“I’m going to go a little deeper, just breathe.” Stefan heard Will take a deep breath and saw his back expand slightly. He gripped the boy’s hips and moved forward, deeper into Will’s body.
“I don’t know if I can… if I can do this,” Will whimpered, sounding close to tears. Stefan pulled back and made several very shallow thrusts, not willing to go deeper until Will was ready. After about half a dozen pumps, he heard Will’s sounds start to change again. Instead of a tearful whine, he heard a low agonized groan.
“Is it getting better?” he asked the boy, still not penetrating him any deeper.
“Yeah… Feels… feels good,” Will moaned. Stefan took the opportunity to fuck him in earnest. Releasing the boy’s hips, he covered Will’s body, propping himself on his hands, and lost himself. With his lips next to Will’s ear, he spoke to him in a low breathless voice.
“You feel so good, like you were made for my cock.” Stefan punctuated his statement with a deep thrust, forcing a deep moan from Will.
“Reach down and stroke yourself for me. I want to feel you come when I fill you up,” Stefan murmured and felt Will shift beneath him. The chaos of the streets below, the impending disaster, none of it mattered in that moment. For them, all that mattered were Stefan and Will. He could still taste the boy’s last orgasm in his mouth as he drove his hips harder into Will.
“Later, I want to have you lie back in my bed and make yourself come for me so I can watch. You are beautiful,” he whispered as he kissed the back of the boy’s neck. Will began to tense, and Stefan knew that Will was close to coming.
“That’s… it… feel how… deep I…” he managed between labored breaths just before Will groaned beneath him and his firm young body locked, his ass clamped around Stefan. Sweat trickled down the boy’s back and Stefan bit the back of Will’s shoulder as he abandoned himself to the animalistic coupling. Wrapping his arms around the boy, Stefan drove relentlessly into him, taking his orgasm from the depths of Will’s soul.
A molten wave of pleasure washed through Stefan and out through his cock, buried deep in Will’s clenching ass. Tears rolled down his face as he sobbed in his release. The stress of the day, the fear of their impending deaths, and the sadness that filled his heart erupted from him and he pressed his face between Will’s shoulder blades looking for comfort.
They made love for hours under the setting sun, each new delight taught young Will what it was to feel another man’s touch. Whether he rode Stefan or kissed him deeply as he drove his eager cock into the older man, he thanked God for the privilege.
Stefan woke with his arms around the boy, clutching Will to his chest. A fiery light burned with the intensity of the sun as it streaked through the sky.
A moment later, a terrifying shudder ripped through the ground, and the world went black.
THE END
Author bio: Erotic fiction is more than just moans, grunts and physical pleasure. To J.P. Barnaby, erotic fiction consists not only of the mechanics of physical love, but the complex characters and relationships that lead to those all-encompassing feelings of need and longing. Sex without context is merely sex—but sex coupled with attraction, with explosive repercussions—that is good erotic fiction. J.P. authors all different kinds of erotic fiction including gay, straight, male, female, BDSM, sweet, romantic and dark.
As a bisexual woman, J.P. is a proud member of the GLBT community both online and in her small town on the outskirts of Chicago. She spends her days writing software and her nights writing erotica, which is, of course, far more interesting. The spare time that she carves out between her career and her novels is spent reading about the concept of love, which, like some of her characters, she has never quite figured out for herself.
Website: http://www.jpbarnaby.com
Twitter: @JPBarnaby
Sarah Black – SUCKER–PUNCH (Athlete/Hurt-Comfort)
Selected by Sarah Black
Dear Fabulously talented Author,
After years of training and dedication I have finally achieved my dream of becoming the world heavyweight champion. I have put everything else in my life on hold to make earning this championship. I thought everything was worth it until I recently injured myself. Now they say I will have to forfeit my title if I cannot defend it in my next match scheduled for later this year. I am beginning to wonder if i can even recover enough to compete ever again, let alone in such a short time. I have been depressed and dare I say brooding lately. Without my boxing I am not sure what to do with my life, I have no close friends or family. I haven't been going to my physical therapy sessions because the PT wasn't working for me...
