Wrestling for Top: Part 7

Excerpt

Wrestling for Top, Part 7
Jack Stevens © 2016
All rights reserved

Yves Montaigne climbed through the ropes and took his position in one corner of the ring, back to the turnbuckle, looking across the illuminated canvas to watch the arrival of his very special opponent. He glanced once up into the shadows. He couldn’t see it, but he knew the camera he had set up was there, not simply recording but streaming this fight, sending it specifically to one very particular laptop. The men gathered around had paid the usual exorbitant fees for their specialised entertainment, but as far as Montaigne was concerned, there was only one really important spectator that night, and he was miles away, watching, helpless to do anything. In his tights, Yves’ already rock-hard erection ached and oozed pre-come. In an ordinary pro ring he would have been forced to ignore it—not that the anticipation there would have been anywhere near as intense as this, but here… Yves leisurely massaged the long curve of his eager cock, smiling to himself at the drawn-out sigh of pleasure the move drew from several of the men around all sides of the ring.

He watched as Terry threw aside the dressing area curtain and strode through the door into the room, the wrestler’s traditional entrance bravado evaporating as the crowd remained eerily silent, focused with a fierce, voiceless intensity unlike anything Terry probably had ever known in his wrestling career. You should run, Yves thought, run now as fast and far as you can. He smiled again. But you will not. You are a fool. Like your father. He shoved down hard on his crotch, his smile growing cold. Like your ‘uncle’.

Terry walked the short way to the ring and leaped up onto its apron. Yves could see him staring uselessly at the shadowy seated figures at ringside, trying but failing to make out faces. Yves guessed he considered his famed Chris Bacchus leap over the top rope but decided against it. Somehow, this didn’t seem the place for such showbiz antics. Yves nodded slightly to himself. The boy was learning. But too little. Much too late.

Terry took his position in the opposite corner, facing Yves. Arms wide, gripping the ropes behind him, he leaned forward in a series of half-hearted stretching exercises, and Yves saw his eyes casting around the ring. Non, mon brave. No seconds. And definitely no referee. Just you. And me. He stepped forward, leisurely unlacing the belt of his dressing gown, opening it, letting it fall from his shoulders, swinging it round and folding it before placing it to one side in his corner, behind the turnbuckle, to let the audience appreciate the slow unveiling of his honed body.