Anyway, thinking about these domestic things destroyed
my mood of relaxed sexiness, so I got out of bed and
went into the bathroom to pee, then  rummaged around
to find my running shorts.  That first pee of the day
is always the best, isn't it?  There always seems to
be so much more piss to come flooding out first thing
in the morning.  And that's another funny thing - the
guys that like to play piss games always seem to want
to do it in the evening - I've never found a guy who
wants me to piss over him in the morning, even though
there's a lot of it available.  If someone has stayed
the night, they just want to shower and go - although
perhaps they're a bit scared of me when they see me in
my full magnificence in the daylight.  I'm really very
harmless, although at 6'4" and 210 lbs, all of it
muscle, some guys do seem to be a bit worried - I do
deliberately cultivate a hard image, though, so my
thick black hair is kept at a number one, and, as I've
said, my pubic hair is neatly trimmed.  Some of them
don't like the big tattoo on my arse, either, but
that's part of the job.

I'm a bit of a traditionalist, really - I like those
running shorts I always wore when I was younger -
satin material with a cotton pouch inside, very short,
and with the sides split open to let your muscles have
minimum resistance.  I hate those things they want you
to wear these days - long legs, or, even worse, tight
elastic all over you.  I think some of those
professional runners only wear them so they can show
of the size of their pricks - if they were truly well
built, like me, it would be obvious whatever they
wore.

On "normal" work days I don't run, and I don't even go
to the gym - I do really hard grunt physical work
labouring on a building site, and that gives my body
all the exercise I need.  But on days like today when
I'm going to travel, and at the weekends, I need to
burn energy.  So it's seven miles for me now - and not
at a gentle jog, either:  I run, run so fast that my
singlet is soaked in sweat within a mile.  I don't
mind, actually - I can more or less turn off the
boredom as I run, and when my lungs are protesting and
my legs are aching, I can mostly ignore them.  Since I
moved to the East End it's been better, as I run along
the river bank and I don't have the traffic fumes
everywhere - I usually go in to Tower Bridge along the
north bank, then back along the South Bank and through
the foot tunnel at Greenwich.  Actually, that might be
more than seven miles, but I need to do that to keep
me in good shape - and, let's not fool ourselves,
that's what men pay their money to see:  my body.

I got back and showered away the sweat, then grabbed
breakfast - the guys on the building site always laugh
at me when I try to eat healthily, but it's them that
are killing themselves with their big fry-ups.  All I
have in the morning is lots of cereal, and I don't
even use milk - I moisten it with fresh orange juice.
Well, it keeps me in great shape, anyway - but perhaps
it's in my genes: dad was a big tough guy, too, and my
kid brother plays a lot of rugby as a prop forward
(although he has a desk job, and the last time we
showered together I slapped his arse to show him that
he's not as firm and hard as he used to be!).

I always wear the same clothes - Jeans, work boots, a
T-shirt, and a Jeans jacket or, if it's cold, a donkey
jacket.  It really saves on cupboard space - all the
clothes I own are in one half of one of the built-in
wardrobes.  I never wear underwear, either - if I have
to strip, it looks messy to pull down boxers or briefs
as well as your jeans - and some potential clients
find it really sexy to see a guy's bum or prick
emerging directly from his jeans. Not that I need to
audition much these days - I've got quite a
reputation, and the places on the circuit book me
"unseen".  I'm staying up in Birmingham tonight, but I
don't pack anything - I can wear the same clothes
tomorrow, I can skip shaving, and so I don't even need
to take a small bag with me.

Walking past the site I'm working at currently on the
way to the tube I deliberately take the other side of
the road - I only skip a day or two occasionally for
my other work, but the foreman can get pretty pissed
off if he sees you blatantly walking past.  I don't
really care if I lose the job as there are lots of
others for guys like me who can really work hard,
doing manual labour - so much is done by machine now,
that blokes who can really get stuck in and work on
those bits that can't be mechanised can earn premium
rates, and are always in demand.  You can drive a
loader, or use power tools if you're pretty average,
but when they need real pick and shovel work, they
need strong, tough muscle, like me.  But why cause
unnecessary aggravation?  They'll just dock me a day's
pay a I didn't turn up today, and that's fine by me.

