From: Kirk Brothers <kirkbros@gte.net>
Subject: ACT TWO - Revised Feb., 1997 - Wrestling/spanking story
Date: Wed, 12 Feb 1997 11:34:30 GMT
TO THE READER: This sex-slanted story began as a four-page spoof
on the popular form of mock combat known as professional wrestling.
Because the satire demanded ridiculous wrestling, I set the story
in a futuristic year, and invented a Wrestling Federation with
bizarre rules--compared to today's more mundane wrestling holds.
I think there's still enough resemblance to the Saturday morning TV
comedies to be good for a laugh--it could ALMOST happen this way,
maybe! I hope you like the story for its intended purpose--men's
humor of a slightly raunchy nature.
ACT TWO
Part 1 of 2
by Kirk Brothers
Box 76382
St. Petersburg, FL 33734
Copyright 1994, 1995
All Rights Reserved
Big Boy Tommy had just thrown Killer Kane out of the ring--
with a little help from Killer Kane--and the crowd of wrestling
fans cheered and whistled their approval. It had been a typical
"fight", according to 1999 "standards" set by the Eastern
Continental Wrestling Federation.
Big Boy Tommy--the challenger--weighed in at a svelte 270
pounds, and lumbered around the ring like a coy female hippopotamus
in heat. Killer Kane--the defending champion--barely reached the
200-pound mark, but his muscles were more artistically distributed
on his six-foot frame.
Big Boy had a shaved head, while Killer wore his hair long.
During the match Big Boy--the "bad guy" in this round--had grabbed
Killer's luxuriant mane, put one knee in the general area of
Killer's crotch, and twisted to one side with a grimace of effort
on his face. As though on cue, Killer had catapulted himself over
the ropes and onto the floor separating the ring from the first row
of fans. He landed on a wooden chair that just happened to be
there, held together with matchsticks, and which at once collapsed
in a heap. Killer struggled to his feet in an apparent daze--
shouting imprecations at Big Boy and the seemingly myopic referee,
who placidly counted Killer out.
The crowd booed the decision, and Killer waved his fist in a
charade of threatening anger. Big Boy then donned his lavender
silk dressing gown, clasped his hands over his head in a gesture of
self-congratulation, and exited the ring.
The announcer pulled his mike closer, and consulted his
program for the
1999!
10-Event!
Sensational!
All-Professional!
Championship!
Wrestling!
Extravaganza!
He spoke in enthusiastic tones of the surprise upset by Big
Boy Tommy, and how Killer Kane would certainly demand a rematch--
which would be even more exciting that this one--because now it was
a grudge fight. Who would win the next time? On this rhetorical
tone he turned to the next event on the bill.
It was to be another confrontation between a hero and a vil-
lain whose makeup and costumes would immediately identify their
roles for the least sophisticated fan. Angel Hare had long blond
teased hair, looking suspiciously like a wig, and a blond moustache
with full blond beard--also of dubious reality--that made him
rather resemble the King of Hearts. His eyes were deep blue, and
his white trunks glittered with sequins under the battery of high-
power spotlights. He was Hollywood-handsome--his boyish smile of
pearly teeth charming.
On the other hand, nobody could like The Black Demon, so
called because of his all-black tank suit and black hood which
covered the upper half of his head, revealing only a pair of
glittering blue eyes, visible through the eye-holes. Physically
the two were evenly matched, with the bodies of weight-lifters,
honed to hard muscularity--perhaps by miles of daily swimming, as
the program suggested.
Angel Hare was so called because he always fought fair, no
matter what his opponent did--while The Black Demon would take any
opening and exploit it to his advantage. He was definitely not a
nice guy. The bell rang and the performers approached each other
in crouched positions which, however, left them open at several
vulnerable points.
The Black Demon lived up to his name when he suddenly lashed
out with a karate-like kick at Angel Hare's crotch. Angel Hare at
once fell to the mat, writhing in agony, while The Black Demon
curled his lip in satanic pleasure. Then the Demon made his first
mistake--he turned his back on his fallen opponent.
At that moment in a bar in Teaneck, New Jersey, two patrons
watching the match on big-screen TV got into a heated argument over
whether The Black Demon's kick had actually made contact with Angel
Hare. The first man said that if it had, the Angel would be out
cold and, besides, if it was a fair fight, kicking the groin wasn't
allowed. The second man argued that the referee had allowed it, so
it had to be okay. The first man opined that the second man was
both retarded and illegitimate--in shorter words to that effect.
