The following fictional story deals with sex among males. If you are offended by such material, are too young, or reside in an area where it is not allowed, cease reading now and depart. Though not observed in this story, care enough about yourself and humankind always to practice safe sex.
The author retains all rights. No reproductions or links to other sites are allowed without the author's consent.
Patrick Young ClayCub51@Yahoo.com
CLAY -- Chapter Four "Playing Rough"
"PFFFFFFTHTHTH!!"
A puff of acrid smoke wafted from the back of the stereo receiver as silence settled over the room.
Clay stared at the black screen of the TV. The stench made him scrunch up his nose in disbelief and disgust. No lights on any dial. `Damn it all, just as the game was starting,' he snarled in his head. "You old piece of shit, I get you all wired together and you blow up on me!" he spat at the components staring dumbly back at him. He tried every switch, every knob. Nothing.
"Okay, Claire, you get a new system for your new home after all," he sighed, "but not tonight, dammit!" He scanned the living room for a second, pleased at how it had come together, the sectional sofa so inviting for an evening relaxed after putting all the knick- knacks out, all the paintings hung, the lamps perfectly bathing their new lair in soft ambience. "I'm going to watch this game if it's through the window of Wal-Mart!" Clay growled as he strode to the door, grabbed his jacket and cap from the antique hall tree, and slammed out into the hallway. "That little place Jack's is just over the bridge. I'll check it out and deal with this later."
The wind slapped Clay in the face as he exited the front entrance. "JEEZUS!" he hissed, pulling the lapels up and zipping the fleece to the very top, smashing the bill of his cap down to his nose. He leaned into the gale, his eyes stinging, and trudged toward Woodley Park muttering obscenities at the night.
Jack's was nondescript from the outside, just a sign above the single-windowed door between the cleaners and Thai Town Take-Out. Clay shivered as the slam separated him from the rapidly dropping temperature driven by the wind howling down Connecticut Avenue. He bounded up the steps two at a time to the din of the dark bar, a classic relic of better days now past. He chose the third stool down from the barkeeper's station, tossed his jacket over the seat and perched with an audible grunt.
"What can I getcha there, stud?" the burly man behind the counter rumbled from beneath an immense reddish moustache. "You need something hot tonight or goin' for cold?"
The game was returning from commercial right behind the big man's head. Clay broke into a relieved smile. "Well, since you've got the right channel on, I'll stick around and have a cold draft. You got a good ale on tap?"
"Anchor Steam, Sierra Nevada, Bud, Bass, or Guinness," was the menu.
"All righty, then, I'll have a black and tan! Might salvage this evening after all, if the 'Skins don't choke again, that is," Clay chuckled as he smiled into the bartender's flashing golden brown eyes.
A mighty mitt expertly drew the draft and set it in front of Clay. "There you go, ace. The name's Rusty, so let me know when you're ready for more."
"Thanks, Rusty. I'm Clay. Just moved to the neighborhood, and blew up the entertainment system trying to put all the old components together, but I HAD to catch the game tonight. I've got a small bet riding on the outcome."
"Well, enjoy yourself, Clay," the redheaded tank chuckled. "If any of these jacklegs give you any shit, you throw `em over the bar to me."
"Thanks. I'll keep that in mind." Clay looked into the spotless mirror behind Rusty to view a dark but clean space. There were two pool tables occupied by a congregation of young jock types playing rotation, a few tables of couples chatting over pitchers, and two others sitting at the bar.
The guy two stools down drained his pint, a fresh black and tan waiting. "Ahhh," he smacked as he turned and flashed Clay a brilliant smile, sparkling hazel eyes dancing. His short black hair, almost Marine high-and-tight, and the chiseled cheekbones exuded a raw playfulness, catlike in his movements. "So, you're a black and tan man. You Irish, too, or just Irish at heart?"
A twitch ran up to the head of Clay's dick. What's this one up to? Another man coming after me?' he thought. What phase of the moon is it anyway? But, DAMN, he IS a lookerÉ' He stuck out his hand. "Clay Grant. Only Irish in me is well-concealed. I'm 100% American Heinz, 57 different varieties."
