THIS JUST IN by Donald Peter Normann
Copyright 2005 by Katana Communications, Inc. All rights reserved by the author.
If you are under the age of 18, object to the graphic depiction of sexual acts between consenting adults, (specifically those of a homosexual nature), or are in violation of community standards by viewing this material, please do not continue further.
Any resemblance to any real persons, places or situations contained in this work is purely coincidental. Comments or requests to reprint or use this work in other media can be submitted to the author at dcscribe@netbox.com. _______________________________________________________________________________
"C'mon, man! C'mon, stud, you can do it! PUMP that big mutherfucker, baby, PUMP it! Yeah, Big Chuck! Oh, yeah, can you fuckin' feel that? Goddam, man, I'm gonna bust a nut just watchin' ya! Yea-ah, buddy, you got it! C'mon, man, just three more and you got it!"
It wasn't easy; Charlie could feel the muscles trembling in his arms, pecs and biceps burning as if live coals had been stuffed inside them, as he strained against the weighted barbell on the incline bench. He knew it wasn't supposed to get any easier if progress was to be made, but how many guys have to reach deep down and find what they need to get through their last grueling set, while staring up at a faceful of Gio Romano's over-stuffed basket and cute, hairy, fuckable ass?
Gio, who had been Charlie's personal trainer for the last two years, had no earthly idea that his biggest celebrity client secretly wished for the nirvana of pumping his iron-hard dick into Gio's hot hole, more than merely pumping iron.
Charlie knew however, that his dream would never be realized. Though he was a nice guy and a highly motivational trainer, Gio was absolutely clueless in matters of sexual etiquette and variety. To wit, if it wasn't attached to a humongous pair of tits and a gaping vagina, he wasn't interested.
Grunting, panting, his body arching and every muscle standing out in stark relief with the effort, Charlie attempted to heft the 220 lbs. one last time, only managing to push it about a sixteenth of an inch. Before he could turn his own head into guava jelly, Gio grabbed the bar and took it up and away from him, racking it neatly, his own huge biceps rippling.
Charlie struggled to sit up, his face red with exertion, his net tank top dark with sweat, outlining every contour of his pumped chest and back. Gio clapped him on the shoulder, grinning.
"Hey, paisan, you're lookin' pretty fuckin' hot, dude!" Gio exclaimed.
"Thanks, Gio," Charlie managed to gasp into his towel as he wiped his face.
"So, I'm curious, Chuck! You've had this new bod for, what, over a year, now? Man, I know you're on TV and all, but you work fuckin' harder than some of the contest muscleheads I work with!"
Gio leaned over conspiratorially, the dark mane on one meaty forearm brushing against Charlie's own arm, making his cock throb for a moment in his flimsy shorts. With his jet-black mane, sparkling blue eyes and muscular, hirsute physique, it was all that Charlie could do some days to maintain concentration. If Rambo ever turned gay, this would definitely be the archetype of the 'Man Who Would Fuck Stallone.'
Smelling of man-musk, Old Spice and the hottest backdoor invasion anyone dared dream of, he whispered to Charlie, "I don't mean to be nosy, Chuck, but man, I gotta know. Chicks were already into ya with the TV thing, right? But with the new you, how much pussy you slammin' nowadays? How many bimbos you got swingin' on the skin stick, Chuck? Three a week? Four?"
Chuck paused, face buried deep in his towel as if he were dog-tired, which he was. But more than that, he didn't want to belittle or embarrass Gio by braying laughter into the bearish hunk's crudely handsome features. Giovanni Romano, like so many other people, just didn't have a fucking clue about Charlie, and probably never would.
When the storm of laughter had passed, Chuck finally looked up at Gio and flashed his best enigmatic smile.
"Sorry, Gee," he apologized, "but a real gentleman never kisses and tells."
"Aw, man!" groused Gio, like a teenager whose mom just confiscated all of his "hidden" skin mags. "You can give me just a little hint, can't'cha? I mean, hey, buddy, it's me, Gio you're talkin' to! Whatever you say here, stays here!"
Yeah, thought Charlie, it won't be you spreading the bullshit around, Gio; just the three or four dickheads you'll swear to secrecy after you tell them.
Suddenly, Gio's face was wreathed with a wicked, knowing grin, the kind of look Charlie imagined he would have if he ever discovered that man-pussy was as good as, if not better than regular, and much easier to get. He nudged Charlie teasingly.
"They always used to say in school that the guys doin' all the braggin' weren't gettin' shit, while the strong, silent types were rakin' in all the trim. That's you, ain't it, dude?"
"Yeah, that's me," Charlie smiled, patting the big lug's shoulder. "The strong, silent type. If I'm not gonna be late for my appointment, I better go shower now. Take it easy, Gee."
"Ciao, paisan," Gio called after him, grinning and shaking his head with amused admiration as he watched him go.