The bartended escorted both of them to the street when they
threatened to settle the point by practical demonstration.
Back in the ring, it was apparently the time Angel Hare had
waited for, and he took it. When the referee reached the count of
four, Angel Hare suddenly leaped to his feet, executed a ballet-
like leap through the air, and locked his legs in a tight scissors
hold around the Demon's waist. The Demon fell to the mat.
Having scored his point to the cheers of his fans, Angel Hare
suddenly released The Black Demon with a gesture of contempt. The
Demon lurched along the ropes, holding his sides and making exag-
gerated noises suggestive of pain. The crowd roard approval of
Angel Hare's retaliation.
Then The Black Demon apparently decided on his means of re-
venge. He approached Angel Hare, feinted a body blow, and then
grabbed the Angel from behind with one powerful arm. With the
other hand he reached down and grabbed the Angel's trunks at the
waistband. With a ripping sound and glitter of sequins, the trunks
tore away from the Angel's body as he stood, pinned in The Black
Demon's strong arm in the middle of the ring.
Angel Hare was stark naked, except for the briefest of jock-
straps. Barely a G-string or bikini, it just managed to cover his
genitals, above which a curly mass of bright carrot-red hair belied
the blondness of the scalp and facial hair. His buttocks, as ex-
posed as those of a Japanese Sumo wrestler, glistened with sweat.
The Demon laughed evilly, released Angel Hare, and strutted around
the ring, waving the Angel's torn trunks aloft like a flag of
victory.
The crowd was clearly divided in its sentiments. Some of the
fans booed and hissed the Demon. Some laughed at the humiliated
Angel, while others were mortified for the man now stripped and on
exhibition in the center of the ring. They wanted to see The Black
Demon get his comeuppance, and Angel Hare was not to disappoint
them.
The Black Demon was still pacing around the ring, his back to
Angel Hare, facing the crowd on all sides, grinning as he held the
torn trunks aloft. His hands stretched the skimpy garment as far
apart as he could reach. The colored sequins sparkled like a
fireworks display.
What happened next was so swift and perfectly executed as to
seem, perhaps, rehearsed. First Angel Hare seized The Black
Demon's left wrist and twisted it into a hammer lock behind the The
Demon's back. One foot stepped between The Black Demon's legs, and
the hammer lock forced The Demon to fall to the mat, turning as he
did so. Angel Hare grabbed The Demon's right big toe and twisted
in the opposite direction. The Demon squirmed in pain and landed
on his back. Angel Hare with a swift movement twisted himself into
position above and straddling his fallen opponent--and then sat
down on The Black Demon's upturned face.
"Lick my ass, you bastard!" yelled Angel Hare, to the delight
of the crowd. Angel Hare, still holding the toe in a painful lock,
put on pressure. The Demon's theatrical howls suddenly modulated
to screams of genuine agony--though somewhat muffled in Angel
Hare's crotch. The impassive referee began to count, "One."
The Black Demon tried to break loose, but apparently couldn't
get any leverage. His legs were off the mat, and the lock on his
vulnerable big toe forced him into a powerless position. His
writhing and struggling simply fanned the air, and all his move-
ments were wasted energy. The crowd roared at The Demon's predica-
ment. "Four. Five. Six." There were wild whistles from the
fans.
"Lick my ass!" repeated Angel Hare. "You wanted to see it, so
have a good close look, and don't get the hairs in your teeth!"
"Nine. Ten. You're out," concluded the referee. "Get off
his face!"
"No way, man!" said Angel Hare defiantly. "The bastard pulled
off my trunks in the ring to show my ass to everybody--so now he
can lick it and say 'Thank you, Sir!'" He looked around to speak
down to the Black Demon. "How do you like the toe-hold?" He gave
the toe another vicious twist, and the Black Demon yelled, again in
unfeigned agony. "I said lick my ass," said Angel ominously, "and
I mean it, so do it!"
"Get out of this ring!" shouted the referee. "I'll have you
disqualified! Both of you!" The crowd booed.
Then Angel Hare suddenly beamed. "He licked it!" He let go
the painful toe hold, and grabbed his torn trunks from The Black
demon's unresisting hand. He stood up to the applause of the crowd
surrounding the ring.
Then, holding his trunks aloft in a gesture to mock The Black
Demon's strutting a few moments before, Angle Hare boldly pulled
the ropes apart and made a triumphant exit.