Being an organised sort of bloke, and with a lot of my
trips arranged well in advance, I can always take
advantage of special offers on the trains and the fare
is a real bargain.  I like the journey to Birmingham -
it's only 90 minutes or so, and it's interesting to
see the London suburbs flash by, then there' the
stretch where the M1 runs parallel and the train
overtakes all the cars.  I've got a Fireblade that
would get me there quicker, I suppose, if you take the
tube and the train times together, but it's more
relaxing on the train.  And I don't have to worry
about some toe rag nicking my bike when I'm working at
night.  The only problem on the train is the kid who
insist on playing personal stereos too loud, or who
talk loudly to each other - it puts me off reading the
paper.  I told one lot of lads to shut up, and
actually had to go and stand over them and clip one of
them before they got the message this morning, but
otherwise it was OK.  I think they thought that they
could ignore my warning, being as there were four of
them, but four lads in their late teens are no match
for me.

I wasn't due at the Pit until five, so as I usually do
I ducked into the Museum and Art Gallery on my way
from the station - I always like their staggering
collection of pre-Raphaelites, and it's amazing that
only a few years ago they were completely out of
fashion!  They have a good tea room, too, and although
I don't like eating a lot before the evening, I do
need something to keep going.

One of the reasons why managers keep asking for me, I
believe, is that I'm reliable:  if I say I'll turn up
on such and such a day at such and such a time, I
will.  Some of the guys in this game are real flakes -
they make a bit of money, then they're off until
they've run out, even if they're booked for a bout.
But I'm planning for the long term - I can't do this
much beyond 35 or so, so I take as many bouts as I can
and I save all the appearance money and prize money -
my "day job" pays all the bills on my apartment, and I
live pretty frugally, really - no permanent boy
friend, no kids, no fancy holidays.  When I'm 35 I'm
going to quit it all and go around the world until I
find somewhere I want to spend the rest of my life.
Of course, the managers might book me because I've got
a really great body, a big thick prick, I'm "ruggedly
handsome" I was told (which is what the customers
like), and I don't cause trouble - provided they pay
me, I'll more or less do what they want.

The Pit is one of the best run venues in the country.
 There are proper changing rooms for us guys with
lockers so your stuff is safe, nice showers, a great
fighting pit with padded sides so damage to you is
limited, and the "public" areas for the punters are
quietly luxurious.  But it's the manager who really
makes the difference - Will is fanatical about making
sure everything runs like clockwork, and when I
arrived he greeted me with a firm handshake.
Actually, he used to be in the game himself, and so I
guess that's why he's so good - he can see things from
our point of view.  I suppose I could do that kind of
job when I finally quit, but I think I'll go around
the world first!

I was exactly on time, and Will was at the rear door
when I rang the bell.  "Hey, Steve.  Great to see you
again.  It's a standard bill tonight - three pairs,
patrons' choice, fight to the fuck.  OK?"

"Sure, Will.  We fixed the fee, didn't we - a thousand
to appear, a thousand for a win, plus what I can sell
the other guy for if I win?"

"Sure.  The other guys are here - go and change, and
be upstairs for an eight o'clock start."

As I said, the changing rooms are pretty nice at The
Pit - wooden benches, lockers.... just like a normal
sports club.  Only the shackling points, used when
there's an involuntary match and the victims captured
from the streets have to be held whilst they wait to
go up to the fighting pit, are not what you'd
necessarily expect.

I recognised three of the other guys from bouts I've
fought before, and nodded to them.  It's not etiquette
to chat and talk to the other fighters, though, given
what we're going to do to each other, so I just
stripped off in silence and put my clothes into my
locker.  I looked at the others doing the same thing,
and I could almost guess what the patrons would choose
- the relatively slim blond guy would almost certainly
be matched against the big black, the two younger guys
with "swimmers" bodies would probably go against each
other, and I'd go with the guy who was a bit like me -
same general height and muscular build, but hairy all
over.  When you start thinking about fighting you
always think at first it's going to be big tough guys
like me who are the worst opponents, but actually it
can be difficult to win against some of these other
types - I always find it difficult if I'm matched
against a young slim guy, as they tend do be so dammed
fast on their feet and can get you on to the ground
before you can think.  Of course, if the bout goes on
a bit, I'll then always win in the end as strength
overcomes speed - but I've had some close-run things!