The lanky hunk devoured his hand in a strong grip, not a battle crush, but intense, determined. "Tony Wallace. Native Washingtonian and first generation 100% Black Irish. You new around here?"
"Yeah, just moved up Calvert Street to the Cliffbourne House. I was all set to watch the game when something blew out, so I came over to check this place out. You a regular or something?" Clay watched the lights of the bar play around in the dancing green/blue/gold/gray flecks in Tony's eyes as they back bore into his.
"Yeah, I'm pretty much always hanging here. They should put my name on the deed, if they weren't always watering down the brew. I've got my reputation to protect, after all," Tony retorted.
"We should send you the plumbing bill, the way you suck down all the profits," Rusty growled from behind the bar, "and clog up the john with yer used rubbers, ya randy bitch in heat!"
"Hey, you watch your mouth, Red, and show a little respect to your best customer," Tony shot back. "I keep you in more action than that little vienna sausage you call your dick can handle and you know it!"
"If I had to rely on your castoffs, I'd be retired by now, or dead of blue balls, ya dink," Rusty snarled, then snickered. Suddenly they both dissolved into uproarious laughter.
Clay relaxed as he realized this escalating machismo had all been for his entertainment, not a prelude to a brawl. He joined in the reverie. "For a minute there I thought I was being interviewed for bouncer. You two at each other like this all the time?"
Tony slipped over a seat to throw a heavy arm across Clay's shoulder, his knee sliding behind Clay's butt as he hooked his bootheel on the rung of Clay's stool. "He loves me, can't you tell? And you'd make a helluva bouncer with your build, buddy," his strong grip kneading Clay's bicep slowly, deeply. "Where do you work out?" He took a long pull from his pint, and pored into Clay's eyes.
Clay broke the gaze, "I haven't gotten around to finding a new gym here yet. The move's been enough physical labor lately. I'd love a good sweat, though, and get some of these kinks out. You have a local spot, Tony?"
"Oh, I've got several kinky spots. Like to sweat, too." Tony's leer was lascivious, his stroke of Clay's arm lengthening, his knee pressing against Clay's ass. "You like to play, mate?"
Clay felt the heat flash into his face at the same speed as the throb through his dick, a dollop of juice making a spot down the leg of his sweats. He turned toward the bar and took a sip of his beer. "Just wanted to see the game tonight, man, not an agenda, okay?" he said, suddenly on edge.
Tony's hand came up to knead the back of Clay's tense neck. "Sorry, buddy, just asking. I don't get what I want if I don't go after it. You okay with that?" His voice was close to Clay's ear, his breath hot, pungent. "You're not some knife-wielding basher, are you?"
Clay turned full face, eyes riveted but kind. "No, I'm okay with that. Thanks for the flattery, but I'm really just out for the ballgameÉthe Redskins, remember?" He smiled softly into the saddening hazel eyes of his barmate.
"And the Chargers," Tony sighed, giving Clay's neck a final squeeze. "At least I'll get to see the ex in action again." He turned to slug down the rest of his pint and slammed the empty glass on the dark polished wood. "Hey, where's that goldbrickin' barkeep when you need a beer in this dive?!?!"
The new black and tan appeared out of nowhere. "Quit yer bitchin', ya sodden fuck!" barked Rusty, with a wary glare fixed on the hot Irishman. "You get mushy over that tightassed receiver again and run my new best customer off crying into yer beer, I'll cut you off for good and throw you out myself!!"
Clay watched Tony's spirit deflate before his eyes. "You were with one of the Chargers?" he asked tentatively.
Tony stared into his beer, his hazel eyes moistening. "It seems like a long time ago now. Yeah, Scott Jensen, the backup receiver. Just got off injured reserve this week, so he'll probably play tonight. We had a good thing for a while. We've kinda lost touch since he was traded. One day he called from the airport, told me he was on his way to San Diego. Just like that, sold off like a piece of meat, he was gone. He's married now, got a kid and another on the way, I hear." His voice lowered, caught in his throat, "God, what a hot fucking ass!" Clay's gaze couldn't help but follow Tony's hand as it dropped to the formidable bulge in the stretched jeans and grasped what suddenly surged visibly down his right thigh, the thick crown obvious, a damp spot darkening.
