FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

The Nightrow by Eightane Original characters by Tokeki

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

3 AM on a Saturday. The guys around me hoot 'n' jostle, it reverbs from the warehouse walls. The two best hours of the week have just got on.

Hard to count all the ways I feel, stepping out from the gang, wearing a smile I've nursed with win after win. My feet are in the circle; I step slow, turn around to see Chuck, there with his buff bear self in tight shorts. We dap; I come away admiring him. Without his generosity, from metal walls to the forty-foot ceiling, we'd never have this safe under wraps, our own brawl-guild away from prying eyes. He howls for me to "Get in there and wreck 'im "... I see his tongue spazz near the end, and I know he's just as into it as the rest. But maybe less than me, by a mile.

Whoever said it's hard to be the champ has never been one. You stroll into the fighter's oval, you hear all the shouts, the boom of positivity. You're struck by how much of it's for you, no care if it's a guy twice your size who's come to play. You're not humbled, just since nothing ever gets you on your knees - or you imagine, ever will. In our case, the bellow's a warm one; every guy around's got clothes in short supply, and not much restricts the body heat, sizzling the air. Some can't even wait, and stand watching with a hand on themselves, squeezing or coddling the package. Might just be in my head, but I'd swear most of them are my posse...

"Torch his ass, Toki!" shouts Rich, the musclechub ox in his airtight singlet.

"Show that dick how we roll!" I hear from beefy Paul, flicking his Black Lab tail, sticking big fingers down his Speedo to scratch and adjust himself.

"Break him down! " Roddy pipes up, the biggest lion I've met, smuggling pecs the size of my head in a short white tee. He's about the most empty of shame; his half-chubbed pecker swings under a second mane of choco-brown bush. I don't mind the distraction. "Lay 'im out with the works!"

Gawd, it just makes me feel stronger. I'm in the open, all 250-pounds of ruddy Eastern dragon in the ever-snug briefs, purple and sagged by what the men all know. Flaying behind me with an Eastern appendage, long and all the proof of my talents you could ask for. It cracks the air, and I'm only doing stretches. My chest goes tight; on the creamier red of my front, the blue of thick hair folds and ruffles. I pound one fist in the other, rub over it, crack knuckles. My teeth bare, my legs hold me in the sturdiest crouch. Playing to the crowd, chewing my role, like it's vital I focus. How hard is it to whoop a new guy anyway; this one's not even put his foot forward, but just waited and watched the fellas rally me. I glare him down, but don't see a ton of fear, or any more than him just standing tall, studying the sidelines... It's a good chance he's curious, and who blames him? Groups like us, just thirty-odd burly bastards up for roughousing, thrills and horseplay, are some sight to walk into.

He's had his fill, and his boot comes out to the clearing. It touches rubber on the mat, and the guys make like banshees. There's a wisp of white dust; it covers the sole, and I'm guessing at details. He's in construction, that much I knew from Chuck when he'd talked up 'new blood' the other day. I'd peg him as a painter; the smell of lacquer was vague, and barely lived through the dense haze of musk. I was still boss, still hunkered and ready, but I should say my eyes were wide open.

It wasn't wordplay when I said he stands tall, half-gator, half-anole. He looks a few inches higher than me, capped in a bandanna of bright yellow, like the briefs on his crotch, which look tight and hella-heavy. Might be a paint man, but he's got arms like a mason, just strung with thick muscled bulge down their length. All that, in his dull blue hue, looming in the lights... Helped by my crouch. I rise up, hanging onto the nerve, sorta caught by his presence. I'm bested in height, but it won't quit there... I look down and see a gut like a shield, un-flat only for the barrel of beef. If I go for blows to the belly, it'll be the shortest bout in ages.

Lucky it's not my style.

We stand an equal ways from the edge; two yards from one another. Chuck's whistle blows above the ruckus. "Touch shoulders and come out hard!"

I stomp up, like always; see his eyebrow raise a bit, and he meets me with first-time awkwardness. We bump just over the bicep; I feel a spritz of wet cool. We'd mixed sweat, at the pits, and step back. Round one, here we go.

