To Love A Hitman

by Randell Mccreary

  I nod, feeling suddenly shy. “So, what now?”

  “Tell me this. You liked me… in that way… before what happened, or after?”

  “Before,” I say. “You don’t just love someone because of some magical sex boner. That’s dumb. Sex doesn’t mean love or create it. It’s love if you already love the person beforehand.”

  “Right. Well… I didn’t really think much myself. Of my intentions. But I realized partway through, that I actually really fucking wanted you.”

  “Hence the blowjob?”

  “Yup.”

  Now we’re both grinning like idiots, our former anger forgotten. Or, well, shoved to the back of our minds.

  For the first time, my cousin seems a little unsure of himself. “So, you wanna… sit and talk more ‘bout it?”

  “Eh. I think we’re long overdue for a fucking,” I answer, in that offhand way, and Richard blinks.

  “Did I just hear you right?”

  I decide not to answer that. Instead, I say, “I’m gonna try kiss you now. You not gonna freak?”

  He smiles. “I won’t. Come at me.”

  “Gladly…” I grasp his shoulders, lean forward, closing up on that perfect, masculine, straight edged face, and rest my lips on his. Expecting to be weirded out. Except, I’m not, and neither is he.

  We intensify the kiss after that, warming up to the feel of each other’s mouth. He has soft and pliable lips, and a longer tongue than me – it wraps easily around mine. I want to experience more of this, because now that I’m finally giving into the emotions I’ve been bottling inside me, letting go of the fear that’s bundled them up, I feel truly liberated for the first time in a very long time. I confessed, admittedly after almost fucking things up further, and I received a confession from Richard in return. I never expected to hear it.

  I’d been so certain that no one here would reciprocate the feelings, that I was alone and friendless when it came to my sexual orientation, that it never once occurred to me that anyone else could feel the same way. Least of all, the cousin who I denied for a long time I actually liked. Because I didn’t want to sabotage the friendship we did have.

  Well, we are sabotaging it now, but it couldn’t be in a nicer way. I was a complete idiot before, acting like how I did. A dense motherfucker.

  The kisses ramp up, and now I’m running my hands over his muscular body, feeling the hairs along his arms, and the thick ones upon his chest. I kiss then his sturdy jaw, tasting the salt upon his skin from the sweat he’s worked up.

  He starts helping me out of my shirt, and it takes a few moments, because I don’t want to waste the opportunity I have being able to kiss him, practising my lipwork, and improving as I move my mouth in time with his. We adapt to one another, rather than do that whole tongue thrusting try to stab one another’s throats.

  He then manages to gasp that we should transfer our activity to the shed, and I follow him eagerly up the ladder, into a small but pleasantly arranged room. He has a small television in here, a tiny chest of drawers and a mirror, and I also can’t help but notice that he has a box of tissues and a bottle of lube on the stand where a lamp is.

  “Uh, you have lube?”

  “I come here sometimes. In both meanings of the word,” Richard says, grinning, and I have to laugh at that. Already, my brain is afire from spotting the lube. I’ve never had anal before, I don’t honestly know if I’ll like it. I mean, I tried, like, sticking a finger up there after thoroughly rinsing myself, but, I don’t know, it just felt a little weird. I suppose my finger isn’t exactly the shape of a dick, so I wouldn’t be able to get that same meaningful impact. But the thought of Richard doing that to me makes me shiver in delight.

  “I won’t do anything you’re uncomfortable with,” Richard whispers, and I nod, before unbuckling his jeans, wanting to see him there for myself, and to indulge in the fantasy I’ve treasured of being able to do the same to him as he’s done to me. He groans when his dick springs free, and I observe it, mouth watering, as I imagine taking that into my lips and doing what he did. He doesn’t let any protests slip from his mouth as I push him onto the white sheeted bed, grin at him, though I’m both nervous and excited at the same time. I just know looking confident is sexy, and I want to make him melt from this.