It was good to see that all the guys were real
professionals:  all of them, like me, had the tattoo
of the UK NWF on our right arses. You have to join,
and get the tattoo, really, as it's part of being a
true professional. One by one we used the enema hose
in the showers to really clean out our arses - I hate
it when my opponent doesn't do this, as shit on your
cock is a real turn-off for the punters..  When I
first started I used to hate having to fill myself up
with water and then shit it out in front of other
guys, but you get used to it - and at least at The Pit
there's a lavatory in the showers area: in some
places, when you're full you just have to squat over
the outlet from the showers to get rid of it.   It's
also interesting to see how guys prepare themselves
after that - I'm almost at the top of the "ladder" of
professional fighters, and I don't often lose.  But I
still stretch and grease my hole, "just in case".
Half of us were going to lose tonight, after all, but
I was surprised to see that it was only my opponent
who went in for stretching and lubing - we grinned at
each other almost sheepishly as we stood with one foot
on the changing bench, probing at our holes to relax
them and liberally stuffing lube up.  If you ask me,
it's just foolish not to prepare properly - I know
some guys are superstitious and believe that if they
grease their holes they'll be more likely to lose, but
I think that's rubbish - if you don't lube up in
advance, the risk of injury is so much greater, and
it's not nearly as nice for your conqueror.

At The Pit all the fighters start off wearing the same
thing, and they supply neat white satin shorts -
completely modest, you wouldn't mind wearing them to
play football in.  We all pulled them on, and then
Will came in to "do the honours.".

"Well, gentlemen, I think you've all fought here
before.  There's 45 minutes for the patrons to size
you up, the last fifteen minutes 'au naturel', then
they vote on tonight's pairings, and then we're off.
I'll just give you your numbers....."

We had to pull down our shorts in turn, and he used a
magic marker to put a large 1,2, 3 and so on on our
left arses - the patrons didn't speak to us much, and
they used this so they could vote unambiguously on who
was going to fight whom.  We then all followed Will up
the stairs to the public areas, to meet tonight's
patrons.

Most of the fights at The Pit are "black tie" affairs
and the patrons, who spend a lot of money on the
tickets, all dress up.  Tonight was no exception, and
wearing nothing but our white satin shorts we went
into the bar area that was already pretty full -
there's a capacity of about 200 at The Pit, and I
think most of them must already have been there.  It's
odd at first to be walking around just in tiny shorts
when most of the other men are in dinner jackets, but
you get used to it.  The thing I really hate, though,
is that so many of them smoke -  in spite of the air
conditioning, the air stung my throat and the number
smoking giant cigars was particularly disgusting -
there's just no way that the system can cope.  In a
way I was glad my clothes were downstairs - at least I
wouldn't have to smell of smoke afterwards!

The idea is that you move around, and the patrons can
inspect you - most of them are pretty timid, but some
feel your biceps, or run their hands over your
shoulders, or even your belly.  Half way through the
inspection period Will gives a signal, and we all drop
our shorts and the last bit of the inspection is with
the fighters totally naked - and then the men can note
down the numbers on our arses, and decide the
pairings.  I say "men" - there's no reason why you
can't go to spectate at The Pit if you're a woman: the
sex discrimination laws forbid them selling tickets
only to men, after all.  But only occasionally do you
see a woman there - and then she's usually pretty
stunning and hanging on the arm of some really old,
really rich, guy.  We may be selling our bodies for
these men's pleasure, but I think most of the women
who turn up as guests are actually doing the same
thing!