My arms are up and out; got both hands open, fingers bent in like I'll snatch him off the mat. He's green as they come, I don't prep for much; but when he raises both limbs, widens stance to put some air between his legs, I get a picture of why he's 'recruited'. He could wrap those guns around me and go on 'til I'm a pretzel. Down low - once I look past the mountain in his briefs - there's swinging in his other endowment. A long, limber tail in two tones of blue... If he won't outweigh me in bulk alone, that appendage makes the difference. I lunge, and before another thought can pass we're locked at each palm, teeth and cores clenched. I don't expose how I'm put-out... The advantage I throw in the ring's no more leverage with a man who packs the same. Or maybe, as it looks, even more.

His massive feet push him into me, I feel a slip under mine. It's a shock how fast he seems to get comfy; so he's new to us, but it's loony to think he's never sparred for serious. I put my mind on the line and shove back; the slipping's blocked, and we deadlock with arm power. I'm focused, so much more than I'd thought would be the case; but he opens his mouth, and as the words come, I have some clue he's not exactly novice. "The ol' bear had me riled up about ya. Don't let me down, mate."

I know that accent; Australian, a little bright like maybe western-coast... And deep, matches his build. It's odd, chalked up with his intensity... Much like those eyes, the third and last yellow he's brought here. I slip out his grip, twist around and leap back into him; we slam chests, I hear the force above our earsplitting crowd. I shouldn't chat, since I'm out there and trying; but if he's taunting me, code says I meet him halfway. "I'll have your head 'down under' my legs soon enough, mate." Sure, I smirk, it's a reflex; we push on each other for what feels like minutes; holding firm from our pecs, past the curve of mangut, swapping heat and pressure at the bulge of two groins. I feel his force wane, just a bit and a moment. Unlucky that mine does too... I shove a hand down to fix my chub's bunching. We're close-in from neck to thighs; I feel as much of his shape as my own, like a bless to the back of my hand. He must share my reaction; we draw away in-sync, apart by a foot. I collect myself, he makes a scowl and I launch into him.

Paul and Roddy's "YEEAHHH!! " rattles walls.

He's pushed back; I curtail my claws, but the fingers dig into him, frontside of his biceps. I can feel the strain already, me 'n' him together. Ribs on the mat massage my bare feet; He makes wrinkles by the heel of his clods. I pull some 'punch' together, and smack my weight into him; he hops back even more, taken off the ground for a quarter-breath. I see Hal's fist whizz through air at the sidelines... That oversized groundhog knows the same, that if he's outta the ring, he's out.

If I think he's gonna fold so easy, it's close to a relief that he fights me, and we're edged back to the center, snouts together. It's indulgence when I keep 'em in, and strum the tune of selfish fun. I let off my left arm, swing it to curl around his and wrench it hard. I get his grunting, and a Popeye-wince... It's a break in his guard, and I rush straight into his core. Next moment, he's slammed in a tackle, and I'm falling with him to the ringfloor. I land on his gut, hard. Any other bloke would be out like a light, but he's lucid as a judge... I enjoy that, grinding my weight into his midriff and start twirling the long red tail around his legs, threading through to tie him down. Chuck starts the count.

"1, 2..."

His sweaty legs, their girth and texture, send through the nerves in my limb. I'm this close to a knot, what no man could escape... I can't even see the signs he's fighting it, his face a few inches front of my groin. Might be that he sees the mass, and it's growing; might be that he's more a poser than all that build would fool me to miss.

"... 3... 4... 5..."

I mumble, where the crowd won't pick up. "Good run for a first-timer. All twenty seconds' worth."

"... 6... 7-"

I go flying like a saucer. More than kick-out, he's bucked off, and I slide to a stop three feet behind him. If he'd been stronger - or me lighter - I'd have left the oval and lost on technicality. I'm back on my feet, spraying sweatdrops, come just short of snorting like a steer. He shoots up on those treetrunk legs, and we hit each other like two buses made of meat who blow a game of 'chicken'. I try and get under him, but he beats me to the same thought.... His hands take me above the knee, and I'm upended so fast I'd never have the time to squeak 'uncle'. Last I feel before I'm piledriven is his bulge on my neck. Glad it's on the backside, or by the size alone he'd interrupt my air supply.