  Hiding the nervousness as best as able, I slide my hands along his thighs, brushing the edges of his balls, before I caress them gently. His dick twitches, and I let out a groan of desire, feeling my own erection strain against my boxers and jeans, before I crouch forward and take him into my mouth at last.

  It’s easy, in some ways, to pleasure a guy. Even if a guy’s not necessarily attracted to someone, you can still hit the right stimulus to get something going, but the attraction definitely helps. I like that he’s so big, though I can’t exactly deep throat – not without some practise, anyway.

  He’s solid in my mouth, and I’m careful with how I go back and forth, using my tongue as well to add an extra layer of friction there, though it’s not exactly friction, with my warm, wet mouth. I feel like… he’s vulnerable, like this. That he’s putting his trust here, his most intimate part here for me to do as I wish, and that thought electrifies me, sending a shiver all the way down to my dick.

  His precum fluids are mixing with the saliva in my mouth, and it’s a bitter, but not terrible taste. I suspect he’s been drinking orange juice or something to help improve the flavor. I had heard of the taste varying depending on that, but it’s quite something to experience it for myself.

  I hear him gasp, see his black eyes hazed over in pleasure, see his chest quivering as he snatches breaths, and I’m galvanized to keep going, to quicken my movements over his erection, until with a gasp, he tells me to stop, and clutches my hair hard so that I don’t keep upping the pleasure.

  I reluctantly disengage myself from him, and I can see he’s already so close. I could have just tried to ignore him and keep going, though I doubt I could have fought against his strength for long. Or I could have threatened him, considering that my mouth was around his dick.

  Free, he rapidly tugs my pants and boxers off, and gasps, “I want to be inside you.”

  Oh. A little bit of fluid bubbles on the tip of my erection at that, though I’m already hard from what I’ve done to him.

  “Won’t it hurt?” I whisper, “it’s my first time…”

  “Not if we do it right,” he says back, grabbing the lube off the side. He turns me around, and I feel his dick rest against the length of my ass, and my shivering increases. My heart’s near exploding point. My nerves can barely take this, as I hear the lip being twisted open, and a little squirt as he puts the lube onto his hands. “I’m gonna be careful with it. It will be cold, so just be prepared…”

  Well, he’s certainly right about it being cold. I gasp as a cold, slippery finger touches my asshole, and he slowly places it inside. He takes the time to let me get used to the odd sensation, to work one finger fully inside. When I’ve accommodated that one finger, he then replaces it with two. Then three. I’m slowly being stretched out by him, and it’s glorious. I’m free to love him, even though I know my insecurities will probably snap back at me in full force later. For now, I can shove them aside and just enjoy the moment, and enjoy the fact that the person I’ve wanted, actually wants me back.

  When he finally pushes the tip of his dick against me, I’m so nervous that I won’t like it, or I won’t come, or something’s going to go wrong with the experience, that my knees wobble.

  I needn’t have worried. He pushes himself inside me, and for a moment, my muddy blue eyes lock with his black ones in the small round mirror he has on the chest of drawers, and I let out a groan as he slips inside my well lubricated ass. It took a few moments to warm up, but it was worth every second, as I now feel his large dick filling me up, and pressing against that mythical g-spot that I wasn’t even sure existed in me. When he clutches my asscheeks with his hands, and strengthens the thrusts inside me, letting out grun
ts and moans of his own, the slam into my g-spot each time is unbearable. I can’t believe it.

  My heart’s melting, having gone past the stage of almost exploding, beating so fast that I can barely tell the individual heartbeats. I come with a cry, a shiver, a twitch over his bed, and he moans, increasing his thrusts until I feel him come as well. My cheeks are bright red from pleasure, and he’s puffing from his efforts as he withdraws from me, flopping out by my side.

  I wonder if I should cuddle. Would that be weird? I try it, just to see his reaction, and he takes me into his arms with a smile.

  “Damn,” he says, and I hear his heart hammering just as fast as mine.

  “I want to do the same to you,” I say, not satisfied with just him doing it. I want to know what it feels like as well, staring at the back of my partner, watching those muscles bunch up. I want to hear him moan, see how he reacts to me, and how I’ll look buried deep in him.

