The cry of seagulls overhead intermingles with the rush and roar of distance motors, sirens, and car horns. At your back, Manhattan Harbor, capped white with waves and trails of disturbed water from ferries, frigates, and pleasure boats. Beyond the makeshift ring, demarcated with shipping ropes, and life preservers as turnbuckle padding, Manhattan’s steel skyscrapers tower over the world, making everything small–even the iron-sided naval ship, the S.S. Merlin, casting its cool shadow over the rough and tumble crowd.
You step through the rough-hewn ropes, casting a wary glance at an equally rough-hewn audience of rowdy sailors, either in undershirts or bare chested. A gallery of tattoos–hearts and anchors–runs the length of every sailor’s knotted muscle, be they hairy chest, or smooth bicep. America’s finest men, in all colors, shapes, and sizes, jostle and smoke and clink beer bottles together, as the energy runs through the crowd. There’s no doubt about it–this is one tough audience, hungry for a fight. In fact, your ears perk up at the sound of growls and shouts and cheers as–somewhere to your right–a shark-headed, muscle-bound sailor takes a swing at a bearded, barrel chested daddy.
Where’s your opponent? Shouldn’t he have been here by now? Even the ref, a grizzled, shirtless hunk smoking a cigarette, seems antsy. He taps his foot and checks his watch. Still, magnanimous, he throws you a friendly look.
“He’s probably slept in again,” the ref sighs. “I wonder with who, this time.”
You grunt softly to yourself. You’ve heard your opponent is a bit of a playboy. You start scanning the crowd, all the large, brutish bodies bumping up against each other among American flags waving in the wind. Your opponent could be any one of those tough-as-stell studs, but which? (and are those two sailors making out atop that cargo box?) You try to zero in on the biggest bloke with the largest chest and massive biceps. Surely, he’s gotta’ be a giant bruiser among this company?
Back in the frey, the big man takes a swing at the shark-man with the scarred face, who, in turn, clamps his massive hand down on his rival’s hand and leans in for a chomp.
“Ugh, come on yous guyyyys, whatasamatta’ witch you’?”
The voice cutting clear through the crowd, freezing the battlers in place, is out of place. High pitched, slightly nasally (with that Brooklyn twinge), and just a bit feminine.
“Can’t you two big lugs friggin’ wait!?”“
You’re surprised to see the two men sheepishly melt back into the crowd, all their mates clutching their bellies in laughter and slapping their fellow crewmen on the back.
The shark scratched his fin. You see a bloom of blush on his cheeks. “Uhhhh…sorry, Spike!”
Spike! That’s the guy you’re set to fight. Surely that voice couldn't come from him, right? You crick your neck and rotate your arm, ready to scrap. Straightening your back for the fight ahead, you raise your head over the crowd, ready to lock eyes with the saltiest, nastiest, roughest, and toughest sailor of the bunch.
Sailors whistle or shout ‘Ow ow!’. Among the noise, you hear a soft ‘aw, shucks’, as the crowd begins to part--your opponent's entrance music coming in loud over the ship's PA speaker.
Confused, your eyes fall downward at the attractive, blonde, and very short young man now politely wiping his white boots on the ring apron. With feathery blonde hair and bright blue eyes, he looks like he should be throwing pigskins in college. Nairy a hair on his smooth (and quite large) chest, the feathery blonde has the unmistakable face of an angel…and the body of a devil. Compact. Muscular. Midway between swimmer’s build and the tiniest rugby player on the fact.
Sailorboy Spike whistles a tune, looking like his pretty head couldn’t comprehend a single worry. One of the rowdy, moustached hunks in the crowd reaches up and slaps him on the butt. Spike turns and winks at him, tugging on his blue ascot and blowing his fan a kiss.
You stand very confused. This…kid? This tiny titan is your opponent? Sure, he’s got biceps to spare, but you imagine being able to throw him wet into the harbor behind you–this match might be easier than you thought.