The examination, once we're all nude, gets a bit
tougher.  Somehow having us totally naked in the midst
of all these clothed men gives them additional
confidence (or, perhaps, they've just had time to have
a few more drinks and so they're naturally bolder).
After a bit more timid touching of shoulders and
backs, some guy will fondle your arse "just to feel
the power there" he'll say to his fellows.  That will
be followed by a hand running up and down your thigh,
and then a whole-hand rubbing of your chest and belly.
 One of the more drunk ones will sooner or later touch
your prick, and once that's happened,  it's more or
less a free for all - once one has done it, they all
want to.  Guys will stand by the side of you, put one
hand on your arse to hold you, then cup your prick in
the palm of their other hand.  Or they'll weigh your
balls up and down, "to see how they'll react during
the bout".  I've had guys slide a finger down my arse
crack, but no one has (yet!) fingered my hole, but
it's not at all unusual to be 'skinned as they "just
want to see if his cock head is properly moist."

It's all pretty humiliating, I suppose, but the pay
is, after all, excellent - a thousand quid for a
couple of hours.  The first few times I fought I hated
this bit, but now I see it for what it is - an
essential part of the evening's entertainment for
these guys, who are paying highly for the privilege.
And why should I care if guys feel and fondle my body
- I've absolutely nothing to be ashamed of.  No,
rather, I'm proud of it.  And I know that all the men
there wished they were half as fit, half as virile,
and half as well made as I am:  it's probably the only
time they get to handle a real man, after all!

Finally, Will calls to us again, and we line up on a
mall platform along one wall of the room.  It's well
lit, and  we're now all sweating so the lights cause
our skin to gleam and shine.  Will has a mike, and
asks us in turn to step forward, turn around, and do a
few simple poses and flexes.  There are always cheers
from the audience as this goes on, and I usually
encourage them by going erect and 'skinning, so they
can all see my cock head glistening pinkly in the
lights.

We are then sent off, and Will collects their votes on
the pairings they want to see.

As expected, I'm going up against the guy who's quite
like me, and we're going on last - that's good, as in
the "auction" those who want to but didn't earlier
will now be desperate to buy.  And they'll be a lot
drunker, too, so the bidding will go higher.

The two "swimmers" go up first, and the four of us
left sit there listening to the dull thump on the
ceiling as they fight in the pit above our heads, and
the roars from the crowd.   It takes a lot longer than
you think - the actual  bouts are not much more than
fifteen minutes, but with the "auction", things take
longer.   The black and the slim blonde then were
called up and we two were left alone.   I have had
some opponents try to "deal" to throw the fight, but
the other guy and me just sat in silence - we were, I
guess, both confident that we were going to win.  I
sat there with one foot up in the air, stretching my
hole again, and I could see the other guy looking at
me.  He did the same then, and we both just shrugged
and grinned - if it wasn't for the money, I don't
think either of us would have cared who won:  we were
both great looking men, and either one would be happy
to be fucked by the other.

Then it was our turn, and we mounted the steps and
went through the door into the pit.  The actual
fighting area - the pit - is about 20' by 20'.  It has
padded black leather all over the floor, and the sides
are padded and covered in leather too.  It's called
the pit as it's set down from the main floor by about
eight feet, and all the spectators are above you.

It doesn't matter how many times you do it, and how
used you are to the experience - somehow, as you step
into the leather pit, totally naked, with two hundred
baying men looking down at you, something happens -
your heart races up a notch, your breathing quickens,
and you start to get an erection.

Will announced over the PA "Gentlemen - the last pair
tonight.  It's a fight to the fuck again, and the
loser will again be auctioned.  It's no holds barred,
but the fighters may not gouge, bight, or attempt to
permanently injure their opponent by maneuvers such as
pulling their balls. Let the fight begin!"

We cautiously moved closer to each other. We were both
professionals, and knew there was only one outcome -
one of us was going to fuck the other. I made the
first abrupt move, and went for his legs, but the
leather floor was slick from the sweat and cum from
the first two bouts and as I dove for them, I half
slipped. My opponent was able to move to the side and
I temporarily lost my balance. As I turned around to
face my foe, he wrapped one arm on top of my shoulder,
and managed to get me down on one knee, and was trying
to use this advantage to get me face down on the
ground.

His hands slipped over my body which was now streaming
with the sweat that was pouring off both of us, from
the heat and the tension, and made it difficult to
grip.  This gave me a momentary advantage, and I was
then was able to gain the upper hand. I gave him a
chop to the midsection that half stunned him for a
moment, then grabbed his balls and squeezed them so
that he fell to the ground wincing in pain. The crowd
was roaring and cheering as we grappled around, and
were almost driven over the edge by the sound of his
shouts - actually, it's a bit of an honour thing:  you
can make a guy scream when you squeeze his balls, but
only so much, no more.