It's a tough blast, my scalp to the rubber beneath. I catch a few 'Ooooohh 's by my buddies; for the first time in ever, I have a moment where I hope they didn't bet their nest eggs on me. But the moment dies, the blur in my eyes and 'thick' hearing depart, and this big ol' gator brute lets me back on my feet. He's fair, I can credit him that much.

Won't lend hope for my method. Looks like I'll be going abstract tonight.

He's in a blitz as soon as I'm up; I dodge a few taps, to the shoulder and belly; his tail, the dull spikes, slap a mark on my quads. This time I'm smarter; I swoop under his pit (ignoring the finely-sweet musk) and wrap him. We tumble, he's put to a kneel with my core slinked up his back. I take a godly hold to his arms, and hold their use to nothing behind him. Close to now, my ears tune out the guys; I'm all about the earthquake-growl in his throat, some 'friendly pain' what tells me he's cracking. I lean in his ear, close enough to lick if I'd wanted. "Thought you Aussies were all about fightin'. I'm the one disappointed, here."

He tries to send me off again; but I'd set a leg under his, and it might as well have glued me to his spine, for now. I hold it on tight, but can't resist some movement. I push it in and rub; letting my thigh massage into his taint and giving the low, round sack some nice tease-friction. I read him so easy; he thinks I can't hear the slight "Mm-m-m" bubble up his throat.

I have him ready to bow; anyone would call it. Just when it's so close to his fall - when the count would restart - I feel the hardest slap, stinging my ass. The scales midway down his tree trunk of a tail, they flay the curve in my briefs only twice. But two's enough, and I whine like a pup. The win slips away; he whirls me off, and I come down where it doesn't help; my rear plops down, and I stare up to watch him lay a pancake on me; hundreds of pounds of sweaty lizard meat slamming square against my front. Taken down, and I'm splayed under the new guy. While my ego's processing his, he leans in close, his breath washing over my snout, while his own wears the smirk I'd wore myself just half a minute ago.

"1... 2..."

I sneer like a cornered bull... It's a cold day in hell when he gets half the time I put over him. In a flash I'm leaned up and raising those shoulders, fighting his weight to where the count is cancelled. So I'm out of danger, my eyes narrowed up to his snout, my moustache dangling in a spiked flow of sweat.... I'd never have thought I'd be straining, shown up by his bulk and at its mercy. He could push me down, buy his first title fair 'n' square. But he leans in; before my strength can get its second wind, I find him raking that yellow bulge by mine, prodding, pushing our crotches to every side and pose they could gently move, going stiff like nobody's biz, held back by only fighting briefs.

His chin lords over me; from the cleft down, it's steeped in dark green shadow. I hear the sequel to his first charming jab, glazed in that just-as-smug drawl. "Seems all you got going for ya's that noodle on yer arse. I'll be happy to give you something thicker after yerr down a peg."

God, it's a task - and skill - to act out my aggression while he hits every switch to swell my manhood. I kick out a bit, to show I'm still in this, and to help adjust my package with arms locked under his. "... Just... Warming up, mate. You'll limp off with my name on your lips a month when I'm through with you."

He turns and snickers... Is it mocking, or wistful? "Boy, you take me back... And if I'd be teaching why you're due to be humble..."

He dive-bombs me; the light's blocked out, I have time to drop jaw, before my snout's the filling in a pec sandwich. The gasp I stream is honest shock; from where I draw air, the strongest scent of buff reptile sweat invades me. I stay so close to upright, but he still won't push, just locks an arm around mine, pulls back and we tumble 'til he rolls on my top. All the guys watch me yelp; half o' them stick behind me, the loyal sods... The other half start turning, and it sours my tongue to hear them bray and hold their chips behind this upstart. At least they have a view, with my legs spread and his about as wide; I know they see the shape of our meat, at least the hard, pulsing heads inside lycra, as if they joust alike to men who own them. He makes one fatal mistake; he acts like my four free limbs aren't something to account for. Through a shimmy, some kickouts and fleet legwork, I work loose of his armbar and grab the upper hand. We stir a heavy cloud from his bootdust; he lies under me, and I wrap his huge calves like a scout's knot with my arms.

