HAIL THE CONQUERING HERO
By T. Hitman
I ain’t the kind of guy who likes it soft or sweet. I look for my thrills in sports bars, not gay bars; locker rooms instead of tearooms. And the only ball and chain you’ll ever see wrapped around my ankle will be when some sweaty, hairy jock’s down there humpin’ my leg like a junkyard dog. Yeah, I like guys — like ‘em a lot. I love sweat socks and hairy legs. Love the taste of a man’s ass and the smell of his cup after he’s drenched it with his nuts while playin’ hard for the home team. No pretty male models. No relationships. I like ‘em as straight as they’re willing to pretend, raw and rugged, a little rough around the edges. And no one’s more turned on than I am to send ‘em packing when we’re done having the kind of buddy sex only two guys who think with their cocks can have.
I got a great gig. As a sportswriter for a major Chicago daily, I’ve gotten into my share of locker rooms, some guarded better than Fort Knox. Seen plenty of major league dick hanging limp and sweaty after the big game and twice as many ballplayer nuts dangling low and hairy beneath them while these Greek gods towel dry. Even caught a few of those pro jock cocks hard — you can’t have 30 naked buddies in one room and not expect a couple of boners to spring up. Guys’ll be guys.
But getting to see so much sports celebrity dick is just one of the fringes in this job. I love sports. Always have. But I love the players I write about just as much. Baseball jocks and quarterbacks and those hairy-leggcd slam-dunkers with the buzz cuts. I gotta admit, though. I’ve always had a soft spot — and many times a hard one — for men who play hockey. They’re the roughest and the toughest, and nobody works out as intensely as these kings of the ice.
Did I mention those fringe benefits? Or that the best part of being around so many jocks who respect you is that every once in a while the job becomes hands on?
I’d hung my blue-jeaned ass on a stool in my hotel bar when he strutted up beside me. He looked at me with an I-know-you-from-somewhere look on his face. I knew who he was right away: Christopher Stankis (for obvious reasons not his real name). He was decked out in worn construction boots, a pair of butt-huggin’ faded denims, white T-shirt under a brown leather bomber jacket, and a cap bearing the local hockey team’s logo. His nose had twice been broken and set since I’d been covering the Chicago sports beat, and it was the only thing that gave away his true identity. But what else is a mean fucker like Stankis to do in the middle of the hockey playoffs when he wants to hang in the enemy city and his team’s one game away from winning the Stanley Cup? Every sports junkie in sight could recognize Stankis: team captain, one hell of a slap shot, spends more than a lion’s share of his time in the penalty box, and — shit! — a walking wet dream who just drips macho.
“This seat taken?” he growled.
Playing it cool, I gave him the tip of my chin, a safe, straight buddy gesture. “Yeah — by you.” I said. Taking a sip of beer, I tried to pretend I hadn’t felt a punch in my gut at the sight of a guy who looked so good, it hurt to stare at him. I buried my eyes in the college basketball game playing on the widescreen ‘IV and listened while he ordered a brewski and asked the bartender the score.
“Who’s ahead?” he repeated, this time to me.
I narrowed one eye at him. “Seaside’s up by 4.” Slam dunk. “Make that 6.”
The bartender set down Stankis’ beer. I heard a deep, thirsty gulp and followed suit. “You into hoops?” I asked.
He nodded. “Takes my mind off other things. You?”
“Pro level, yeah. But I’m more of a baseball and hockey fan — hockey, mostly.” I gave him a knowing wink.
To this, Stankis’ mouth broke into a tiny smile that showcased a few chipped teeth and set off the sexy crow’s feet around his intense brown eyes. “All right,” he said. “Come clean. How do we know each other?”
“Guilty.” I introduced myself. “‘I interviewed you two seasons ago right after your Boston hat trick.”
Stankis’ grin widened as much as an enforcer’s could. “You covering the playoffs?”
“You know it. I’m cheeked into this rat trap too.”
“I’ll give the hotel credit.” he chuckled, grinning. “This joint’s got one hell of a cable system.”
At the time I didn’t know what he meant. We toasted pro hockey and finished not only the beers in front of us but also two more. By the time we swaggered off the stools to a red leather booth in some dark corner of the bar, the last of the ice had melted, and we were talkin’ locker room lingo — no BS, no limit.
I’d just learned that the big guy had broken up with his girlfriend before the road trip part of the playoffs when he dropped the bomb.
