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RICK AND JACK

by gpl

 

Rick (me) Jack

 

 

It was the thirty-first time I saw him.
If you want to see it another way, a month ago, I decided to take some of my time and offer it up to my long-lost passion for boxing, and just for a poke of luck, my personal trainer had been chosen not by me or by any other person, but he chose me.
Day number one, Jack Roberts just approached me and explained me the ways of the place. One chose a trainee and prepared him for fighting, once he was ready, if he defeated his trainer, he would be given the honor to choose his own trainee. I had seen Jack boxing, attacking the opponent at the very first sign of carelessness, hitting and tensing the perfect muscles of his back and his deltoids in such a way it was hard stopping the boner from coming.
What truly impressed me above all was his body; before fighting, he had the costume of flexing and tensing each of his muscles at once, standing out the veins of his biceps on his oiled arms; not to forget the incredibly cut V-line on the bottom of his abs, and don’t get me into the topic of his pecs!
“First things first,” he said the first day. He made me take my shirt off, and I tell you I don’t brag too much about it, but my body is similar to that of a featherweight boxer–lean but perfectly muscular.
Something I wasn’t ready for was his hand crossing over my body, from the dimple where the bones under the Adam’s apple meet until he reached the spot where my boxers overlapped my skin.
“What, you getting a boner?” he asked, and I simple decided to pretend as if following the joke, when I was actually, INDEED, having a boner. He never let me touch his muscles, though (trainer perks), and made me work hard, slapping my abs at every abdominal workout. Needless to say that at the end of the training, my abs were of a vivid red color.
But I actually noticed him, every time I walked, he chose to stare at my red raw abs and pecs (push-ups were included, by the way).
So we stood like that for exactly a month, and this was the thirty-first time I had seen him.
The month was gone; the terrific month of preparation was over and he had taught me whatever he knew. The day before, though, he had done something I thought he’d never do. “You’d better get ready.” It happened that the thirty-first day would be different, and he was going to fight against me. For such a skinny (in comparison) man like me to wrestle against a perfectly muscled man, it seemed not to be the fairest thing, so I came up with a plan.
The rules were as follows:
Trainee and trainer decide if their fight is to be watched or not.
The fight finishes until one gives up.
No throat claws or groin kicks. The latter eliminating my plan C for finishing with Jack.
The winner gets the choice to decide his next trainee; the loser is to be hit wherever the winner wants twenty times a week after.
And the last one: no fucking shirts allowed.
The fighter got the liberty to decide whether he would fight wearing boxing trunks, speedos, or whatever he pleased. Just letting my mind drift a little, I had seen him wrestle in all type of clothes: lycras, using shirt, shirtless, boxing shorts, boxers, and so on.
The day finally came, and Jack decided it would be better for the fight to not be watched. Number 1 because he liked privacy better, and number 2, he admitted that for being the first fight for me, I’d do better with him if we were alone. The rule had one exception, though. To avoid the results from being adulterated, a third person was admitted.
Obeying the fifth rule, the man, as soon as he entered the place, took off his shirt, revealing such a perfect body, but of course, not reaching the splendor of Jack’s muscles.
“Follow the rules,” he said and handled us a little paper in which what we were supposed to do before the fight began was written. Just mere formalities of taking shirts off, taking pants off, and whatnots.
Luck’s second poke decided that Jack would fight in his Justin Taylers’. God! I had seen him fight with boxing trunks where some of his underwear popped into view, and I now was going to be perhaps the first to see him partially naked. I did know he was going to wear his Justin Taylers and decided to use my Speedos.