Buddy watched with a heady mixture of awe and lust as the buff blonde college prep in the nearly non-existent Speedo did a swan dive off the platform that would have even Greg Lougainis worried. The kid's diving coach, Neville Mosca, sat in the bleachers next to him.
"Nice one, Todd!" the coach called after his star as the diver surfaced, stroking towards the nearest ladder.
"So Nev," Buddy said scribbling into a notepad, "you don't think the kid's to controversial a prospect for the college team?"
The wiry man in the baseball cap with iron-gray hair peeking out from under the bill eyed Buddy warily. "Is this on or off the record, Bud?"
Buddy mirrored his old friend's gaze. "C'mon, Nev! How long have we known each other? Since before Ali was in diapers, right? Have I ever fucked your ass just to get a by-line? No, and I'm not about to start, now."
Sighing in resignation, Coach Mosca wiped his face as if to magically erase the memory of what Buddy was referring to.
"Okay, Bud," he said finally. "For the record, Todd Robertson is one of those athletes that comes along once, maybe twice in a lifetime, if you're lucky. The kid's got a heart and a work ethic that won't quit. He's a fuckin' wet dream to coach; finding him is like holding team tryouts only to discover another Mark Spitz, another Greg Lougainis.
He doesn't hide his sexual preference, and some people find that insulting, even immoral. I'm not here to judge his extracurricular interests; I'm just here to make sure he never gives less than his best. I'm not worried, though; I expect him to give me a hundred percent--Todd gives me a hundred and ten, every time."
"Now, OFF the record," Mosca switched gears, "if it were up to me, I'd say fuck the team, fuck the college, and I don't care if he's corn-holing Rocky and Bullwinkle in his spare time. That little fucker is good enough to win gold in Sydney, come the year 2000. As his coach, that I am damn sure of."
"Thanks, Nev," Buddy said, scribbling hurriedly. "That gives me the tone I need to work with."
"Don't mention it," said Mosca, watching Todd Robertson's ascent to the top of the platform again. "You've always been a man of your word, not like a lot of these pus-bag hack writers out here."
"Well, you know me, Nev," Buddy told him as they both watched Todd on the platform, taking his position, "I've always been somebody who knows when to keep a secret."
Todd took his position, body straight, arms up and out, poised gracefully for his next dive. Before he did, and Buddy knew he wasn't imagining it, his and Todd's eyes met, and the young diver gave the reporter/columnist a slow, deliberate, come-hither wink that made his meaty cock throb in his dress slacks.
As he watched the perfect dive, Buddy let out a low whistle as he adjusted the growing bulge in his crotch. It had very little to do with the perfection of Todd's execution...at least not in diving, and Buddy was very grateful that he wouldn't miss his appointment, scheduled in less than an hour.
They hustled into the motel room, Buddy hanging the "Do Not Disturb" sign on the doorknob as he deadlocked it quickly behind them. Charlie had already shrugged out of his suitcoat, slipped out of his tie, loafers and dress socks, and was working on his shirt when Buddy came in.
"We got exactly one hour and twenty minutes before showtime," Buddy warned. "C'mon! What the fuck are ya doin'? To hell with the neat and fancy bullshit! C'mon, kid, let's get this party started!"
Charlie fumbled with the buttons on the front of his dress shirt, then watched in disbelief as Buddy grasped the bottom of the shirt and pulled, sending buttons clattering to the floor around Charlie's bare feet.
"This is over $100! It's in the Armani collection!" Charlie whined.
Yanking up the t-shirt underneath the ruined dress shirt, Buddy attacked one of Charlie's tanned, firm pecs with hungry lips and tongue, causing the younger man to suck in a breath, the sensation assaulting all of his nerve endings at once.
"This hot fuckin' body is from the Nautilus collection," Buddy murmured, "and the sooner we get you naked, the sooner we can get to other things, know what I'm sayin'?"
Message duly noted, Charlie slithered out of his dress slacks without unbuckling or unfastening them, sliding them down his long, muscular legs and stepping out of the wrinkled puddle they made in the floor. He yanked off the undershirt, and added it to the piled pants. Kneeling on the bed, Charlie's long, cut man pole rose up impatiently to meet his palm as he slowly stroked it, lightly pinching his nips with his free hand as he waited for his fuck-buddy to join him.
Seconds later, Buddy knelt on the bed in front of Charlie, as they took each other's lengthening members in hand and slowly started to stroke. Although they were only a few inches shorter in height, Buddy and Charlie were definitely an interesting study in contrasts. Charlie was a lengthy, streamlined, tanned, gym-built thoroughbred to Buddy's barrel-chested, hirsute dockyard mutt, but Irish chestnut-brown good looks and Polish-Italian burliness is where the differences ended. The heat generated from the lust between these two could start a forest fire that would probably raze all of California.