“Fuck, have I been horny!” Stankis growled across the table. He kicked one of his big booted feet up on the booth near my bent knee. “The closest I’ve come to any snatch is chokin’ my chicken up in my room watching the porn channel on hotel cable.”
I gave his ankle a good natured swipe. “Big stud like you’s probably gettin’ more pussy than he can handle.”
Stankis chuckled. “Don’t I wish!” A smirk teased his stubbled lips. “I gotta be careful who I plow — one squirt, and they wind up wanting half.”
I shook my head and leaned back. The movement pressed our legs together. “Off the record, dude — you know I wouldn’t print nothing we talked about over beer. ‘Sides. I’m a fan first.”
This promise seemed to bond us closer. I admit, the beer had left me feeling pretty loose. But it wasn’t until he reversed the question that my jaw started to slack.
“You?” Stankis asked. “You lick a lot of pussy?” I shook my head as an invisible hand squeezed my gut. “Come on,” he said. “I bet you’re getting your share.”
I came clean — a little. “I ain’t seen anything X-rated in a long time.” Well, that wasn’t entirely true — my walking wet dream was right here with me.
The boot beside my knee skidded backward across the dry leather. “The shit plays nonstop on Channel 17 up in my mom. Come on. I’m getting a hard on just thinkin’ ’bout it,” he said, rising from the booth. When he stood I couldn’t help looking. True to the hot jock’s words, a decent bulge had knotted the front of his jeans.
Didn’t matter that I’d downed three cold ones; my mouth went dry, and the punch to my gut that followed set my insides on fire. Saying nothing, I paid my half of the tab and followed Stankis up to his room.
My hands were shaking by this point, so I tucked them in the top of my pants. My right thumb rubbed the itchy-hot knob of my hard dick. “Where’s the rest of the team?” I asked, trying to ignore my panic.
“In bed. Some are out partying. Not my scene,” he answered, fumbling with his electronic key. “I just want some head!” He growled the last sentence after the door clicked open. I marched in behind him. His suitcase and a stack of folded clothes littered the queen size hotel bed. “Most of my gear’s over at the arena.”
His room, like mine, had an easy chair, full bath, and widescreen TV hooked to cable. When he flicked the tube on, it was already tuned to Channel 17. A chorus of female grunting poured out of the speakers. The picture didn’t disappoint my new buddy. Two bodacious blonds gyrated in a hot tub to a cheap, synthetic beat. A longhaired john was videotaping the women as they went at each other, his dripping uncut hog ready to spear any willing hole. Typical straight porn. Not my thing, but I couldn’t be happier to be where I was, watching Stankis get off on it.
“Aw, fuck, dude,” he growled. “Tell me that ain’t beautiful!” He groped himself openly.
“You ever take two to bed at the same time?” I asked.
His cocky grin grew wider. “Once — a few years ago. Man, it was the wildest thing . . .”
I was too busy watching my hockey hero to focus on the tube. “Cool, if that’s your thing.”
Stankis’ eyes remained locked on the wet lesbo-action. He peeled off his bomber duds, kicked off his boots, and loudly popped the buttons of his fly, one after another. I gawked, so turned on that the rest of the room went into a haze as he rubbed the bulge inside his athletic shorts. “What do you mean, “if that’s your thing?” he growled. Stankis reached a hand into the tangle of fur crowning the top of his underwear elastic. Next thing I knew, the head of his long, lean cock was poking out of his leg hole along with a meaty, shaggy nut.
“You like watchin’ that . . .” I said Like my pal, I yanked down my zipper, fumbled in my briefs, and whipped out eight inches of hairy hog. I gave it a few hard strokes to bring it to full stiffness, freed my balls, and scratched the bag with my other hand. “. . . and guy’s like me — we get off watchin’ this!” I pointed a finger toward his manhood.
Stankis’ fixed gaze broke. He looked my way to discover that he’d taken center stage in my jack-off fantasy. A shocked look darkened his face. “What’re you saying? You into guys? Into cock?”
I hawked on my palm and lubed the underside of my dick. The head of Stankis’ already glistened with pre-come. “Not any guy. Not any cock — just yours, dude. I got a thing for jocks. You said you wanted head tonight — could be your lucky night.”
The big guy just sort of smiled, turned toward me, and let that left nut join its twin out in the open. “Man,” my hockey hero huffed, “I sure could use a blow job . . .”