We're on our sides, down but I can't clearly pin him; he's restricted, his head near my shoulder. Looks to be a risk that he might rear back and bite; I put that down but-good, one arm on his scalp like I hold a bowling ball, shoving his face beneath my arm. He pays me with a mix of a groan and grumble... It slays me to know the hot, ripe musk he frees from the bush in my pit affects him, and in record time his bulge conducts a surge.

I catch one loud, rolling yell from the gawkers. Sounds like foxman-Todd, riding hard on what they'll all hit before the clock strikes 6. Have to wonder whose back he's icing in the process.

Fuck me for distracting myself.

He can move like a snake... It's shown to me the worst way, by losing my grip as he winds below my mass. At the same time, I'm sickened by the shock and hot-as-blazes, when all the beef on his core kisses my spine. I get both hands behind me, but too-little-too-late; he catapults me up into a Surfboard, arched up in the air. My arms are pulled, legs are bent, joints and muscles burn; it may as well have been a Sailboat, given my rigid mast. I gotta change a lot in my plotting... I may get the chance, if and when he goes sloppy. Now, the best I do is fall and work around it; with my weight crunched over him, I loop my legs over his; I'm pleasured by the fuss in his groan, the strain of his muscle to break off. I blow hot gusts through my smile; they start as ego, but move to sound off ache as he fights back with both hands. I bobble at the neck; he's latched those wide mitts on my chest, sought the buds lying bare and vulnerable. I'd left them open, but I'm on top, he hasn't ended that... Even if the missteps have his fingers clamped on my pecs, twisting the less-haired undersides where they're ungodly-sensitive. Gotta think fast... Gotta think past his blowing breath down my neck, or the rock-hard lump he's hit on my tailhole...

... I roll once, he's still locked down on me. Twice, I feel the force push a gap between us. One more wriggle on the rubber - we're glossed in all the sweat we've poured on each other, and where it sank to the mat and just laid there - and I pull off his Hercules-grip. I've had enough layin' down, if we're still clothed to where it's less-worthwhile. I'm back standing, sorta wobbly, a lot more than him. I see him slap white dust off his haunches; that bulge still bounces like a spring in his briefs. I shake off the doubt, and huff. "Fancy shit, but you'd do a lot better before I'm down."

His chin lifts; the yellow eyes look down on me, and in their glow I see him not haughty, but reducing me. "Swell prediction. I like you, boyo, you're not so aft." He puts a stare to my hips; could he hope to miss how we compete in strength and potency. A thick tongue flicks his chop, shining the scales. "But Teach's lessons ain't done yet."

I should call a foul, he's trying to divert me... If I had, I'd have fell for it like a sucker. He's in the air, a cannon of muscle, pouncing on a beeline to my stomach. I wind around; it leaves me wishing I had video, if all the outside hands weren't pumping to cheer me, or pumping themselves. I don't need his tricks, it's hard enough to keep vigilant with ten huge guys dropping trou' and cranking their meat swords, and half the rest either watching them or helping. But I've had him sail past me. I half-corkscrew down, right when his front slices floormat, and my arm's rushing down the same way. By the double-move, I slap his rear with the fullest, hardest bash an open hand can bring on.

He can't even fight the fall; two whole seconds I have him on the ground, the wee-est bit curled up, a whine pealing from his throat and knees bending. I wind back, even tumbling my fist in place like it builds the power; I open up just behind him, and the thunderclap of spanking his beefy ass rides over every shout in the place; if I'm right to hear the moments after, brings two more burly yanks to a peak, too. I know Rich is one of 'em... I get the rare chance, while 'Ark' goes redface beneath me, to see the white jet spray the ring. Lands right under me; that ox's pulled his singlet back behind his member, rubbing his chest, tugging out the last loads and moaning to the roof. Either side of him, two more close in on the same; I see their shafts far into the circle; just one of the reasons we all boast rad attendance.