Now my manager says he has a new PT specializing in treatment for my injury. Author do you think it would be possible for this therapist to pull me out of my depression and get me ready to defend my title? Can our relationship develop beyond therapist and patient?
[PHOTO: These pictures show two very different men. The first is chocolate-skinned, tight-jawed, shaven-haired, with the back-light gleaming off his curved, toned muscles. His gaze is intent. The second smiles a little behind his hand, looking at the world through amazing blue eyes. Light stubble and tousled dark hair grace his model-perfect face. ]
Author please give this man his HEA in a sweet romantic story that is light on the sex.
Sincerely,
Darlene P
Genre: contemporary
Tags: athlete, celebrity, hurt-comfort, medical personnel, non-explicit, sport, sweet no sex
Words: 13,219
SUCKER–PUNCH
by Sarah Black
For Darlene P, with much love and good wishes
CHAPTER ONE
The surgeon was a beefy guy, with a thick gray beard and a tough handshake. He looked deep into Jesse’s eyes and shook his hand a little harder than he needed to. Jesse thought he was probably trying to remember details, so he could talk about it later, yeah, I saw that boxer today in the office, you know, the one who took that mean sucker-punch two months ago. No, he’s done, the title’s up for grabs. He can’t even walk straight.
“Triple J! Come on in, my man. Good to see you. Who’s this, your manager?”
Corry stuck his hand out, and the doctor shook it. “I’m Corrigan O’Malley. Trainer.”
“I’m Dr. Shutes. You sure have your boy in good condition, Mr. O’Malley. I see a lot of boxers, and he is one strong, balanced fighter.” The surgeon paused, and Jesse could hear the echo in the room—but….
Jesse stared at him, Zen calm on his face. Tell me some good news. “Doctor Shutes, have you had a chance to look at the MRI?”
The doctor went behind his desk and sat down, and Jesse and Corry pulled up chairs.
“Um, yes, I have. Triple J, how’s the altered balance? Any change since last week?”
“No.”
“No falls?”
“A couple of near misses. But my balance is no better. I list over to one side.”
“Still to the right?”
“Yeah. So, how’s the MRI?”
“Well, there’s a bit of a problem. A tiny lesion, a millimeter or two, but in a place that makes me suspect it’s the cause of your altered gait. It looks like the lesion is evolving from blood clot to scar. Probably caused by that right you took to the head.”
Corry sat forward in the chair. “Are you saying it’s brain damage?”
“Well, that’s not a term I usually use. For now, let’s just say it’s a lesion that’s evolving.”
“So how do you fix it?”
Jesse couldn’t move. The words seemed to be echoing in his head, inside his damaged brain—blood clot. Scar. Lesion. He missed the doctor’s next words, then Corry was standing up, tugging on his shoulder. “Come on.”
“Hey, Triple J. Would you mind? My son would love an autograph. You’re the champ, after all.”
Jesse reached down, scrawled his name across the top prescription on the doctor’s prescription pad, then Corry had him up and walking outside.
It was windy, a cold spring rain blowing against his face. He felt a brick wall against his back and looked up.
“Did that guy say something about brain damage?”
Corry sighed. “Yeah, he did. He’s referred you to this new rehab place, some kind of physical therapy for balance disorders.” Jesse stared down the street, waiting for it to tilt suddenly, for some lesion in his brain to rise up and toss him down on his ass like a baby learning to walk. “Okay, enough. You get your gear on, go for a run. I’m tired of you moping around like a sad sack.”
Jesse felt a sudden craving for French fries from McDonalds. He remembered what they tasted like, salty and greasy and warm, and he wanted some. He hadn’t had French fries in seven years, maybe longer. His fuel was lean protein, whole grains, enough organic leafy greens to keep a flock of geese happy. And that fuel, and his work, kept his engine in tip-top shape. He reached down, ran his hand absently over his flat, hard belly. “Yeah, I need to work out.”
