The Baron pulled up on the rope and Jonathan was yanked uncomfortably upright, his wrists twisting up his back, his back arching, his pelvis pointing outwards. Pointing towards the man who was walking towards him.
The fighter.
Big, strong, hairy, sweaty, bloody, bruised, brutal... and intent.
Jonathan felt torn, uncertain of anything – his own mind, his own desires. Mick was a big ugly brute, rough and unpleasant. If Jonathan saw him in a club he would not even bother to look down his nose at the guy. He was way below the radar.
So why was his heart beating so fast? Why was his cock betraying him, twitching into life once again?
Mick was unbuttoning his leather trousers as he approached, his dark eyes slightly glazed as he stared down at Jonathan's upturned face. For the first time, Jonathan really looked at the man, really saw him. Around six foot, very broad upper body, rugged features, his bearing proudful, arrogant, but somehow balanced by qualities that Jonathan had not noticed before and could still not see clearly. There was more to him, hidden depths. How had he tracked him down in the park? How had he beaten the younger, fitter opponent when he should have been weakened by his labours?
Who was this man?
Mick reached him and brushed his hair, caressed his cheek. One dirty, rough finger stroked Jonathan's lower lip.
“I won you fair and square, kiddo. Twice!”
He took out his cock.
It was thick and sweaty and starting to stiffen in his hand. He pulled back the foreskin to reveal a fat purple head like some swollen fruit. A ripe fruit, it had a strong smell to it. Not pleasant. Not nice. But not repulsive either.
Jonathan gazed up into Mick's eyes and opened his mouth.
Mick brushed the fat purple cock head against Jonathan's dry lips. The moisture was like nectar. He was so thirsty his body didn't care what kind of moisture it was. The sweat and precum of an older man's cock brought his tongue to life, started his saliva flowing.
He kissed it, tasting its salty, bitter tang. He put out his tongue and licked the underside of the head, his lips caressing the bulge of it. He was still savouring the taste when Mick took hold of his head in both hands and pushed forward with his hips, driving the cock inside.
Jonathan gagged as his mouth was invaded and the fat cock head struck the back of his throat. His body convulsed but he could not move; the Baron was still holding him by the ropes and Mick had a vice-like grip on his skull as he slowly slid his fat meat in and out of Jonathan's mouth. His lips, moist now, rolled smoothly over the swelling knob of Mick's cock as it slipped between them.
Forcing himself to relax, Jonathan breathed in through his nose and began to work the meat with his mouth, timing the contractions of his mouth with the man's rhythm. He felt it gradually get bigger and harder between his lips and teeth, forcing his jaw open wider.
Mick was breathing heavily, as if he were still fighting. His meat became a hard spike, pushing deeper, demanding entry. Jonathan concentrated on relaxing and opened his throat to accommodate the intruder.
Fully engorged now, the man thrust in up to the hilt, impaling Jonathan's head on his rigid pole. Jonathan moaned at the sudden penetration, an involuntary reflex, and felt his throat vibrate against the invading hard flesh. He was totally trapped, totally filled and fixed in position, at the mercy of the man's stabbing organ.
He struggled to control his breathing, sucking in air through his nostrils as Mick plunged in and out, his head filling with the scent of the man's damp, sweaty crotch. Mick had hold of Jonathan's hair now, gripping handfuls as he pistoned his hips backwards and forwards, faster now. The man was not content to let Jonathan do the work, to show off his skills, to savour the feel of the silky soft lips and expert throat... No, he was impatient, hungry, bestial. He just wanted to fuck.
This big rough bastard probably hates me as much as he lusts after me, Jonathan thought. He probably thinks that just because I speak English correctly that I'm some poor little rich kid, born into the lap of privilege and high society. Well I don't care what you think of me, you thick piece of council estate scum, you don't know anything about me. To you I'm just a piece of meat to be used. See if I care, you ignorant big lunk. See if I give a fuck.
As these thoughts went through Jonathan's mind he was fully aware of the growing discomfort in his body and all the different sources it came from. The ropes biting into his skin. His arms pulled far up his back. The fat, hard cock pounding his throat like a battering ram.
And his own erection, ignored by everyone, so hard it was aching. He was sure if anything brushed against his swollen prick he would cum instantly. It would be like a trigger.
Mick cried out suddenly, his thrusts coming to an abrupt end as he rammed as deep as possible into Jonathan's throat and held position. Jonathan's nose was crushed against the man's crotch and public hair and he couldn't breathe. As Mick's hot, salty load flooded him, Jonathan began to suffocate and struggled. Mick was oblivious, lost in his ecstasy. Jonathan's throat spasmed around the twitching monster that was buried inside it, involuntarily coaxing more and more of the bitter juice from the man's body.
Just as he felt he was about to black out, Mick released him, letting go of his hair and stepping back, his still rigid, curved pole slipping out of Jonathan's mouth.
The Baron let go of the rope. Unsupported now, Jonathan fell to the side, coughing up the last remains of Mick's spunk, gasping for breath. He lay on his side on the grass, spluttering, his chest heaving as he gulped in air.
He was dimly aware of people moving around him, of the Baron crouching down and brushing sweaty hair out of his face, tenderly. Patting him on the ass and saying “Good boy. You did well.”
He couldn't speak. He wanted to ask for water; the man's hot salty jism had aggravated his thirst and his mouth felt like it was on fire. He couldn't focus his eyes, the sun was so bright it was as if someone had turned up its power a hundredfold. It roasted his skin. He was so weak.
The rope was untied. His limbs flopped on the grass. He was picked up, big arms cradling him, his head resting against a damp, hairy chest as he was carried into the blessed cool shade of the house.
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