I can't get cocky, though, not while the sweaty mound of scales under me is unstable. I've heard stories, some blurbs about the crocodilians and 'death rolls'. I thought I could whirl him off like a jackhole... It's nothing next to how he goes at it. Dunno how he turns himself to a wood-lathe, quicker than my lungs can sputter "WHAAAAAA-", but everything's a whizzing blend of coloured streaks, and I'm out the wits to tell which way's gravity. He's spun me up, and over, I wedge on the mat's ripples, and this match is officially turned more than a soccer game. Sounds from every source are purèed... The guys whooping in shock, a buzz from an older light, chuckles from a skillful Arkrann. If I wasn't thrown past my senses, I might separate the sound of a boot's *thud* on the rubber, twice-over; not how they'd sound if a man's still inside them.

What brings me back - or what numbs the woozy tumble in my head - is the press of his foot on my face. Instinctually I try and shake it off, but wherever I turn his leg and ankles follow. From my chin to the sprig of hair above my ears, a long foot keeps my neck on the ground, which by now is soaked, all the mansweat it can't absorb. I have to breathe, I'm robbed of choice, but to smell his foot's every line and scale, the funk he lugs around all day in those boots...

I'm splayed prone; my knees are bent to be the highest I raise above ground. All the guys - friends, or just spectators - get an eyeful of the twitch in my briefs. So hard, filling out the stretch of my lycra, showboating the pulse. Gatorboy, that cheeky, massive cur, sees my tail curled up by my lats, and stands his other foot dead-center on it.

It hurts; the countdown, and the sting of going humble, are a worse pain.

"... 2... 3..."

The first number's drowned out; Ark starts his 'pitch' particularly strong. "Tell me who I should pity... You, or the milk-sops who let you this far." He grinds one foot into me, heel-on-beard, toes-on-brow... Even stench is upped, like a rush of man to my brain, noseshots of that tall drink o' beef. He's kind enough, I learn, not to do the same with my appendage, though helpless it stays. I whimper, he goes on through the steady 6 to 8. "... They must all be like you; peak early and fizzle."

He'd crossed a line, but as it happens, irony saves me. I stare up to his mug, the grin he'd earned; in an instant it shakes, he blinks and reels. He's hit from outside; a long rope, the shade of milk and texture of glue, splats his ridged snout and between his eyes. I hear a bellow; old-innocent-Roddy's interfered, his eight-inch club blowing shots of hot seed, thrusting to fuck his hand while he roars and combs the other through his pubic forest. The rest either hit the mat, or ooze down his rod to that curlrug... But one slug to Ark, one check of his focus is all I need. I wriggle my tail; it puts the gator off-balance, I see rippling in his abs while he tries to steady weight. He can't correct; I do more of a jig with the fifth limb, and I watch him hit that lean-of-no-return. What he does now won't help him; he's in a fall, shouting 'WHOOAA-A-AH ' as he's pulled down by his ass.

I made it to 9, and a hair-past it... While I briskly lunge, I swear to myself it's the one time I'll ever cut so close. My mind's rerouted... It takes me to think on the action, what I'll feel piling onto his bulk, having it push my tool and tease its firm size more than my lycra. The count wasn't all that held a threat over me... If I don't pace myself, I'll be the next in-line to hit a long, screaming climax.

Luck stays in my pocket as Ark leaps up. When he stands, I'm there to match him, and the second it's not a foul, I bring the hammer of a fist to his stomach, socking him with a punch to knock a car through a fence. The softer guys in here would turn to jelly... A powerhouse like him, it's just to teeter his legs and push him back a few steps. He rubs a palm over the impact site; I see a tested frown. The abs, as I'd clocked them, couldn't be more unguarded.