Buddy's meaty, skilled fingers moved along Charlie's cock with an excruciating slowness and pressure that had the yuppie shuddering and jerking from the top to the toes of his runner's build; he moaned uncontrollably, brown eyes burning, his forehead and upper lip breaking out into a light sheen of sweat as he fought to control the amount of input his nerve endings were sending from his dick to his brain.
"Oh, man," he breathed. "Oh, fuck, man, are you gonna get yours!"
"Promises, promises, you fuckin' suit," snorted Buddy, squeezing the head of Charlie's dick in his palm in a way that made the blonde's teeth grind together. "You wouldn't know what to do with a real man if yer mama showed yuh."
"That a fact?" panted Charlie through half-lidded eyes.
"Yeah, that's a fact!" Buddy sneered, letting the big dick slide slowly through his fist, the veins in his hairy forearms standing out as he poured on the pressure. "What? You think you know somethin' I don't, college boy?"
"Sure do," Charlie smiled wickedly, reaching down.
This was part of their ritual. Buddy was never a man to give into the weaknesses of his body or his emotions easily, unless he could be seduced or tricked into it. Charlie knew his hot buttons well by now, and it was only a matter of catching him off guard. Which he had.
Buddy dived for Charlie's sensitive pecs, the nips already erect and hard as pencil erasers. A few lashes of Bud's rough tongue and Charlie's body would be the consistency of Jello in his friend's hairy hands. Unless...
While Buddy was busy at the Chest Cafe, Charlie stroked the back of Buddy's bull neck, and with the other hand, reached between his legs, took the edge of his index finger, and just lightly, stroked the underside of Buddy's ball-sack.
Gotcha.
If Charlie had flipped him with a judo throw, the results couldn't have been more devastating. One minute Buddy was all over him, the next he was on his back, his body flopping about as if he were in the middle of a grand mal seizure, a yelping, yodeling cry wrenched from him like a Swiss shepherd trying out opera scales.
"No...fuckin'...fair!" sputtered Buddy when he could put words together again.
"Well, you know what they say," Charlie grinned, lowering his head between Buddy's legs. "All's fair..."
Not to be outdone in the way of sneak attacks, Buddy, turtle-like, scooted around on his back so that his face was right up under Charlie's crotch. Before the blond hunk could suck the tender orbs of his friend's hairy nuts into his cheeks, his hot pole was halfway down Buddy's throat, being massaged enthusiastically by the husky stud's oral muscles.
Groaning, overtaken by the moment's heat, Charlie fisted Buddy's thick, veiny cock, built much like its owner, and swallowed it happily as they both rolled around on the big double bed, locked in the throes of a 69 session hotter and juicier than any Quarter Pounder.
The very masculine, musky scent, not unlike Gio's, rising from Buddy's overheated crotch took Charlie back, back to his teen years, to the incident that had forever instilled within him an attraction for guys like Buddy, that his more queenly acquaintances clucked their tongues at in perplexed wonder, and even fey disapproval.
On the cusp of manhood, the summer that he began his journey into his late teens, Charlie's parents went away one weekend, to stay with one of his aunts on his mother's side, who was going through a divorce, and six months pregnant, to boot. They left Charlie in the capable hands of their next-door neighbor, a burly, rough-hewn widower and ex-Marine by the name of Max Ruskin.
Charlie was in hog heaven. He and Max had hit it off from the moment they first met, and Charlie's dad had taken to Max as well, hoping Charlie would spend more time with him, and that some of the war hero's manly exterior would rub off on the boy, toughen him up.
Like his buddy Gio now, Charlie's dad had been clueless, then. While looking after young Charlie one evening while the folks were at a movie, Max had slipped into the bathroom for a quick whack-off. Charlie had barged in, unannounced, and was mesmerized by his first look at a fully erect adult cock. Then Max had shown him what to do with it, and what he could do with his own as well. Charlie got a complete education that summer and several more that followed, in the various pleasurable ways that a man could love himself, as well as another man.
But the weekend that his folks went to Aunt Cynthia's, was the most memorable time of all, when Max gave Charlie an early eighteenth birthday present: his first real taste of man-pussy. How to get it, how to give it up, how to eat it, what it feels like to have it eaten.
To him, no moment had ever been sweeter than when he plunged his sturdy young cock into the moist recesses of his mentor's undulating ass, his heels turned heavenward, while Max mercilessly flogged his heavy uncut prick, satin-slick with precum as his eyes rolled back to the whites, bellowing curses into the night sky as they fucked by the outdoor pool, Max's hulking, hairy frame quivering in the St. Vitus' Dance of a searing orgasm as cum flew everywhere, his big fist a blur of speed.
Charlie came behind him, wailing with shocked pleasure and surprise as his body responded to the exquisite pressure of Max's backside muscles around his pistoning cock, as he dumped his young, molten seed into the older man's ass like a racehorse pissing.