“Go for a run, then meet me back in the gym for some bag work. You’re gonna go to this new PT this afternoon at four. He made a spot for you as a favor.”
“What kind of favor?”
Corry shrugged his shoulders, hunched into his coat against the rain. “Kid, everybody wants something.”
Jesse grabbed his gear out of the back seat of his car, changed in the bathroom at the park, then started a slow loop on the dirt path. He liked to run on dirt. He liked the way dirt felt under his feet, warm and easy. At mile one he put a little more juice into it, waited for the smooth slide of heat into his muscles, the heat he felt when the blood was pumping strong and all the pistons were firing. His body was a perfectly functioning machine, kept in prime condition through hard work, enough sleep, healthy food, and sheer bloody force of will. Anything less than complete perfection was unacceptable, because only physical perfection, combined with 200% effort and a smidgeon of good luck could keep him on top. And he was on top, the undisputed heavyweight champion of the world. He had another four months to keep it, then he’d have to earn it again.
He could feel it now, heat moving into his thighs, the flush of sweat against his chest, and he welcomed the cool spring rain against his skin. Just for now, he was as good as he could be. He would see what this new PT had to say, and then he would decide if he was going to fight for his title, fight and maybe lose, fight and get another scar on his brain, or give it up. Give it up, and then what? He couldn’t even imagine what the rest of his life would look like. Life after boxing? Impossible. If he ever pictured it, he pictured himself with gray hair, wearing a cardigan sweater and loose corduroy trousers, maybe bent a little with arthritis. Reading glasses on his nose.
He was thirty. Too young to retire and relinquish the title. What was he supposed to do between thirty and that far-off old man? But the surgeon said there was a scar on his brain. He’d seen the old boxers hit one time too many, punch drunk, weaving when they walked like they were on the second day of a three day bender. No boxer came out of a long career without being hit a couple of times too many in the face, without a little brain damage. Except current IBF Heavyweight Champion Triple J Jones, who was known for never taking a fist to the face—until the sucker-punch to his right eye that had detached the retina and tore something in his brain.
The Ukrainian shit-bird who had slipped a punch in under his guard had paid for the crime. Triple J had beat him to a pulp. Jesse knew the guy wasn’t a match for him, had never been a match for him. He was scrawny, covered in scars and tattoos, with Soviet stainless steel holding his teeth together. Just for a moment, at the beginning of the fight, Jesse felt for the guy, so badly outmatched, and that was the very moment he had thrown the dirty punch.
Corry hadn’t said anything, but he knew exactly what had happened. When Jesse had come out of the hospital, he pulled him into the gym, and they sat together on the edge of the ring. The old gym smelled like foot powder and sweat and the coppery tinge of blood. “Jesse, comes the time you lose the taste for spilling somebody else’s blood, you bow out, understand? Don’t let them take it away from you because you’ve gone soft inside.” He slapped a hand across Jesse’s chest, felt the muscles hard and smooth as marble. “When you don’t want it anymore, you give it up. Nobody will look down on you, not after the career you’ve had. Not unless you start giving it away in the ring.” But that was before he had started falling, before he started walking into walls, before the world under his feet started tilting and tossing him on his ass.
Did he still want it? Oh, hell yeah. He could feel the craving coming up his throat, a flush of need and want so strong he had to force the feeling down into his chest with a grunt so he wouldn’t howl like a dog. It was winning. That was all. They could talk all day about why they did it, but that was just the PR circus. They did it to win.
A long run, a couple of hours in the gym working with the bags, and a cool shower, and Jesse felt like he was ready to take on the world. He pulled on the pants to a track suit and a tee shirt, ignored his strange craving for French fries, and drove to the Elks Rehab hospital.
He was directed to the Balance Disorder Center, a bright, glass-walled room with exercise equipment, big plastic balls in primary colors, and a mirror along one wall. There was a man wearing scrubs lifting a stack of blue yoga mats, carrying them to the corner. A class filed out the door past Jesse, twelve pudgy, elderly men and women with the hungry look of people who had recently been put on low salt diets. A couple of them were using canes, and one had a definite list to the left. He was in the right place.