  “Maybe… after we’ve recovered. I don’t have a magical dick,” he says with a smile. “I don’t suddenly become erect again just after I’ve come. Give me a few.”

  “That’d be an impressive ability,” I say, nodding sagely, now trailing a finger over his pecs, and along his jugular. “Damn, I want to forget the outside world exists right now. I don’t want to think about my family’s gonna think. Or yours, even. Like, maybe we shouldn’t mention we hooked up on your dad’s wedding night. Or… at all, really.”

  “Hmm.” Richard scowls. “I’m not sure if my dad will really care. He’s been all mopey and sad cos of mom. A lot less focused on me, and more on his drink. That was my childhood, as you know. Fiona’s transformed him. I couldn’t be happier about that.”

  There’s a flash of pain in his eyes as he remembers his mother for a brief moment. I know he lost her at a young age, though he didn’t talk so much about it until recently – admitting he didn’t remember enough of her to really feel that same profound grief his father did. And I know he feels guilty for that.

  “I’m glad. He did look like he was having the best day of his life.”

  “Yeah.” Richard lets out another sigh. “Damn, I wish I could go public with this. But we’re both idiots as it is. Let’s not get our redneck families any more pissed off than they already are.”

  “Can’t argue with that,” I say, “and my brother’s basically telling me to stay away from you.”

  “Well… you did a good job with that.”

  “I know, right?” At that moment, I feel a squeeze of my heart, and know I love him. I don’t want to say it out loud. Not when we’ve just had sex, because I don’t want it to be influenced by that. I’ll wait for a better time.

  However, I know we can’t share this relationship yet. If ever. I know if it has a chance of even remotely succeeding, it won’t be with our family knowing. I can’t imagine it will be easy. I can’t imagine the tension won’t get to us. But I do know we’ll try.

  “Let’s take it one day at a time. I want this to work out, but honestly, I have no fucking clue where to go from here,” Richard admits. He squeezes my hand, and kisses me on the cheek.

  “You and me both,” I sigh. I close my eyes. Just a little longer, without having to think about the family. Just a little longer, when Richard is here, and is mine.

  Then we’ll work something out, and see where we’re headed from here.

  My Final Opponent

  ~ Bonus Story ~

  A Super-Steamy & Forbidden Gay Romance

  I’m here to win. And my opponent is a blast from the past. Someone who has it out for me…

  Four years ago, the man I kissed landed me in hospital. I still remember the hate in his eyes even today, though I never saw him in the boxing world since. Since then, I’ve avoided relationships. I didn’t understand why he hurt me so much. I thought we had something.

  But it turned out to be a lie.

  My final opponent for the championship has a different name. Different muscles, and more hair upon his face. I study his movements. I study how to beat him. But it’s only when I meet him face to face, when I realize that I know him. I’ve seen him before.

  And the last image I had of those eyes was when he knocked me to the ground, breaking my nose.

  I never thought I would see those eyes again.

  This time, I’m determined to win.

  * * *

  Chapter One

  I'm ready to fight, and determined to win. I check myself in the mirror, flexing my muscles, my blue eyes like flints. I cut my hair short, so it's just black stubble, and I practise jutting out my jaw, going for my most menacing look. I'm a welterweight boxer at 65 kilos, packed with muscle, and the fire to know that I'm again a complete asshole who doesn't deserve to win.

  It's the final match, and I've boxed my way through. I'm supposed to be attending the weigh in, and I'll have to watch him there hurling insults at me like faggot and cocksucker. I've not exactly hidden my orientation in sports, but it seems to incite a particular rage in Jackson Cage – which is a pseudonym, of course, like mine. My real name is George Halway, but I go by Georgie Hall, simply because I want to keep my private life separate from my professional life. I personally think of Jackson as jackass, and given the fact that he always trash talks minorities, always has a way of making you feel bad for being different – he deserves taking down a notch or two.