From that moment forward, nothing turned Charlie's crank like the look, the feel or the smell of a real guy; somebody you'd more than likely see everyday, and never think of in a sexual way. The cable guy, the plumber, the guy in the garage at Exxon. The heavy-lidded features, deceptively unrefined, the short, stocky frame heavy with muscle despite the slight Budweiser paunch; the crooked-toothed grin at a challenging offer of man-to-man, sweat-dripping, flesh-slapping, bone-jarring, dick-draining raw animal sex made, and accepted...
Charlie loved it all, and in between the gym bunnies, surfer dudes, blonde twinks and fashion queens, he would find it once in a blue moon.
Then came the job of his dreams...and Buddy came along with it. His co-worker, bowling and poker partner, and the only person in the entire world who could nearly have him busting a load in his pants with one lewd, leering smile, a smile that promised acrobatic feats of nerve-searing, dizzying carnality. Like now.
Rolling on top of him, Charlie managed to tear himself away from Buddy's throbbing meat long enough to lap his hairy balls again, which sent shock waves of extra pleasure shuddering through the older man's body, and taking his slender fingers, began to play with Buddy's hole, curiously the only part of Buddy's bod that wasn't covered in some hair somewhere. The pink opening was wet and glistening, and taking Buddy's dick back into his mouth, he took his long, index finger and slowly began to insert it into the moist pucker.
Toes curling, Buddy gurgled around Charlie's huge piece, his body stiffening like a two-by-four. With some effort, Buddy managed to let the delicious dick slide out of his face for a second.
"Unless you want me to come now, kid," he panted, "you better put something in there a lot bigger than your finger!"
While Charlie opened up the foil packet of a Lifestyles with his teeth, Buddy took two of the fluffy pillows and plumped them up under his ample belly, so that his ass was up and ready for action. He moved his hips, burying his dick in the pillow's downy softness.
Suited up, Charlie mounted Buddy from behind, slapping his concrete-hard, sheathed cock into the crack of Buddy's bountiful butt. "Can we pull this off in thirty, stud?" Buddy asked, glancing at his watch.
"I don't see why not," retorted Charlie, getting into position.
"When we're done, then, kid," Buddy said, "you know the drill."
"Like I know my own dick, Bud," Charlie assured him.
Taking a deep breath, Buddy braced himself against the pillows.
"Then let's ride 'em, cowboy," he told Charlie.
Five minutes is not a long time to experience bliss, but necessity is the mother of suspension, and Buddy and Charlie had been trysting together for so long that they knew how to compress a leisurely two-hour ream session into a five minute quickie-fuck.
Already wet and lubed, Charlie's entry into Buddy's chute was as easy as going down a slide at Water World. Once in, he hunkered down on Buddy's back, folding his legs and bracing his toes on the inside of Buddy's calves, and began to piston-fuck him for all he was worth.
Buddy, moaning into the pillows at the heat Charlie was stirring in his guts, would let the momentum of his buddy's plowing hips force his cock deeper and deeper into the pillows underneath him, curling the fingers of one hand around his dripping cock for extra friction, while slapping and clutching at Charlie's hips.
The young stud delivered his love bone directly to the home address of Buddy's prostate, screwing his beefy ass first with the usual up/down motion, then putting a wicked corkscrew twist into it that made the head of his dick stir every sensitive nerve in Buddy's hot ass, until with a muffled, grunting roar, he would spray off into the pillows.
Like a 'Baywatch' drowning victim, Charlie would gasp for air as he gave control over to his body, which would twitch and dance as he fired his humongous load into the rubber deep inside Buddy. At the sensation, Buddy would come again with a shudder, smaller this time.
They had just enough time for one tongue-swapping session, before Charlie would ease out of Buddy and hurry to the bathroom to flush the rubber, take a shower and clean up.
Buddy would lay basking in the glow of after-fuck, but not too long--only long enough to give Charlie a chance to get dressed and get his car out of the hotel parking lot, first. Buddy, whose cue wouldn't be until later, would always use the station facilities to clean up. It helped maintain the rumor that he was screwing some hooker, and yet still professional enough to show up on time and still do a fantastic job.
Little did anyone know...
The room finally empty, a girl from housekeeping knocks on the door, waits for a moment, then comes in. The first thing she does is turn on the room's TV, changing it to her favorite news channel. Nose wrinkled in disgust, the next thing she turns her attention to are the scummy bedsheets.
On the screen, shots of the city and action shots of the anchors sweep past, while the announcer booms:
"AND NOW...NEWS FOR THE CITY...THIS IS WFCK NEWS AT SIX...WITH NEWS FROM CHARLES WYATT AND CAROL CHRISTIANSEN...WEATHER WITH BEN CLIFTON...AND SPORTS WITH BUD "NUTTY BUDDY" WYCZOWSKI..."