I managed to get behind him and was able to get on top
of his back and push him face down into the leather
surface of the pit.  I then mounted him and wrapped
both my hands around his waist.  He struggled
violently, and tried to fight me off, but I could feel
my power and strength rising as we fought.  It was a
bit like riding a wild bronco for the time, but I had
the advantage - I was on top, and he had to thrust and
buck against my weight.  I could feel him tiring
rapidly under me, and I knew I was going to win.

Fantastic sexual energy as surging through me - this
was what real men did:  fought each other, naked, man
to man.  A man was meant to conquer and vanquish
another, to make him utterly subordinate to his will,
and this was what I was doing.  I was like the
primitive alpha male of a primeval society, showing
the other bucks that I was the supreme boss.  My cock
did what all men's cocks would do in these
circumstances - it readied itself for action and I was
massively erect, with my 'skin fully retracted and
drops of pre-cum dripping from my piss slit.

I couldn't let go of my opponent, but somehow it was
as if my cock knew where it had to go.  I held him
even tighter, and forced him around so that my cock
was in his ass crack. All the sensitive nerves in my
cock head were flooding my brain with sensations of
extreme pleasure, and my sexual frenzy heightened
Then, as he continued to struggle, I kicked at his
legs with mine and managed to position myself at his
hole.  I could feel the sweat-soaked, hot moistness of
his sphincter against my cock head, and I brutally
thrust my hips forward to drive myself into him.  He
gave a shout - was it rage, or pain, or submission?
But I couldn't get in as he was attempting to keep his
muscles clenched.  It took two more massive thrusts
from me until I felt myself sink in - my flange went
through, and then it was effectively all over.

Gripped by my muscular arms, and impaled on my cock,
there was nowhere for him to go.  I thrust harder, and
felt that satisfying slap as my balls hit his arse.
He was a nice guy, and I could have been gentle with
him, I suppose, but the sheer raw power of sex was now
totally in control and I could no longer think of
anything except fucking this man utterly into
submission, and taking my pleasure from him.  It was
me that mattered, my cock that needed satisfaction,
and his hole was just a wet, hot, muscular passage
provided for my pleasure.

I rammed home harder and harder, almost pulling out on
every stroke before slamming myself back in.  The poor
guy was screaming in time to my thrusts, not that
anyone could hear above the excited cries of the
crowd.  They seemed entranced by the sight of my
muscular arse and thighs pumping in and out so
vigorously - it was like some Roman or Greek statues,
with two such perfect bodies engaged together.

But it was over all too soon - I dimly heard my own
great cry of "OH Fuck.... YES...." as I shot my load
up into him, and then it was as if all the energy
drained out of me.  I simply collapsed on top of him,
and we both lay there, our hearts pounding and our
breathing coming in great rasps.  The sweat from my
chest and belly was mingling with that running from
his back and arse, and my nostrils were assailed by
the sheer masculine smell of him.  My face was on his
shoulder, and I pulled forward and said

"OK, I'm coming out now.  I like to give the crowd a
bit of a show at the auction, so you can struggle a
bit - and I'll split the fee from it with you."

So saying, I pulled out from his hole, and clambered
to my feet.  I rested my bare foot on his neck as he
still lay there, sprawled on the leather, and gave a
great shout of victory - indeed, I must have looked
like a primitive savage, holding his opponent down in
a position of abject surrender and servitude.

The crowd was absolutely wild now, shouting, stamping,
and cheering.  I don't know what the previous bouts
were like, but I think they must have sensed in this
one the primeval forces at work that made my fucking
of my opponent so very special.

I bent down and hauled him to his feet, then, as he
started to react - was it "mock", or was it real, I
don't know - I quickly grabbed him in a half-nelson.
My own cock was nestling in his ass crack, and his hot
sweaty back was pressed close to my chest.  I paraded
him around the ring, as Will announced "the Auction"
over the PA.