My window's there, plus it's beyond me to wait. He's almost kneeled; it's so good with what I do, slipping both my thumbs in my briefs, pinching them and slowly pulling down. I'm in that zone of machismo, core leaned back and hips forward, looking down my own body towards his. My meat, hard enough to drag against the pull, might even tear through the top of the waistband. It so barely doesn't... I'm exposed, the fellas shout and wolfcall watching inch-after-inch come in view. It's freed... Ark himself stares up, as fat dragon cock sways in the air, wet down the head's every side from pre it was forced to leak on itself.

I don't have to toy with it; I pull the briefs off both feet and it moves, muscle pulling it to jump and send clear drops to the mat. My 'hammock's tight in one fist; my ego's up and hard above his snout; my speech is me admiring, taunting, as I straighten and bring it by his nostrils. "Go on, mate..." I can't say if his breath warms my meat or cools it; either way, I watch it get to him, his body still, him drawing whiffs of thick sausage down his windpipe. "... Even men at war can join for a drink."

If I expect him to cave right there, I'm batty... But I want him to know that same ache he put on me, and if it works, get ready for his head to purge all strategy. It seems he'll take the bait; he gawks, and in his open maw liquid pools on the gumline. When I own it in the ring, I'll look out and see who's 'losing it'... Tonight's a windfall. Not only have three men went over the edge, in roars and peaking flails, but in the back I see the hookup... Yaril, his tan stallion-hips docked under the tail of the buffest seal to ever take a horsedick up his puck. By God, the steed's crushin' it, too... I'm not sore at the five-or-so who turn away from us. Yar's blonde mop flings behind him, every slide into burly seal ass... I'm wet, mouth and tip...

... I look down to Ark. For a fleet second, we lock eyes, and we're something beyond adversaries. I feel like... Shit, it's like I let him cross arms above my shins and pounce. Any lower, he'd take my legs out; I fall backward, and it's whiplash, and probably the most I've ever fell in a night. I think I'm fast, leaning up, about to switch on him. He outspeeds me, and if it comes to him pinning, I've spent enough strength that he might just have me done. I don't get his attempt, though... What I get, is his chin swung over my loins. His tongue exposes; he drags it on the length, every fat inch up to my head, teases my flare...

... I'm thrashing on the mat, arms wild, lungs playing tug-of-war with wee gulps of air. My beef doesn't matter, I wail like the weakest twink that's never seen in this place. But oh, how he's played the wrong card... Jerk wants to take me THAT way, pull me to a forfeit.

He's blown it.

I wait, just to throw a bone to my balls while they quiver, on full-alert by now. He misses me wiggling the red of this tail above his own. I've caught him in the 'lockdown'; he's not the first to misdirect me, then fall in his own trap and have it turn on him. I should be an actor... He's fooled, still watching me crane my neck, eyes half-shut and overwhelmed, 'til the second I tap his back door.

Too fun when he darts a stare back, and I'm already wrapping him. Tight on his hips, sagged a mite below his loins - I'm no sadist - and importantly, over his own tailroot. We're not so different; any stud who spars here with even a stub on his ass, the power's in the base. He can fight me a few breaths, but in the end I've closed off the fuel. I hold on, and the rest of me I bring around, scrambling up, on my knees while he's safe in fleshy coils. The blue limb with that could've ended me, sputters and flies to whip at my chest. It's like a wind tunnel; looks aggro, but anyone with half a sack just takes it unharmed. It falls away from me, and fuck do I laugh. He can't if he wanted to... Fighting the bind, every word's a stream of strain. "Get... Sly... Now... Bugger..."

I move over him, face-to-face, bodies apart and horizontal; hard to see more than his eyes, they're all that reflects light in my shade. "I'm on it. But thanks for the lick..." I send glance down his core, slick and bare; he's bunched up so bad in his briefs they hold him like plastic wrap. The whopper throbs, and I sigh. "... Lose with honour, I promise you'll do more. A bitch-in-dom's-clothing can't want any better."