As he walked leisurely up the aisle to the locker room, he
turned in all directions to face the crowd and achnowledge their
cheers and whistles. Up in the ring The Black Demon got up from
the mat, a scowl showing, wiping his mouth with the back of his
fist. He made a hurried exit up his aisle, followed by the hoots
and jeers of the spectators. The announcer told the crowd that the
third match would be between "Barber" Sevilla--who shaved his
defeated opponents--and Signor Caruso, who began each bout with an
operatic rendition of "On the Road to Mandalay."
Angel Hare reached the locker room first, and sat down before
an illuminated mirror and shelf holding a makeup kit. He packed
his breakaway trunks in a duffel bag, after first rejoining the two
pieces by their Velcro strips. Then he removed the blond wig and
set it carefully on a dummy head. His natural hair was deep brown.
The eyebrows, moustache, and beard peeled off next. Without his
makeup he was clearly a handsome hispanic in his late twenties--
whose name was Terry Gomez.
A damp sponge removed the spray-on hair color that had made
his pubic hair appear to be carrot-red. Now no one could possibly
identify him as Angel Hare. He suppressed a grin as the door
opened and The Black Demon entered. Without a word The Demon sat
down on the other end of the bench, pulled off his hood, and then
turned to direct a withering glare at the Angel.
They were identical twins.
They had about an hour to put on clown-white makeup and blue
trunks with astrological designs, when they would be touted as The
Gemini, in a tag-team match against Boris and Morris, The Mad
Russians. Suddenly Terry snorted with laughter he could no longer
hold back. His brother Gene kept a straight face, and focused a
fixed stare at Terry--which had no effect whatsoever on Terry's
ribald amusement.
"That was a lousy, low-down mean sonofabitch double-cross,"
said Gene finally, in a matter-of-fact tone--more of sorrow than
anger. Terry threw back his head and laughed harder. "The routine
was funny enough the way we practiced it," Gene said, badly irked.
"You were just supposed to sit on my face!"
Terry's laughter gradually subsided to a broad grin. "Yeah,
I know, Gene. Sorry I added the bit about licking my ass." He
didn't sound at all sorry. "It was too good a chance to pass up!"
"I thought you'd break my toe," grumbled Gene. He was still
irritated, and made a last bid for some sort of apology from his
brother. "Look, Terry," he said, "I know the fans don't have any
idea what we really look like, and I know they couldn't really see
a thing! But it sure as hell pissed me off having to lick your ass
in front of five thousand fans and the TV cameras!"
Terry grinned at Gene again, without sympathy.
"Well," he said in mock seriousness, "that's show biz."
(TO BE CONCLUDED)
AUTHOR'S FOOTNOTE
This was the end of the original story, which was published in
two "little" magazines (no ads, no circulation, no money). I liked
it enough to try my hand at writing a sequel a year after the first
publication. But I quickly found the "cartoon" style of the story
was a dead end with "that's show biz."
However, once I moved the action "off stage" to the wrestlers'
dressing and shower rooms, the characters became more believable
men--and in fact they dictated the dialogue and action of the
sequel. It turned out, somewhat to my surprise, to have a bisexual
S/M plot with a spanking finale.
I presume that most readers are NOT devotees of astrology, but
because I had created twins--and have had a long interest in
scientific astrology (not an example of oxymoron)--I decided to
make plot use of their differences in personality on astrological
grounds. So I determined by the rules of Hermetic Astrology the
precise minutes they would have had to be born to have similar, but
significantly different, bisexual characters.
Therefore, the charts mentioned by them in conversation may be
calculated by any astrologer--the horoscopes will be absolutely
accurate as referred to--and should be read in the way Gene's and
Terry's astrologer interpreted them.
With or without the horoscopes, the action of the sequel will
stand on its own, albeit of interest primarily to gay or bisexual
men into wrestling and spanking action.
ACT TWO
Conclusion
Copyright 1995 by Kirk Brothers
Gene grimaced. "Thanks for that philosophy!" he said with a
scowl, and stood up to peel off his black tank suit and jock strap.
He always wanted a shower after their first round of sweaty ring
action--as well as after their second appearance against The Mad
Russians. As usual, he grabbed a towel and shaving kit and strode
nude through the adjoining dressing rooms to the communal shower
and toilets. Terry, as usual, would take his shower after the
second match, needing extra time to carefully apply his clown white
makeup and colored facial decorations, which Gene had learned to
put on much faster.