Finally, Spike notices you. “Huh?” His confusion turns into the sweetest, most heartbreakingly adorable smile you’ve seen. Eager, in ways Golden Retrievers often are when they spot a new friend (or tennis ball) the buff shorty grabs onto the ropes and, with acrobatic aplomb, flips clean over, onto the ring. He stick the landing, earning a crowd pop, which pops even bigger as he turns around and flexes his–very large–blue-banded bicep for the crowd, foaming at the mouth and applauding boisterously.
That’s when you notice Spike’s most prominent feature (besides that cute face). His butt is distractingly protrusive–his trunks practically swallowed by his sculpted, butt-cheeks. You’re reminded of certain statues of epic heroes such as Theseus or David, posed in museums around the world. You take notice of his anchor tattoo, placed provocatively on his lower back.
Now you understand all the wolf whistling. You gulp, trying to tear your eyes away. You hope Spike isn’t aware of your indiscreet glance.
Fortunately for you, ‘aware’ and ‘Sailorboy Spike’ seldom go together in the same sentence.
Spike sizes you up. You have height on him. He doesn’t care. The little stud thumbs his nose, snuffs, and warms up by bouncing up and down on his boots. His pecs bounce with him. “What’s doin’, cutie?” he says, as if he’s just sidled up to you at the bar and asked to buy you a drink. “Wow, you are handsome as hell!” He begins to circle you. This is a man who gets off to combat. “I’ll make sure not to leave any bruises,” he says, sweetly.
While the ref pats you both down–the ref helping himself generously to a few handsy grabs of Spike’s butt (which he does not seem to mind–you find Spike throwing you flirtatious glances. There’s not an ounce of malevolence or mean-spirit behind those eyes…but his cockiness, and confidence, throws you off your game a little. Spike slowly removes his ascot from around his neck and hands it off to one of his buddies, ringside.
Still, you’ve taken down cockier, and bigger, before. You start picturing what Spike will look like rolled up in a pin, or stretched out in a spladle–those cute, little, navy-striped briefs lost among his thick thighs and butt as he squirms and moans.
More hungry than ever to beat your opponent up, you start wondering if this is the Sailor studboy’s power–making his opponents hungry to dish out the punishment. Surely though, nothing is hungrier than Spike’s magnificent ass eating up his trunks.
The ref steps away–ready to allow you and Spike to lock up. “I’ll just have to stretch you out real good,” Spike says, extending his hand amicably. You shake it. “Er…your muscles I mean.” His cheeks turn an attractive shade of rosy pink, certainly not helping his cherubic features. “S-sorry! Dirty mind, but I fight clean, I promise!”
One of the drunken sailors–overall straps clinging tightly to his bearish chest–scratches himself, yawns, and breaks a beer bottle over the bell, starting the match.
Spike’s face changes in a flash, from friendly to cunningly determined. You never expected such resistance from the lockup, and Spike’s move into a tight wristlock leaves you with whiplash before the pain brings you to your knees!
As Spike’s fellow crewmen pound the air, holler, and cheer on their boy, you do best to hold out on your own. Spike isn’t just quick either, but a skilled gymnast, and his kicks and punches pack a wallop!
“C’mon!” the cheerful stud says, after executing a flip to dodge your right hook. He tugs up his trunks (he seems to have great difficulty with his cheeks popping out). “Oh, so you wanna sling punches, wise-guy? Well…” he makes a ‘come on!’ motion with his hand. “Do it, tough buster! Hit me.”
Blinking, confused, you don’t waste the chance to opportunity your foe–especially one so high flying as Sailorboy! You strike him, hard, on the side of the head. He’s skull is really as thick as it appears, but you don’t relent.
Your first sign that you’ve made a mistake is when the crowd of rowdy sailors at ringside, only snickers and sneers at each other. They’ve seen how this ends before.
Instead of a dazed, dopey face, or a grimace–a slow grin slides across Spike’s pretty face. “What’sammata’, guy? You can hit harder than that. Come on!”