“Can I help you?”
The guy was wearing a badge on his scrub top, but Jesse didn’t look at it. He couldn’t really look past the blue eyes. Silky black hair fell down over his forehead, a sweet, straight nose, pretty curved mouth. And those blue eyes smiled up at him. “I’ve got an appointment at four.”
“Oh, right! The neurosurgeon called.”
“Dr. Shits.”
The guy laughed out loud. “Um, that would be Dr. Shutes. Come on in.” He sat down at a desk in the corner of the big room, gestured Jesse toward one of the chairs. “What can I do for you?”
He was taken aback. “Didn’t he tell you what I needed?”
“Yeah, but I’d like to hear it from you first. What you think is going on and what your main concern is. What you’re hoping to get from this.”
Jesse looked around at the glass room. It looked like a giant, very clean kids’ playroom. Those people who had just left, they looked like they’d had strokes. What was he doing in this place? “Listen, I don’t think this is gonna work. I’m not….”
“You’re having balance problems.”
“I fall over. For no reason. I’ll be walking down the hall, suddenly I’m laying against the wall. It’s worse when something’s moving really fast near me—like another boxer in the ring.”
“You’re a boxer?”
What? This guy didn’t even know who he was? “Yes. I’m a boxer. And I’ve got a very important boxing match in four months. By that time, I have to stop falling over. That’s what I’m hoping to get from this.” He could hear himself biting off the words.
“Can’t you cancel the match? I saw the MRI. There’s a lesion there. You don’t want another blow to the head, my friend.”
Jesse stood up. “I don’t think you understand what’s at stake. If I cancel the match, I’ll lose my title. I’m the heavyweight champion. Of the world. Thanks for your time.”
He was out the door and at the elevator when the guy caught up with him, tugged on his sleeve. “Don’t go. I didn’t even get a chance to introduce myself. I’m Evan Walker.”
Jesse took the hand the man was holding out to him. “Jesse James Jones. Triple J Jones.”
“Triple J Jones, the heavyweight champion of the world. What do your friends call you?”
“Jesse.”
“Jesse, can we try this again?”
Back in the glass room, and Evan pulled his computer moni
tor around so Jesse could see the screen. “Here’s your MRI. You have a copy?”
Jesse shook his head, and Evan printed a copy and handed it to him. “Here’s the bit that matters. It looks like you took a blow to the head that caused a tiny tear in the dura of the brain just here.” He drew a rough sketch of a brain on the back of the report, made a dot. “It’s not bleeding anymore. Now it’s healing, forming scar. But if you think about the pathways of the nerves in the brain being like highways, then scar tissue is like an overpass that’s collapsed. Nothing can go through it.”
“How big is the scar?”
“Looks like a millimeter and a half.” He made a small line on the paper. “Tiny.”
“But in proportion to the rest of the brain?”
“Okay, well, picture those highways. This is Route 66 through Arizona. Maybe to Flagstaff.”
“Is this what’s causing the falls?”
“Let me ask you a couple of questions, okay? Any nausea with the episodes?” Jesse shook his head no. “Are you dizzy, or do you just fall with no warning?”
“I fall with no warning.”
“No visual disturbance?”
Jesse thought about it. “I had a detached retina that was repaired. A couple of times, I thought the vision in that eye jittered a bit. You know what I mean? Like, with really fast movement.”
“Huh. That’s interesting. When you turn your head from side to side?” Jesse shook his head no. “Any blows to the ears, punctured eardrums, hearing disturbance, ear infections?” No again. “Okay, let’s do a Clinical Balance Assessment.”
Evan had him do a series of postures, holding himself in position with his eyes closed and one foot raised, or arms out to his sides. “The changes are subtle, compared to the normal population,” he said. “It’s because you’re an athlete, and already have such strong control over your body. But I can see what you’re talking about. It’s not coming from the eyes or ears. It’s an alteration in proprioception. Your body’s awareness of its position in the world. I think this is caused by the damage to your brain.”
Don't Read in the Closet volume one Page 6