In the shower room, Gene gave his face a quick once-over with
an old-fashioned straight-edge razor--it had been his father's--
then stepped into the large shower which provided multiple shower
heads with ample space for a dozen men at once.
Another wrestler was also refreshing himself after "losing"
his first "fight". He had been Killer Kane, and would soon become
Morris, the smaller of the two Mad Russians, but his real name was
Sam Backus. "Hi, Sam," said Gene, turning on warm water, and step-
ping gratefully into its soothing downpour.
"Hi, Terry," said Sam in return. "You guys had a real funny
gag! Which one of you got the idea?"
Usually Gene and Terry didn't bother to correct a mistake as
to their identities--the twins had learned years ago that it was
easier simply to answer for each other, and relay any important
conversation to the one for whom it had been intended. This time
Gene was in such a foul mood that he said, "I'm Gene. Terry is the
smart-ass sonofabitch top man in our team."
He told his tale of woe to Sam, who suppressed a howl of
laughter at Terry's final words in the dressing room and quickly
assumed an expression of sympathy. "Yeah, that was a mean stunt to
pull on a brother. Funny as hell--but a little mean. You real mad
at him?"
"A little," admitted Gene. "I'd like to think of some way to
get even! We won't be on TV with this routine again, but we've got
nine months on the road all over the country, and every fuckin'
show I gotta let him plant his lily-white butt on my face for the
crowd to laugh at!" He was rubbing soap over his body.
"The worst part of it is it's a funny gag--so that makes him
right, in a way! Once an act is set, you have to do it the same
way every time! I can't do a thing to him in the ring, because if
he looks lousy, I look lousy--and, besides, we're a team."
He reminisced as he rinsed his hair. "Terry amd I have always
been extra close--for thirteen years now--since we were kids in
Puerto Rico. In Puerto Rico men don't feel unmanly if they bond
with another man--we know it's natural to be able to love both men
and women--even sexually, sometimes. We don't have any Anglo hang-
ups about hugging a male relative or buddy--or kissing him--even in
public. And brothers are something special--we don't feel queer if
we admit we love each other." He continued to recall past thoughts
as Sam listened quietly. "A lot of Anglos think Terry and me are
maricons--that's faggots in English."
Sam grinned. "I understand that much Spanish. Everybody
knows the word maricon."
Gene went on. "They're dead wrong. Terry and me are fuck-
buddies--we like to pick up one cunt, or a good-looking maricon,
for a threesome. We both fuck the one in the middle, and they
always love getting it from twin studs, both ends at once! Fags,
especially!" He laughed. "And fags like us to be rough--they get
extra hot when we tie them down and whip their asses!" He paused.
"Does that surprise you?"
Sam shook his head. "They're masochists," he said. "You boys
are sadists--and AC/DC. I guess that's sorta normal for a lot of
guys in show biz. Show biz is about life, and being bi--and S/M--
are part of life."
Gene went on. "I just wish I could think of something that
would get him laughed at a little more when I pull his trunks off!"
He rinsed a moment or two, and then whooped. "I got it!" he said.
He paused a bit, and asked, "Would you and Phil be willing to do me
a favor?" Phil had been Big Boy Tommy, and was now getting into
his outfit as Boris, the bigger of the two Mad Russians.
"What's the favor?"
"Just help a brother have a little fun at his brother's ex-
pense--like Terry did with me in the ring in front of all the fans
and the TV cameras. You know those prop riding whips you guys use
on us in our tag-team match?"
"Sure." In the match when Terry and Gene were the Gemini,
they would play roles rather like the mischievous Katzenjammer
Kids--while Boris and Morris, being far bigger and heavier, would
play roles like the Captain. The Gemini would try to play tricks
(in wrestling terms) on the Mad Russians--whose costumes suggested
Cossack uniforms, complete with enormous fake riding whips.
The props were oversize, so as to be easily seen from the back
seats, and were actually rubber hoses slid over flexible fiberglass
rods. They could be flexed like genuine riding whips--and the
slapstick conclusion of the routine was when The Mad Russians lost
their patience with the antics of The Gemini, bent them over the
top rope on opposite sides of the ring, and pantomimed (utterly
unbelievably) whipping naughty brats on the seat of their trunks.
The audience always laughed as The Gemini contorted their
faces in expressions of pain and howled like little boys being
spanked by their fathers. It was obvious that the whips stopped at
least an inch short of contact--but the rubber hoses on fiberglass
rods were in fact capable of administering a brutal flogging if
they were ever actually used for that purpose.