He smiled at me, looked down from my face to my bulge, and I stared at his–nicely and tightly packaged inside his Justin Taylers. He stretched the fabric for more comfortableness and clapped his hands as his biceps did this hot thing with each movement.
The formalities’ paper also included something of a “fair game hug” which turned out to be me hugging and feeling Jack’s pecs pressed against mine and slapping his powerful back. He, once more, stretched his Justin Taylers and for a moment I wondered if he was feeling the same queasy feeling in his insides as I was when I realized I was going to grapple with his amazing body.
The man observing us (also without a shirt and wearing his boxing trunks) clapped his hands and the fight begun.
The sixth rule never appeared, but it was understood: this fight wouldn’t include the boxing rules, but it was more like a free fight; you’re only objective was to make your opponent give up.
He prepared to attack, lifting his hands at the level of his eyes and ran into me. Our hands crashed into the other’s shoulders. I felt their power. Ooof! I guess it was practically impossible to keep the boner from coming. His muscles twitched under my palms as he tried to get me down. It was, perhaps, the easiest thing for him to bring me down: one knee first, then the other, and in no time, he was already over me, slapping my pecs and giving me a quizzical look. He stood up again and walked away.
It was incredible how excellent his back looked. I stood up, stretching my Speedos trying to hide my dick. He turned around and walked to me. At a moment’s notice he had me in a bearhug squeezing the heck out of me. I thrashed at whatever my feet and hands could find. Connecting with his incredible back and his thighs; he let go after some seconds and massaged his inhumanly muscular legs as I recovered my breath, holding my gut with both hands.
By then, I must tell you that the fun had already begun. My chest heaved in and out with nerves and excitement that I was wrestling with a god. Jack rested his hands on his knees and gasped for air.
After some seconds, he walked to me, this time resting his hands against my chest and pushing me against the corner of the ring, bringing a new sensation to my back, a stinging pain just as his first fist came.
I flexed just in time to meet his punch; my abs working the way he taught them to. I didn’t fight it, I actually liked it. Watching the muscles of his arms and his oblique as he tried to destroy my abs. But I bet he already knew it would take more than fists to destroy them. I liked the stinging pain following each punch, groaning in a new sensation of pleasure.
Jack smiled taking my arms by the biceps and moving them away. It felt incredibly nice when his hand slapped my abs, and some seconds later, he pushed me with his shoulder against the corner, trying to soften my stomach and breaking my back, but it did nothing to soften me up. Yeah! It did hurt, yeah, I groaned. But I liked it.
I brought down my elbow to his back with such force he had to lay on the ring’s floor. He arched his back flexing each of his muscles and wincing in pain. Did I hit him that hard?
I got over him and pushed his head to the floor when my palm met his back; as a gift, I received the arousing sound of my palms on his muscles. He groaned and arched his back, getting me to another boner. He didn’t seem to care if my dick came in contact with his back; well, he didn’t seem to care about anything I was doing to him.
He twitched, throwing me to the floor, and there he was again over me. Breathing in and out hard, his neck already flooding with sweat. His hands came down to meet my pecs, and before I could do something else, he applied a claw to them. It didn’t hurt at first, but later, I realized there were so many types of pain I hadn’t yet discovered.
Jack pressed more and more until I felt he would rip the muscles out of my pectorals. He then resumed by rubbing them to and fro, somehow relaxing the muscles and lowered his hands to my abs. I flexed to my master so he could see how much he had built my body, but I wouldn’t let him punch me.
I brought my hand up and hit him right over his dick, not in his dick, but right over his dick, in the lowest part of his abdominals. He laughed at me and proceeded to his first punch to my gut. I groaned, not because it hurt, but because the pain aroused something deep inside me.
“Rob!” he screamed as he kept punching me abs. It felt so good! To prove him that my abs could be as hard as hell. “Is there any way to eliminate one of the rules?”
At certain point of his punches, I covered my abs and hit him on his oblique. He laughed once more and shook his head as if telling me “No, boy. You should not do that.” I twitched making him fall on the ring’s floor just as he did seconds before and in no time I was over him.
His entire body lay under the power of my hands, and I would enjoy like. Like hell I would let him do whatever he pleased to me and do nothing to him.
“If both of you agree with it, it’s okay,” Rob said. First of all, I massaged his pecs and then clawed at them. I didn’t know his technique but I guess my hands produced as much pain as his did to me. He writhed and groaned, but I didn’t stop. I continued to press his pecs until his eyes begged me to stop. Without waiting for anything, I punched his abs. God! It was like hitting a concrete wall. My knuckles ached, but I couldn’t stop. I had to punch him. I had to feel his muscles.