Clay swallowed hotly, his eyes snapping back up just as Tony turned back toward him. The hazel eyes again turned playful and sly. "He liked this big old slab of Irish beef, too. Couldn't get enough of it. We had a lot of fun, interviewing in the locker room after games, him all hot and sweaty and gorgeous, me acting like the ace reporter, sizing each other up, playing coy, until that day the pretty cheerleader flounced up to us walking back from the stadium, pulled up her sweater and jiggled her big titties at him with her phone number written across them. He was so cute, flustered. When I asked him if that happened often, he said, `Yeah, but I'd rather have YOUR number.' Man, I could have raped him on the spot. We did get back to his hotel before I jumped his bones, ripped his clothes off and ploughed that hot hole at least a dozen times. It was a hell of an interview in the Post that Tuesday!"
Tony had worked up a slight sweat on his forehead, squirming on his stool, his hand tracing the bulge of his crotch. "This bother you, man, me talking dirty?" A cloud of pheromones swirled around them both, pungent, fierce.
Clay inhaled the rich Irish funk, spewed a new spot onto his own thigh, and laughed, "Bother me? Hah! This is a hot story. You're even getting me hard, man. You should write porn for one of the magazines or something. Maybe do a film, with that equipmentÉ" looking down at Tony's hand at work.
Tony threw his shoulders back, his broad pecs swelling under the black tee, his hand cupping his crotch proudly. "So you DID notice, stud," he said with a sultry growl. "Sure you don't want some of this? I'd be happy to introduce you."
"Hail to the Redskins" blasted from the TV as Rusty turned up the start of the game, interrupting the men's banter. The bar filled with whoops of reverie as a crowd of fans appeared from all corners, growing into a rowdy, good-natured mob by halftime. Beers flowed freely, and the communal buzz in the place became deafening. The game was a great defensive effort throughout, a battle of traded field goals, until wide receiver Scott Jensen made an unbelievable catch to score in the final minute, putting the Chargers ahead for the first time. Tony went wild! "That's my boy!" he crowed, pounding Clay on the shoulders and pulling him roughly into a tight bear hug.
Then he froze, mute, as the receiver didn't get up, didn't move, was surrounded by staff working furiously. "My boy, my boy, m'luvÉ" Tony whimpered numbly into Clay's shoulder. "What have they done to m'boy, m'luv?" Clay's eyes widened as he realized Tony had not told him the rest of the story. A stretcher was brought out. Tony's grip on Clay tightened. "Don't hurt him, please don't make him hurtÉ" was barely audible. The obviously agonized Scott was carefully loaded, his left leg immobilized, and carted into the locker room. "Where are you going? Don't go away, Scott, please don't go. Don't take him away from me again. Please don't go, don't goÉ" the trembling Tony barely whispered, clutching Clay fiercely.
The game ended with grumbles and boos as the Redskins ran out of tricks and the clock ran out of seconds, and the bar quickly emptied. Tony was still staring blankly at the TV, holding onto Clay limply. "Come on, Tony, let's get you home," Clay said as he hauled the silent Irishman to his unsteady feet. He turned to the bartender frantically cleaning up the aftermath around them. "Where am I heading with this lug, Rusty?"
Rusty smiled warmly. "He's just around the corner on Woodley Place, last townhouse on the left. He keeps a key behind the azalea on the porch. I haven't seen him this smashed in a while. You're a good man, Clay. You're welcome here any time, buddy."
"Thanks, Rusty. You'll see a lot of me, for sure." Clay hauled Tony's arm across his shoulder and pulled him in closely about the slim waist. "Okay, cowboy, let's ride." He maneuvered them both down the stairs and held the stumbling Tony tightly as the cold air hit them.