The door into the pit opened, and I pushed him out, in
front of me, up the stairs into the areas where the
spectators were.  They crowded around, and I could
feel hands running all over me, and over my opponent
as he stood there in front of me, helpless.  I could
hear Will shouting numbers, and then there was a
"crack" as the hammer fell.

A big, florid guy pushed his way to the front, and
crowd fell back a bit to give him room - he was
sweating like a pig, probably because he needed to
lose at least fifty pounds.  But, he'd paid the money,
so who was I to argue.  He came forward, and took my
opponent's cock in his podgy fat hand, and started to
wank him.

I do wish these guys would think about us fighters
more, though - I could feel my guy's body tensing as
he was forcibly masturbated and the big guy's rings
caused him acute discomfort.  The watching men were
cheering as the fat guy stroked away, and I thrust my
hips forward, causing my opponent to be thrust forward
in turn, making his cock even more accessible.  The
wanking continued, until my opponent suddenly shot -
it went all down the dinner jacket of the fat guy, and
there was a huge shout of laughter from all the
watchers.

I really felt for my opponent, though, as the big guy
did not stop - he carried on wanking him, even though
he was in such obvious discomfort, trying vainly to
kick at my legs and thrust backwards to get away from
the fat man's hand.

In spite all of that that had been spilled, the fat
man still ended up with half a palm full of spunk, and
in a final act of degradation, he took a special
delight in cleaning his hand off on my opponent's
hairy chest.

And that was it.  The men drifted away to go to the
bar, and my opponent and I were left to go back down
the stairs to the changing room.  As we went, I felt
fantastic - I'd proved myself again in the only ay
that really matters - I may not have a job in the city
with telephone number salaries, or command an army, or
whatever, but there it matters I am the king.  I could
fight a fair fight with a worthy opponent, and utterly
vanquish him so that he had no alternative but to take
my cock as I humiliatingly fucked him in front of
other men.  Then he had to endure having his spunk
sold, as I held him, immobile, for some lesser man to
wank.

I know some people criticise our fights, saying
they're "dangerous".  They've even tried to get us to
wear condoms!  But, I ask you, how are you going to
stop a man in the middle of a virtual rape, and get
him to put a condom on?  And who wants it, anyway -
the whole joy, the whole manly experience of fighting
to the fuck is knowing that it's flesh against flesh -
you against him, with nothing to intervene.

We showered together, still not really peaking . We
both knew it was only a fight, and that he could have
been the one who fucked me.  We shook hands, and said
the traditional "No hard feelings" salutation of the
UK NWF.  Will then appeared, and gave me my two
thousand, and him his one thousand.  The fat creep had
paid five hundred for the excitement of wanking my
opponent - what an idiot: didn't he know that he could
wank at least five good looking rent boys for that
much, if that's what turned him on?  I split the five
hundred fifty-fifty with my opponent, as agreed, and I
even thought of upgrading to first class on the
journey home tomorrow!

Just as I was leaving, Will asked me if I could stay
in Birmingham for a fight the next night, Saturday, as
he'd had a fighter drop out because of a chest
infection.  As it was a Saturday, and all I had to do
at home was the laundry, I agreed.  It was to be one
of those "involuntary" fights, and Will also asked me
if I'd join in the hunt - scanning the gyms and the
bars in the City for likely victims.  I'd not done
that before, and although I knew that the fighting
wouldn't be up to much, the prospect of fucking some
real virgins was a real turn on.

I didn't have a hotel room booked that night, as I
usually just go to the gay sauna around the corner
from The Pit - although they say the cubicles are for
"cruising, not snoozing" in their rather arch way, I
just ignore it.  For a tenner, it's a cheap night's
lodging, and no one dares to tell me otherwise or
interfere with me:  I usually don't go for guys in
saunas, as they're not in the sort of condition I
like.  But Will was grinning at me.... "So.... If
you're staying on, come to my place for the night.  I
miss the fight game, actually being in the ring, you
know... Perhaps we might fight a bit, before
retiring....?  And, who knows who'll win.... And you
can set the rules."

The end.

UK NWF  = Nude Wrestling Federation.
Copyright Pete Brown, London, June 2003.