His eyes hide in a wince; his arms, ostensibly free, clutch my tail from outside and fail to wrench it off. Damn I respect him, never letting up even when I'm so safe I can reach and jelq my length, hot for him as much as for controlling his upstart self. I scowl to the ref, he finally takes his hand off his shorts and counts "1".

Ark's done me a new emotion; I almost hate to embarrass him, crawling leisurely down, dragging nose through his pecs like he'd gave to my bone. Sure he doesn't halt me, he's struggling to stop my advantage... But it goes to "3", just as the ref's voice folds... I can't look over, but it's a safe bet he's joined those behind him in 'appreciating' us. I know what they want... More than that, I know what I'm itching for, what would hit the spot with placement. He's restrained and I'm reaching down; I sweep my arm to snatch up the lycra that had hemmed me in. It's tight in my fist; I'm leaned a bit rearward, to be over him; the way I brandish it's menacing. While he denies the wince to stare at my hand, I think of his foot and how it scorned my face. "You like weaponized smell, huh..." I'm sure my eyes gleam like his; my hand drifts toward him, 'til the second I can end my thought. "... Payback, filthmonger."

Just like that, it's shoved in his snout. He gasps; clenching teeth like he did to take my tailwrap, more than half his air has to gust through his nose. Makes my ballsweat a thick, hot vapor, and he can only breathe it. There's force; I fuckin' grind it in, and in the hum I feel he's fighting his whine. I'm ruining him, just by the funk my heavy sack's left from working the ring, waking my dick, fighting him and the drive to just glide down and burgle his asshole. I can do with this; I've stripped him of power, tormenting through his own kind of ploy. I don't quit, until his deep moan oscillates the stretch of my duds. They get tossed to the side; I nose him, the same as how you'd chuck the chin of a friend who did something dense... He's the same grade of hopeless.

My cheek slides down his collar; it would've been my tongue, but I force a look at the ref, and he's startled into getting back on track. The count refreshes from "4", I'm as on-top as can be, and sweeping his abs with air from a winner's chest. I close in on his waist; at "6", I have my nose on the band, and dig under it. Not sure how many of the guys see my eyes roll back... They might know what I'm feeling, the goosebumps up my spine, splendor of the heart of his musk.

I'm poised to make the night's worst decision. I still blame no one else.

You should understand why it comes to that, my face shoveled into his shame and he can do jack-shit about it. He's groveling as proud as one could. My wang dribbles pre on his forehead. My tail's tight enough to feel his muscle, and how much might he musters to oppose me. It's worth so much less haste.

I relax the coils; they expand, and on "8" he's done the king of all kick-outs, pounding our matpool and driving it half a yard. There's one way to roll away from me, the direction of his toes; his face passes mine, he sits up and his giant wall-of-back's wide open. That move, and my weakening his lower half, set me up for the paydirt. I steal onto his shoulders - my biceps collar his neck - and he's put down, with me so close on him I feel my meat's underbulge whisk his hole, as bow to a violin... Man-dolin?

Likewise, his grunt is music to my ears. Sure mutes their ringing; I doubt the guys've been anywhere near quiet this whole time, and if I'm a hair's width from shanking his cave with fat cock, they're not about to be. Ark's a tank of spirit, he fights from beneath me; if he's the bull, I'm the veteran cowpoke. I don't totally let him loose, but as we break off and tussle, rolling on the ground, picking up our sweat and tracks of white from sated gawkers, I plan the manoevers. So his lower half's regained circulation, but it suffers my effect; weakened, it's no hope against me, and through some fancier turns I orbit him. I'm spun around... My legs encroach on his scalp, and his thick femurs fence the point on my ears. I breathe the heat off his loins, even clothed as they are; who knows how much I send his way, from two tennis balls and a bright red whopper.

Gator's right where I want him, and wet by a thick spot on his lycrabulge; time to break out the figurative big guns.

"You've been the best sport, newbie..." I mutter, like I'm chatting to his cock. My fifth limb's coiling on him, this time over blue pecs and arms. I take each his legs in the pit of an elbow; the plot I've cooked is all to keep me from bearing down and fucking his mouth. "... Now make that accent squeal."