Tony snapped his head up at the sudden change in temperature. "Where we going, Scott?" he slurred.
"We're going home, Tony," Clay whispered in his ear. Tony clutched his guide tightly as he tripped over his own boots. They rounded the block to the red brick townhouse. Clay found the key, herded Tony into the foyer, shut the door behind them, when suddenly he was slammed against the wall, his arms pinned behind his back, Tony's hot, wet mouth devouring his face and neck.
"Why'd you leave me, man? You know how I want you, goddammit! You're MY BOY!" Tony shreiked passionately.
"What the hell?" Clay breathed in shock.
In a lightening move, Tony dumped them both hard to the floor with a resounding "OOMPH!" and deftly jerked Clay's sweats and boxers down to his knees, rolling him onto his stomach pinned with his hands clamped together in a paralyzing, painful visegrip. In a flash Tony had his jeans open, his knees between Clay's splayed thighs, and in one panther-like pounce buried his rampant, fat eight inches of Irish fury up Clay's dry ass, eliciting a stunned wail of pure agony. Loud slaps resounded as Clay's asscheeks were mercilessly smacked. "Shut up and take it, fucker, and don't dare try to escape me again, boy!" Tony roared, spittle flying as he pounded madly, slamming the groaning Clay against the scratchy berber carpet in deep rabbit-thrusts. "You're mine, goddammit, your hot hole is mine, boy! Take it, boy, take it all!" he bellowed as volleys of Irish cream blasted furiously against Clay's prostate. "Mine! Mine! Mine!"
Just as suddenly as the assault had started, it ended. Tony yanked his dripping cock out of Clay's throbbing ass with a resounding POP, rolled off the shaking victim and collapsed onto the floor beside him, dissolving into hiccupping sobs as he curled up into a fetal ball. His hand wildly flailing, the last dribbles of hot cum pulsed from his raw, purple dick as he continued to thrust and jerk spasmodically. "MineÉmineÉmineÉ" the litany gradually eased into a long moan of abject sadness.
Clay gradually moved one arm from behind him, his shoulder numb, then the other. He realized his breathing was slowing down from a miler's gasp to deeper gulps, the stars flashing in front of his eyes dissipating. His face was raw from kissing the rug, wet with his drool. His butt felt on fire, but his asshole was cool, wet. He tried to move. His asshole spasmed, slowly closing, squishy, loose. His cock lay in a cooling puddle. He had CUM! He had been fucked -- and fucked HARD -- by a strong, hot man with a really big dick -- dominated -- RAPED -- and had LIKED it!! HmmmmÉ.
He turned his head toward the handsome face lying beside him, tear-stained, flushed, quiet, the breathing soft, even. "Tony?" Nothing. "Tony." Nothing. "Hey, Tony!" He reached over to the curled-up hunk and gently shook the round shoulder. Still nothing. My God, he's out cold!' Clay thought. How long have we been here? Is he all right?' A shot of worry urged him to check, but nothing wanted to move. Everything hurt. Slowly he brought himself up on all fours. A cold viscous river slid down the backs of his legs. He coughed. "UUNGH!!" he groaned sharply as his sphincter snapped shut, his eyes squinted tight. The pungent smells of beer, sweat and cum billowed around them. He reached again to Tony, who made a soft whimper and rolled over to his back, the big dick still bloated, sticky. "Tony, you okay, man?" Clay tried again, leaning close. He dragged his thumb under a slack eyelid and dried the wet track, cradling the strong darkly bearded jaw. "Tony, answer me!"
The eyelids fluttered, half-opened, the hazel eyes bleary, bloodshot. The corners of the thick lips turned upwards slowly. "Mine. You're here and you're mine," Tony whispered, then went slack, totally out again.
Clay smiled kindly at the rugged, sad face. He wiped the other cheek dry. "How you must have been hurt, buddy. And angry. What's going on in that heart of yours?" Tony murmured at the touch, the voice. "Well, let's get you off the floor and to your bed. We can talk about this later."
TO BE CONTINUED
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