"If you guys really used those whips on our butts, we'd have
welts for a week afterward, wouldn't we?"
"Sure would!"
"Well, we can't whip Terry's butt up in the ring--but suppose
after the match we come back to the shower room, and you bring one
of the whips with you. I'll get Terry in the shower after his ass
is wet, so it'll sting more! He's a sucker for a half-nelson--so
I'll get him in a hold bent over, and you guys give him a half-
dozen good licks for real, to teach him not to double-cross his
brother! And tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that,
Angel Hare will have a bunch of big red welts on his butt he can't
hide with makeup, and he might have trouble explaining how he got
those marks if anybody's curious enough to ask him! Whaddya say?
Will you guys wallop him if I hold him for you?"
Sam hedged. "It sounds okay--and it could be real fun to
watch him get it!" His tone was dubious. "I'll talk to Phil and
get back to you."
They both toweled off quickly and walked back to their dress-
ing rooms--Gene whistling a lively tune. He was still whistling
when he entered the room he shared with Terry, who had finished
putting on his Gemini makeup and was reading a book.
"Don't whistle in the dressing room," he said. "It means
you'll have bad luck!"
Gene put two fingers in his mouth and emitted a shrill blast.
"That's just a stupid show-biz superstition!" He sat down to put
on his blue trunks and Gemini makeup, and hummed happily to him-
self. Terry came over to his side and put a friendly arm around
his twin's shoulder. "Are you still mad at me, Gene?" he asked.
"Naw. You know me. I forget and forgive."
"I do know you. I know every tone in your voice, like you
know mine. We almost know what each other's thinking. It's been
that way all our lives--probably because we're twins. All I know
is something's wrong. Tell me what it is, and let's make up."
"Nothing's wrong."
"You're lying."
Gene did not answer. Terry put down his book and said, "I'll
step outside for some fresh air. See you in the ring." He left.
The stench of auto exhaust made "fresh air" an example of
oxymoron, but Terry had wanted to get away from Gene for a while.
He knew something was wrong, but not what. As he stood by the
railing of the stage entrance to the stadium in his clown makeup
and astrological costume, a passerby approached.
"Hey!" said the man, "are you with one of the rock bands?"
"No," answered Terry. "They were here last night. I'm with
one of the wrestling teams."
"Great! Can I have your autograph?" A scrap of paper and a
ballpoint pen were thrust at him. Terry dutifully signed the slip
of paper, which the man took eagerly. "You go by the name George
Washington?" he asked. "What a hot idea! You guys have the fun-
niest act in show business since the Three Stooges!" He walked
happily away.
"Asshole!" thought Terry. At that moment Phil, also known as
Big Boy Tommy, and now in his Cossack costume as Boris with a big
prop whip hanging from his belt, approached Terry.
"Gene?" he asked uncertainly.
Terry automatically replied, "Yeah, Phil. What's up?"
Phil was apologetic. "Look, Gene, Sam talked to me about you
asking us to do you a favor and whip Terry's ass in the shower for
you while you hold him." Terry's eyes widened a little, but Phil
didn't notice. "Look, Gene, we know how you feel about that trick
of Terry's, and we don't blame you for wanting him to have a few
big welts on his ass when you pull off his trunks tomorrow.
"We all agree Terry deserves a good ass-whipping--it's a lot
better than a fight between brothers who have to work together,
and it'd be fun for us to watch him get it! But the problem is
these prop whips are about ten times worse than real riding whips!
Take a close look. They're big enough to be seen from the back
rows, so they're as heavy as rattan canes--and the rubber hose
looks like leather, but it could peel off skin! These props could
really draw blood."
He paused. "We don't want to be liable for any part of your
revenge that could have Terry press criminal charges against us."
He paused again. "But we'll go this far for you. It's okay by us
if you want to whip his ass yourself--we'll hold him for you, as
long as you're the guy hitting him. To us it's just a locker-room
joke between the Gomez brothers. We'll all watch you do it and
won't interfere to help Terry--and we'll all have a good horse-
laugh on him after the way he embarrassed you in the ring. But we
won't do any more than hold him for you--and I'd rather you didn't
use one of our whips on him--they're no joke! Okay, Gene?"
Terry was quick to agree. "Fair enough, Phil. And I've had
second thoughts about the whips myself. Leave 'em in your dress-
ing room, but just be in the showers when Terry and I come in to
clean up. I'll bring my shaving kit--and Dad's big razor strap
I'll use on him instead. Terry and me felt it a lot when we were
kids, so it'll be like Dad's licking him again!"