So, you do. A hook to the left. A jab from the front. You wail on Spike, toss him into the rope, and deliver a chest chop across his untanned pecs. The strike practically bounces off, but leaves behind a red handprint. That’s gotta' smart!
Yawning, Spike looks down at the fresh, angry mark, smirks, and bounces his pecs for you. “That all? Come on…” He steps forward, biting his lip. “Harder, daddy. I like pain!”
Now, you’re pissed off! You scoop up Spike for a slam and bury him in the canvas. You go down for the pin, but even before the ref can hit the mats with you for the count-out, Spike’s bucked you off–thrown you, even–with incredible strength. You land on your back, dizzy. Vulnerable.
Spike, now aglow with a blue, hazy aura, stands tall. He looks down at his bicep and flexes. Have his muscles…expanded somehow? Has he gotten bigger?
The tiny tighten waltzes casually over to you. You stand, ready to tackle him and take him down to the mats.
He gets to you quicker.
“You call that a hit, buddy? I’ll show you how we fight…Brooklyn, style!”
WHAP!
The strike hits you so hard, and so dizzy, that you feel as if your soul has been knocked out of your body. The world blurs for a second, and your rattled brain can’t keep up with your balance. You fall flat, to the mat, to the sound of a hundred, drunken, horny sailors cheering.
As you slowly try to recalibrate your senses, you’re vaguely aware of Spike–your powered up opponent–scurrying up to the turnbuckle. The next thing you know, he’s flying, a sailor sailing through the air…straight for—
SLAM!
A splash, right across the midsection, takes the wind from your lungs, and crushes your chest and stomach. For a moment, you see black–but Spike’s shining smile cuts through the shadows. He’s behind you now! You think to get up, move, but this sailor has really taken the wind out of your sails.
“Not bad, buddy! Not bad. But I hit back harder. And now…it’s time for me to tie you up in my knots!”
Before you can react, a boot hooks your throat, pushing it backwards–just as Spike’s mighty arm hooks your leg, your other leg likewise caught, entangled by the Sailor’s agility and strength. With a soft grunt, Spike spreads and starts to pull, slowly, strongly.
You feel your legs split open and pull away, your hamstrings straining and your crotch start to pull. Spike has tied you up in knots, with little effort. The ref’s knowing look tells you that he’s seen Spike do this before; he knows how it ends.
Even while executing this brutal, submission display, Spike is all smiles. “Ummff…you’re so handsome!”
You can’t take it anymore. You feel like Spike might pull you apart like a pretzel. You manage to tap on Spike’s boot. The ref holds his hand up, calling the match, as the bell peels and the sailors roar out their victory!
Spike lets go at once, delivering relief to your strained joints, but your energy completely sapped, and your muscles completely stretched out. You can barely even get onto your knees. You watch Spike scurry back up the ropes, standing tall and mighty and All-American, while giving his signature single-bicep pose.
You can’t even be mad that you lost. He’s just…so damn…cute!
“Come on, Spike! Do it! Do the thing!”
Spike covers his mouth, coquettishly turning away. “Aw, c’mon, guys!” He looks over and winks at you, gesturing. “Only if you give a good salute to my good sport of an opponent!”
Whatever exchange is going on (and you are slightly lost–and still very dizzy–at this point) the sailors turn to you, clapping and whistling and pouring out golden streams of beer.
“Awright, ya horn dogs!” Spike calls out, turning around to give the sailors a good look at his best asset. He tugs his trunks down, below his bubble butt. “You earned it!”
The sailors sitting closest to ringside all swoon, falling into each other’s arms. The others froth at the mouth like rabid dogs. “Spike! Spike! Spike!”
Cheekily, Spike turns slightly to give you a look–and nearly knocks you out again. Never before have you seen a bubble butt that tight, that big, that…perfect. It’s glorious. With an impish grin–and some degree of difficult–Spike tugs his trunks back up around his cheeks.
Spike hops down to the canvas, shaking it as he does. He extends a hand and helps you up to your feet. You find yourself looking (down) into his beautiful eyes.