“Fuckin’ jocks,” I chuckled. Then I licked my dry lips, got down on my knees, and surrendered.
Damn, those fringe benefits!
The thing about most jocks is that no matter how much they shower, they still smell like jocks. First, I took a nosedive into Stankis’ balls. His beefy low-hangers smelled of soap and sweat and a trace of spunk. After a good, long sniff, I licked them from the root of his stick to that stretch of hairy skin between his sac and asshole. Stankis spread his legs lo accommodate me, but he had better plans for my mouth.
“My cock,” he demanded. “Get on my cock!”
I stopped sniffing his scrotum and gulped the round head of his cock between my lips. Man, I love suckin’ cock! ‘Specially jock cock. And this jock’s was the best I’d ever tasted. I was savoring the gamy taste of his head when Stankis dove forward, ramming as much of his dick as he could down my throat. His cock rammed into my gullet, and my nose checked into the mossy-smelling heaven of his hairy abs, but I managed to get into a steady rhythm. The salty taste of his pre-come drove me crazy. Just thinking I’d gotten his big dick in my mouth sent me to the edge of losing my own load. The dude was two paces ahead of me, though.
“I’m shootin’, man — “
“No shit,” I sputtered, my mouth full of his spurting cock.
Remember those fringe benefits? They got better. Drenched in sweat and still stiff, I spit out Stankis’ dribbling cock and stood. The grin on the big guy’s mug went south at the sight of my cock. “Dude,” he started, “I’m not into dick —” I gave his wet stick a good natured squeeze and ran it over my pole while licking his come from my lips. “Don’t worry, Chris,” I said “This hockey cocksucker just wants to puck around some more with you.” I pushed him down into the chair; I wasn’t done yet. “What the fuck?” Stankis started to protest. I picked up his right foot.
“Relax, man,” I growled back. “Watch those chicks. I’ll do the rest.”
And watch them he did. He didn’t think twice after that when I peeled off his socks and bathed his toes with spit. Didn’t stop me when I pulled his jeans and shorts down, exposing that hairy pink pucker I’d had only a glimpse of while slurping on his nuts. After sucking on Stankis’ feet, I went wild on his butt, lapping the tang out of his hairy ass. I even managed to worm a finger into his asshole, teasing his prostate till his spent dick inflated back up to full mast. Those big nuts were ready to shoot another load.
“Fuck,” he slurred. “You do that better than my ex!”
“You’re gonna have to let me in your crease more often,” I said, tonguing his asshole. His only response was a grunt. Giving his balls a respectful lick, I got up on my knees and groped the big guy’s hard cock.
Almost nothing turns me on more than jerking off a willing straight guy. Ogling his cock, feeling the taut skin roll up and down his hard meat, nibbling the big head — it all made me hornier than hell.
Stankis went crazy. I started pumping his cock up and down, faster and faster. His eyes were glued to the chicks on screen. Stankis fucked my hand.
“That’s it, big guy,” I howled. “Fuck my fingers!”
Stankis nearly tipped the chair pumping his cock into my fist. I felt a spray of sticky rain as pre-come flew across his hairy legs. He was close, damn close “Here it comes!” he gasped.
But I squeezed his cock tighter, right under the head, so it couldn’t come — at least, not till I had the straight hockey player humping my hand like a madman, begging to be beaten off by another guy. I looked up into the big guy’s pleading eyes, his handsome face, and his open mouth. I aimed the quivering mushroom head and straining piss slit up toward his hairy mug, and it was then that I unclenched my grip.
The first bullet of his boiling ball juice sprayed across Stankis’ hairy chest. The second hit him squarely in the chin. The third flew right into his open mouth. Stankis swore, gulped his own come, and writhed as the last of his hot load spritzed his body.
I released his dribbling dick, grabbed one of his sweaty feet, and started beating off on it. Before shooting my wad across his dogs, I leaned down and hoovered off his crotch. I blew the biggest load of my 30 years on his foot. I licked his sweat and my spunk off the big guy’s toes before collapsing victoriously at the hero’s feet.
We watched Channel l7 for hours. After a while I kind of got what it was that Stankis saw in straight sex.
But the big guy — who the next day would turn in the fourth hat trick of his career and win the last playoff game — would be hailed as the conquering hero in my weekly sports column. And before we crashed in his bed that night, he got a taste of what it was I saw in the kind of sex only two buddies can appreciate.