Phil laughed in relief. "Good! Say, how will we know when
to jump 'im?"
Terry thought a second. "I'll say the word 'Geronimo!'" he
answered. "How's that?"
"Geronimo it is!" Phil turned to go back inside. "I'll tell
Sam it's all set the way we wanted--and the signal word." He left.
Terry took a moment to do some hard thinking. The passerby
who had asked for his autograph returned.
"Hey!" he said, "I can't find your name and picture on the
lobby billboard!"
"They couldn't use my real name," answered Terry. "Go look
for Pagliaccio." The passerby left again, looking dubious.
Terry went inside and returned to the dressing room. Gene had
finished putting on his makeup. "Coming, Gene?" asked Terry in an
innocent tone.
"Right with you," answered Gene. "We're on in a minute."
The twins went to two different aisles, each with one of The
Mad Russians. Gene entered with Sam. They made a double-time jog
to ringside for the final ballyhoo. "All set?" whispered Gene.
"All set," Sam whispered back. "Just like Phil said. And the
word is Geronimo."
"Huh?" said Gene, puzzled. Sam would have said more, but
already their opening music was playing, and Sam had to join Phil
in a wild opening dance.
The match, which was next to last--or the feature attraction--
went according to plan and direction. The Mad Russians did a fake
Cossack dance, laden with excess weight and high hats, their whips
jiggling at their sides as the sound system played the Trepak from
the Nutcracker Suite. The astrological twin clowns interfered and
attempted to throw the Cossacks by tricky wrestling holds.
The Cossacks retaliated with brute force, but the twins kept
eluding their grasp. The crowd roared with laughter. The stunts
were very clever--and potentially dangerous if done carelessly--but
were flawlessly performed, and the result was pure slapstick farce.
Finally the twins went one step too far--the Cossacks had the
crucial moment to attack--and by sheer avoirdupois prevailed. The
clown twins were laid over the top ropes facing the crowd of fans,
while the Cossacks fanned the air with their prop whips at comic
high speed. The wailing of the clowns at their make-believe spank-
ing brought down the house.
"Idiots!" thought Terry to himself. "Do they think this is
real?" He remembered the passerby who wanted his autograph. "They
think this is real," he said, answering his own question.
The last act as usual was what show people call the "crowd-
chaser". A definite let-down from the high comedy of the tag-team
match, it also had the best wrestling of the evening.
When the final act was over the company took a brief curtain
call, and headed for the dressing rooms. "See you in the shower,
Sam," said Gene. "Right, Terry," answered Sam.
In their dressing room Terry and Gene stripped and picked up
their towels. Terry also picked up the shaving kit and heavy
leather razor strop. "I think I'll try Dad's old razor like you
use," was all he said. They walked nude to the shower room
together.
The communal shower was crowded with the entire company, who
had spread the word as to what was going to happen. Sam and Phil
had the corner showers, and the other men filled in both sides--
leaving two central showers side by side conveniently empty for the
twins. The men were busily soaping themselves, but all kept an
eager eye on the two empty showers where the funniest action of the
evening would take place.
"You go first and turn on the warm water," said Terry to Gene.
"I need a quick piss stop." Gene walked to one of the empty spaces
as Phil obligingly turned on the water for him, while Sam turned on
the water where Terry would stand.
All conversation stopped for a moment, as the wrestlers turned
casually to have the best view of Terry's punishment. Gene stepped
into the warm stream and the makeup began running off his body and
down the drain. His back was to the shower, so his rump was soon
wet--a subtle preparation for the razor strop. Terry, who had been
watching, entered with the strop in his hand.
"Geronimo!" he yelled. Gene looked at him with a puzzled ex-
pression. At once Sam and Phil grabbed him from opposite sides,
spun him around in their strong grips, and bent him over. "What
the hell is this? Another double-cross?" Gene yelled.
Terry answered. "No, Terry. This is Gene's revemge for the
double-cross you played on him in the first match!"
SMACK! Terry was a professional athlete and body-builder, and
he put all his strength behind every stroke.
SMACK! Gene yelped, and the men watching laughed raucously.
SMACK! "Make me lick your ass, will you?" asked Terry.
SMACK! Gene yelled louder, in dismay as well as pain.
SMACK! The thick oiled leather quickly turned the skin deep
red, promising welts that would be visible in the shower tomorrow.