He bites his lip. “Er…so. How about a smooch for the victor? Or…” He leans in (up) and whispers, “I can take you back to my private quarters.”
You find yourself going red. Still, to turn down an invitation from the Pinup Prince would be foolish…especially after what you’ve just seen. Shyly, you nod.
Spike smiles back. “Good. Thought so.” And then, he’s armed and dragged you into a fireman's carry, slinging you over his shoulder–like an ant carrying weight twice its size!
“Aw you go get him, Spike!”
“Hey boys, you better play safe!”
All the sailors around you slap Spike on the back (or the butt) and pinch your butt as Spike carries you up the ship’s ramp.
And as he does, the blonde bombshell–half your size–turns and winks coyly to his men. “Aw, gee whiz guys! I’m gonna’ be a good boy, don’t worry.”
—
Spike pushes you down onto his cot. “I was lyin’,” he says, cheerfully, before he throws his arms around you and forces his mouth over yours. Even kissing, there’s something of the underdog about Spike. Confidently clumsy, you feel. Nevertheless, as he crawls on top of you–his surprising strength overwhelms you.
“Naw, I want you on top,” he says, turning you over forcefully–with the strength and expertise of a grappler who knows how to manipulate his opponent into doing exactly what he wants.
Your eyes briefly fall on calendar boys and black and white physique photographs tacked onto the wall. You can’t help but notice you’re surrounded by muscular men.
Spike looks up at you, and removes his gentle, forceful lips. “Oh, those?” He blushes. “I...just love hunks.” In fighting, and in sex, Spike’s enthusiasm is bubbly. He buries his face into your neck. “Like you. Mmmf. Your muscles.”
His nuzzling turns into nibbling on your neck. His arms and legs locked tightly around you, you realize you aren’t going anywhere. Your moans only seem to embolden him, him matching your energy at every turn.
Then, he’s flipped you over again–this time, straddling you. You look down at his bulging trunks. He looks like he’s packing more heat than a missile cruiser.
He sees you noticing it. “Gah, I can’t help it! I get so damn horny.” He scratches his feathery hair and then leans in for another kiss. You observe something about him–how his expressive, blue eyes change just before he kisses you, going from playful to a sort of distant trance; a hunger. Desire in its rawest form.
“I want you,” he says, kissing you. His kisses are wet and hungry, though he doesn’t pry with his tongue. He’s still gentle, in a way.
Suddenly, he rears up and looks down at you–the young lion ready to dig into a piece of meat. “I have a feelin’ I know what you want,” he says as he shifts around, going onto all fours, his bubble butt–gear basically wedged between his cheeks–right in front of you. “I saw you lookin’. Don’t worry, stud. Everyone does. Go ahead.”
As if overcome with a hypnotic frenzy, you reach down and slowly pull Spike’s trunks out from the crevasse and folds of his cheeks–like unveiling a masterpiece. And, in a word, Spike’s ass is a thing of beauty–a sweet, perfect peach. Plump. Perfectly rounded, white-pink, with a cleavage separating his cheeks into two spheres.
Spike laughs, shyly. “Go on, stud. Give it a kiss.”
You do as you are told, and Spike spreads himself before you, showing off his soft, pink hole. Mouth watering, you press your lips to it. Nice, and clean, with a hint of post-combat musk. You uncontrollably begin to lick and eat your way into his sweetness, and he moans in turn.
“Damn, now that’s a fuckin’ finishing move,” Spike says, trembling while you continue to indulge.
Addicted, you continue to lick, tonguing deeper. You wonder if this, too, is part of Spike’s power–this feedback loop of carnality, his moans driving you further and further inside him. Now you understand why so many bigger guys like beating him up–he sounds good in agony or ecstasy.
But, just like in battle, Spike counters. “Give you the real Sailorboy experience,” he says, as he positions himself onto your face. Before you can even hope to tear your head away, his thick, creamy thighs wedge around you, driving you deeper into his ass. You’re smothered. Compeltley covered.