Under his Justin Taylers something happened. If you know what I mean. With each of the punches.
“No more rules?” I asked him; he, nodding his head slightly, didn’t saw that one coming. I brought my hand up and hit his dick. Not too hard, but enough to make him curl into a ball. Plan C was on again. The boner he was having disappeared, but mine didn’t. I took his bicep between my hands and ordered him to flex.
He didn’t do it, so I continued to hit his abs. “You looked for it,” I told him. With the pain produced by the groin hit, rising until his lower abs, it was impossible for him to flex as he did before.
His body by then was full of sweat as he took his dick with his both hands. I enjoyed the sight for a moment, before my hands removed his from his Justin Teylers. The bulge was extremely hot and I allowed myself to stare at it for a few seconds before taking his arm.
“Flex,” I told him softly. He did it slowly, just as his arms swelled like a python inside my arms. I smiled at him and proceeded with the punched to his pecs. He flexed them, that way, it was like hitting a stone. I got over him, surrounding his hips with my knees and punched every part of his body I could think of.
“You give up?” I asked him as I massaged his perfect abs. They hadn’t given up still, they were still hard as a rock.
When he shook his head no, I knew I was in a fix. And when his knee came up, connecting with my crotch, all I could feel was pure pain. Nothing like the stinging pleasure in my abs, but more like true suffering. The pain came up from my balls to my lower abs, and we were both lying on the ring’s floor. Me covering my dick, and he regaining his strength.
Being such a perfect god as him, it didn’t took quite long, and in no time I felt how he removed my hands from my groin and proceeded with the punches.
The first one came unexpected, taking all the air out of me. In his eyes, I saw something like pleasure at seeing me cough and drool somewhat. He punched then my pecs; I know they are not as hard as his, but he enjoyed it as well.
Jack slapped my abs, unable to flex anymore, and lowered his hand–just as he had lowered his stare–to my dick. Definitely, he was getting turned on by the sight of his groin. He stood up and rested against the corner of the ring, waiting for me to stand up.
I did so, every movement slow and thought twice before I ripped one of my muscles. Though he had hit my abs and pecs before, they hadn’t hurt as much as they did the thirty-first day.
By the looks of it, he wasn’t flexing his abs, but still, the perfect squares on his stomach were clearly seen. I approached him and he received me with a hug, my pecs and abs coming in contact with his, but it wasn’t a friendly hug. He lifted me from the floor and squeezed me hard.
“Fuck you!” I screamed at him. Such a bad idea! It took the air out of me, and all I could think of at the moment was that I couldn’t lose. I needed a trainee to make him suffer and enjoy as much as Jack had enjoyed me, so I hit once more. The first time connecting with his thigh, but the second, I connected with his groin.
He let me fall steeply to the floor, and I feared that something had been broken in me, but the pain soon passed away. He half-shrieked, half-groaned in the floor, but I had to finish him. I had to do it.
I stood up, feeling every piece of muscle in me screaming with each movement. I kicked his oblique. He groaned. His body was red at the abs and pecs and sweaty. I came down with full strength at his abs with my elbow. It hurt like hell, but he did receive part of it, too. Jack screamed in the floor and coughed.
I lifted him to his feet. God! So much muscle does weight a lot!
I pushed him with all my might to the corner and began hitting his abs. Those perfectly chiseled abs, coming down and coming down until I reached his V-Line. I clawed at his pecs once more submerging him into the depths of suffering and then softly and consistently hit his abs, just as he got used to the strength and then.
OOOOOOPH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! The hard punch came, and he rested his back on the corner, not falling when I brought my knee up to connect with his dick. Such a perfect man as him did deserve being proven like this.
I surrounded him with my arms and tried to wrap my fingers on the other side. I squeezed as hard as I could, bringing him to groaning right in my ear, as his sweaty body combined with mine, as the muscles in his abs gave way.
“Stop!” he said.
“You got enough?” I didn’t succumb to his pleas.
“Yeah! Stop it, you piece of shit!”
Then, I let him go. He fell to the floor, covering any part of his perfect body he could. I came down and massaged him, his oily and sweaty body under my palms, and he let me. I felt all his body, from his pecs, his weakened abs, his firm biceps, and the last of all, before I could lay a hand on his dick, Rob spoke aloud.
“Rick,” he said, “you won. Conratulations. A week from now,” which meant the thirty-eighth day, “you’ll get the opportunity to punch Jack wherever you please. From now on, you get to decide your own trainee.”
I thanked him, hugged his perfect, but not perfect as Jack’s, body, and left the room, thinking of the many wonders his body would offer to me a week later.