SMACK! "Stop him, you guys!" yelled Gene. "Sam! Phil!--"
SMACK! "--why are you letting him do this to me?"
SMACK! Sam and Phil laughed heartily.
SMACK! "Do you want me to stop, Terry?" asked Terry.
SMACK! "Then beg, nice and loud! Say please, Gene, sir,--"
SMACK! "--please have mercy, sir!"
SMACK! "Beg your brother Gene to show you mercy!"
SMACK! "Beg for it!"
SMACK! Gene gritted his teeth and refused to say a word.
SMACK! The flogging was as brutal as Terry could possibly
inflict with just a razor strop.
SMACK! "I wanna hear you beg for mercy, Terry!"
SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!
"Please, Gene, sir, please have mercy, sir!" yelled Gene after
twenty of the hardest strokes Terry could lay on. Gene was on the
verge of tears, and could take no more punishment without breaking
down and sobbing openly.
Terry stopped as the wrestlers whistled approval of "Gene's"
punishment of "Terry". The show over, the other men, still laugh-
ing, drifted back to their dressing rooms to leave for the night.
When they were alone, Terry said, "Okay, Gene, now the two of
us can have a good shower and a heart-to-heart talk."
Gene, his buttocks throbbing from the merciless whipping, at
last broke down in tears of pain and humiliation. Between sobs he
said, "That was another lowdown mean sonofabitch double-cross!"
Terry laughed, cruelly mocking Gene's suffering. "How did you do
it?" asked Gene, when he had finally calmed down.
Terry snickered and explained Phil's mistake in his identity.
"Let's face it, Gene," he said smugly, "you'll never be able to
outsmart me. I'm older than you are, remember?"
"Yeah--by less than an hour! I remember when we had our horo-
scopes done by that astrologer in Hollywood." He now soaped him-
self thoroughly as he recited the astrologer's lingo. "She said we
have much different charts, even though we were both born on August
third, nineteen seventy in San Juan. You came out head first, nice
and easy, about seven fifteen in the evening. I tried to come out
ass first--like I've been doing ever since--so they finally cut Mom
open and took me out a little after eight." He paused to recall
the astrologer's exact words.
"She said our charts show we have a lot in common, but two
different personalities. We're both Leos so we both like to be the
boss--but you have Aquarius rising with Moon in Leo, and I have
Pisces rising with moon in Virgo--so that makes you the Chief and
me just a good Indian. You'll always give the orders, and I'll
always do what you say." There was no resentment in his voice.
"That's what she said."
"She was right, wasn't she?"
"It's worked out that way all our lives," admitted Gene. He
accepted the reality with calm resignation. "I never told you this
before because it didn't make sense to me, but in private she told
me that in three years I'd have a crisis in my love life--that a
male lover would hurt me--physically--a lot, and I'd have to decide
by my free will whether to get rid of my lover, or be a martyr and
take his abuse for the rest of my life. She said she could tell me
more if I saw her again every year. That was three years ago."
"Yeah, it was," said Terry with surprise in his voice. "And
now I see it ties in with what she told me in private. She said
that in three years I'd have a big change in some partnership
relationship--like a marriage or business--and that my partner
might try to deceive me. She thought it would work out okay, but
she could tell me more if I saw her again every year. Funny how
both her predictions came true, in a way!
"You and me had already set up our Chief and Indian partner-
ship, hadn't we?" asked Terry. "Ten years before, in Puerto Rico.
You took a blood oath to me when we were sixteen--remember?"
"How could I forget it?" He now turned to lather up Terry's
back and give him a gentle massage as he washed his twin's body
where Terry could not easily reach. Terry would automatically do
the same for him--it was a subtly erotic act for both of them.
"I remember when we were kids," he went on. "We always fooled
around with each other, starting when we were about eight. Playing
sexually with your twin is sorta like playing with yourself--in a
way--know what I mean?"
"Yeah."
"We both wanted to be top man--neither of us liked being the
bottom, even to the other--so we'd flip a quarter to settle it
every time. Then one day when we were sixteen and couldn't find a
girl to fuck together, you said we should settle our argument once
and for all with one bet for life--that one of us would always be
a sex slave to the other whenever he wanted--for whatever he want-
ed. You said you'd flip the quarter--give it a fair toss--and one
of us would win the bet on just that one toss. So I said okay.
"You said that, like usual, heads would make you the top, and
tails would make you the bottom--and whoever was the bottom man had
to swear on a blood oath to take whatever the top man wanted to do
to him--for life. So I said okay."