“Only way out,” Spike says, pushing back–almost painfully–over your face, “is to eat. Don’t worry though, tap when you need oxygen. I’m not a dirty heel. I’ll let you breathe.”
But if you were to die now, it would be a delight. You do your best, even as Spike gleefyully rides you, cementing that–even in a passive position–he’s anything but submissive. Finally, you tap his legs, as you’re now begging for breath.
“Awright,” he laughs. He turns around. “Not bad. But you gotta’ remember, stud, turnabout is fair play.”
He yanks his trunks down, and you help them pull it off his ankles. This diminutive David is now splayed out before you, on all fours. His cock, pale and mighty like him, is five to six inches in length, but girthy. He drips precum freely.
He backs his ass back into your face, but you find yourself burying your nose in his cleanly shaven balls instead, licking a new side of him. You suddenly find something wet and warm enveloping your cock, and going further, sucking with the same indulgence–some of the best, deepest head you’ve ever had. Spike is a professional. Barely a gag.
You lock yourself into a rhythm, a flow smoother and more elegant than wrestling–though just as intense. Spike sucks, deep, and you eat him out deeper. What becomes a contest, soon turns into a synergy, a feedback loop.
Your sudden moan betrays you. Spike removes his silky mouth from your shaft, turns around, and stares down at you with that distant desire. He kisses you.
“I taste good on you,” he whispers coyly. “But I don’t want you to cum just yet. I want to ride you, cutie.”
You bite your lip and your eyes rolls back as Spike positions himself.
“Not so fast, sailor,” he says, a piece of plastic wrapper in his mouth. He tears the condom open and expertly weaves it across your stiff, reddening cock. “I don’t takes no chances, and neither should you.” He flashes that heartbreaker grin. “Besides, if you go in without a helmet, ace, you won’t last long.”
With deliberate slowness, Spike rises, showing off his dew-kissed abs, perfect V, and the somewhat comically bulbous, ‘mighty’ cock hanging from his lower extremities. Like him, it seems like an underdog–drooling sweet cream onto your mid section.
A tinge of rouge covers Spike’s face, the heat-blush of lust. He lowers himself onto you, slowly.
“Just kidding. You won’t last long anyway.”
You can’t help but cry out. He’s not only tight, but warm too. Firm. Your hands grips the bedsheets. As they should.
You’re about to go for a ride.
Spike lets free a deep, yearning moan–and his cock leaks out a fresh rope of precum onto your stomach. Eyes closed, lost in desire, he starts to ride you with a rhythm you’ve never experienced. Thing is though, you forget how strong Spike is–and you feel the weight just border on painful as the sailor takes to seas. Rocking. He’s gripping you hard. You cry out, feeling yourself being pulled in. As if he could take everything and more.
He opens his eyes, smiling down at you. Arrogant winner. “Maybe…ungh…maybe you won’t even last as long you did fighting m-meee FUCK.”
He cries out, riding you hard, unable to complete his sentence. Always biting off more than he can chew, that Spike, he can’t even play cocky as he succumbs to the pain and pleasure.
“I…I…” he tries talking, but he’s all-consumed by his movements. His fair skin has broken out in a sleek sweat. “When you come, I’m gonna cum too. That’s how…that’s how it works.”
Thank goodness he’s given you his command, because you can’t hold back any longer. You let forth an expletive as you feel yourself cum hard inside him.
He cries out, just the same. “FUCK.”
He shoots a wet, watery load all over you. Three to four pumps, before he throws his head back and sighs. He swipes sweat from his upper lip. Lost, in a drug-like stupor, smiling, he finally realizes he’s still on top of you. “Whoops!”
After cleaning up, you find Spike curled up against your check, kissing you softly, wordlessly. Then, he holds you tight.
“Ah,” he sighs. “Mine.”
Trying to move, you realize you’re trapped in his powerful arms and legs–a teddy bear. You go to try and say something, but Spike has already fallen asleep, snoring softly, an angel in repose.
Still, that little smirk of his, even in slumber–hints at deeper mischief, and you wonder if he’s enjoying himself just as much in his dreams.