  He won last year's championship, so I'll be fighting to take the crown off him. It's massively inflated his disgusting ego, of course. The shit he talks about lesbians, transgenders, blacks and gays is just designed to make everyone hate him. He enjoys the image of being an asshole. It incites his opponents to rage. He still has a strong fanbase though, people who like him for being so tough talking. This will be a match to go for, since he's twenty-six, in his prime, and a known hater of anyone who happens to be not straight or “normal.”

  Then there's me, twenty-two, a rising star, recently turned pro, with this being my first major championship. People are mostly betting on Jackass Dickcage to win, but I plan to upset the balance. No way. No fucking way am I going to let someone like him win. The last time I let such a person beat me...

  I shake my head. No. I won't think about that. I don't want to think about that. One of my coaches knocks on the door.

  “Georgie, you ready? Weigh in's starting, crowd's getting impatient.”

  I examine my boxer shorts. White, with cage stylized around the elastic. I also wear white trainers. My boxing gloves are white on the outside, red on the inside. There's a reason for that, embarking back to color psychology. People honestly believe colors can affect the mood and feel. People with white gloves are said to pull their punches more, because it's a color associated with peace and cowardice. Red is fiery passion. Black is destruction. Jackass likes black, because he enjoys destroying his opponents in a trademark offensive style. I go for southpaw stance, because I'm naturally left handed, which gives me an interesting advantage when it comes to boxing, as most are right handed. Hard to cope with a mirror boxer.

  I breath in, expanding my lungs to max, inflating my chest so I can see every muscle I've worked into it. Then, rubbing my stubble of black hair, I nod grimly to myself, and go for the weigh in.

  Cameras flash. People scream. Most scream for Jackson, because he's the popular boxer. I'm the underdog, the one who has advanced shockingly well through the ring. Jackson is an orthodox fighter, and as far as I'm aware, he hasn't gone against southpaws. And, if I'm honest, I only really started relying on my southpaw stance shortly after my humiliating defeat in the amateur ring, back when I was eighteen. I didn't have a teacher who could teach me southpaw, so I tried learning conventionally. It made me awkward as hell. Although I did improve, I was using my weaker hand, which made me a weaker boxer.

  Then Nikolai Spirova came into the gym, all the way from Bulgaria on a one year exchange, took one look at me, and started diligently training me as a southpaw.

  Now I'm where I am, comfortable in my skin, still holding t
he memory of that defeat to my mind. Remembering the hatred of that guy. Remembering... what we did.

  No. I shake my head. No.

  I stand at the weigh in, and I'm faced with a monstrosity of a welterweight. He has a thick blonde beard and mustache, sideburns that practically jut out, and blonde hair that seems to fall just short of his eyes. Not clean shaven for a boxer, but clearly confident and cocky, with the muscle mass of a demigod. Dear fucking God, I knew he was strong, but his muscle mass compared to mine is insane. He must be nothing but muscle under that skin. Maybe if I'm lucky, he'll weigh too much – but I know he won't. He's just a little taller than me, with skinnier legs. Right as the cameras are flashing, as the fans cheer rapturously, Jackson pumps his fist in the air, and approaches me, spreading himself out to appear as menacing as possible.

  “You sure you want to come near a faggot?” I yell, and Jackson hesitates, before spitting his response. The crowd jeer at me and cheer for him, and I simply fold my arms, deciding I'll play calm for this. I'm not usually a fan of shit talking anyway, but I couldn't resist that one dig, because I've heard enough of his stupid interviews to know that he thinks it's disgusting gays can marry and that they're unnatural.

  I'd always received a good reception when I was going through my teenage years when I outed as gay. Right before I met people like him.

  “You got to the finals by fluke, cos people are too scared of catching AIDS off you, motherfucker!”

  Motherfucker isn't entirely appropriate, but I smile thinly as he continues in this vein of verbal abuse, to the cheers of his sycophants. He gets right up in my face, so close that I can see the brilliant gleam of his eyes, and I freeze for a moment.