Terry grinned at the memory. "It came up heads, and you took
the blood oath. And I've been your top man ever since--whenever we
haven't had time to cruise for a pickup." He laughed. "So it was
a fair bet, wasn't it? You lost--tough shit--so stop complaining."
Gene was now washing Terry's lower belly, and knelt to wash
his legs and feet. Terry looked down at his twin now on his knees.
"You used a two-headed quarter," said Gene casually. "I saw
you get it at the magic shop while I was buying another trick." He
put his face in Terry's crotch. "You set me up to lose to you,
back when we were sixteen."
Terry looked surprised for a moment--then curiosity overcame
any sense of guilt. "When did you finally wise up and figure out
I'd used that quarter?"
Gene rubbed his face against Terry's genitals. "I knew you
were going to use it as soon as you suggested the bet." He gently
kissed the head of Terry's penis, then stood up, grinning. "Now
it's your turn to wash me."
Terry took time to think that over as he washed Gene's body.
"If you knew I had a trick quarter--so you knew it was a sucker bet
--and you knew I was setting you up to lose--why did you say okay?"
"Because that's when I knew just how much you needed me as
your sex slave to be happy. So I guess that's when I decided I'd
rather be a martyr and take your abuse than lose you. Ten years
before the astrologer told me I'd have that choice to make."
Terry thought about this as he gently stroked his twin's geni-
tals. In a sex-tease voice he asked, "So, is our forfeit bet still
good--for life?"
Gene closed his eyes, enjoying Terry's stroking. "Is the Pope
still Catholic--for life?"
Terry finished rinsing Gene's body. The mutual erotic groom-
ing over, his tone of voice became authoritative and businesslike.
"Okay. So now we have an understanding. We're not going cruising
tonight. It'll be just you and me--and from now on I'm holding you
to our blood oath of thirteen years ago. Like we said when we made
the bet--for as long as we both shall live." He paused, and then
asked, "Do you want to back out on the deal now?"
"Never with you."
"Okay. Now let's get one thing straight on the act. Starting
tomorrow, when Angel Hare sits on the Black Demon's face, he won't
say 'lick my ass, you bastard.' He'll just sit on the Demon's face
like we rehearsed it, and grin at the crowd while the referee does
the big count. But you're gonna lick it anyway, every fuckin' show
for the next nine months! Every time I plant my ass on your face
I wanta feel your tongue on my asshole right away, and I wanta feel
you licking it until the referee counts you out! Nobody else will
know you're doing it--but you and I will know--and I'll have a toe
hold on you I swear I'll use if you ever forget!"
Gene kissed Terry's nipples. "You won't need the toe hold,
Terry. I'll lick your ass as much as you want--whenever you want."
"Okay." Terry paused to emphasize his next words. "Now, your
punishment for your revenge stunt. I've decided to tie you down
every night for a month, and take Dad's razor strap to your bare
ass--at least one hundred licks every night, as hard as I can lay
'em on right from the start, and as many more as I want to--even
five hundred if I feel like it. I might even make a whip like the
Cossacks have for props, and use that on you--that was your own
idea, remember?"
He grinned, then his voice became ominous in its tone. "I'd
like to make your rump bleed, and lick the blood off! That would
make me cum hard! I'd really shoot a load in your mouth for you to
swallow!" From his tone of voice Gene knew that Terry was deadly
serious.
"I stopped tonight when you begged for mercy after only twenty
licks--so you wouldn't cry in front of the other guys--but when
we're in private I'll get hot when you beg me to stop--it'll turn
me on so much I'll hit you even harder--till you bleed for me!"
Terry paused, then gave Gene one last chance. In a sensual
voice he added, "You said our blood oath is still good. Are you
willing to take a bloody ass from me, Gene--every night I wanta do
it to you? Even if I decide to keep it up for two months--or maybe
six months--or maybe even as long as we both shall live?"
Gene blinked twice--gulped--and then nodded. "Yes."
"Is that all you can say?" Terry's low voice was a reproach.
"No." Gene's voice was now the sexual tease.
"You know what I want to hear you say! Why not say it to make
me happy?"
"Yes, Master Terry."
Terry grinned and wrapped his arms around his brother. "What
else can you say to make me happy?"
"I love you, Master Terry."
Terry gave his brother a long warm hug--and a kiss of genuine
affection on each cheek. "I love you too, slave Gene."
THE END