I lean back; he's picked up by the knees, facing into me. I've squeezed a grunt out his gut; funny I can hear it over the fellas, whooping and groaning as they bump uglies, shoving tongues in each other's beer-glazed mouths, stooping down to dive and suck hard, or fill the ass of their neighbour, deep. It's no longer an audience, it's a goddamn orgy... I count a total of two still absorbed in what we're doing.

They want a show-stopper. They're getting one.

My arms pull him back towards me; I bring his head past my legs, and hold him by by the neck, 'til my grip can bend him stem-to-stern. I hear his pain; I keep it going, looking down, drooling on that hill between his weakened limbs. They're no threat anymore, but fuck if his dick isn't pointed right at me, so tight I not only see the head's outline, I see the pit of his pisshole. I'll take him out before I make myself lose it... I go limp at the palms and he's dropped hard, a slap to the ground. I'm on his back before another drop can even fall from my meat... The fall's rattled him, so my arms lock around his calves with such ease. This tail - this weapon of mine he thought he'd ever match - slides by his upended shoulders and has him by the throat. Call him a merchant, 'cause he's taking my signature.

I can't put any more smile in my sneer. He's ratcheted back, pulled towards me at both ends. I've heard tons of men beg, for either reason... Never heard it fly out of one so strong and low. I think of how it'd be if he had the better option... God, can I contain myself, not to drop him again and take his beefy ass with this blade that's up and raging. I deepen the pressure, he's yelling; his dick won't let up, like it's beating on his briefs to get air. I'm staring on the tip... Right on the pre-drenched sphere... Ground-zero for where I'd make his cum fly out, a white volcano...

... He's stretched to the limit; there's no break, no rest while I swoop down and take his lycra firmly in my teeth. Biting down on just the fabric - close enough to mouth his pounding throb, had I lost the patience - I raise up, and the hold it kept by his tail is no more. He's bent back, half-breathing through my tailhold, forming syllables somewhere close to my name; his cock leaves the last bit of brief's friction. Like he'd stamped the ground just moments prior, his trophy smacks down the scales of his frontside, rigid to the tip that hangs halfway up his abs, laying veins on a cove of muscle.

I give a moan so much better than his, past a mouthful. Better than the guys, despite their busting loads in the vocal, lavish crest of the moment.

"URRGGH", he thunders... I'm sucking sweat from what had cradled his taint. I lock a stare on the junk; his balls are trading twitches, their answer to the blood his rod imprisons, so hard it's plausible to reach down and pick him up by it. But he's in enough pain... If I let go, he'll be jelly on the floor. My teeth are as out in the light as our meatsticks, and showing equal joy... Chalk up another mark to the tally, I've defended my title, and he'll be under me after most of all. I lick my chops, just to think of the traditional prize. Losing studs always have the tightest hole.

In fact, why the hell be mum about it. I lean down, to where his dick won't block that straining face. "Work's over, 'mate'. Give in and the real fun can start." I push into his back; red dragon cock glides above his tail, my pre and his labourer-sweat. "Hope you're ready... W'how you've fought me tonight, I'll ream your ass 'til the next dusk-"

He moans like nothing else I've heard. The 'boom' tells me he aches. The whine tells me I get to him. The pitch, shifted up, should have been a warning sign. It's been minutes. All I'd kept from his legs the last hold is flooding back. The vigor - what I have to learn the hard way is superior to mine - explodes into motion. All the sudden, my arms might as well be toothpicks against them; he's taken after me, grappling my neck. My eyes shoot wide, my grin goes up in smoke. It's literal; the shock's had me exhale a raw heat, brief and so useless when it only floats up, with his work ensuing below. Our dwindled audience screams a turnaround; for one narrow blink, I foresee what's about to go down, and wish to hell I can press on with grace.

The awe lets him force his way from my legs, and both his hands hit my ankles the same side. Fuckin' bastard knows the way around leverage... My nude self is corkscrewed to the ground, I'm held on the mat and he's held up by me. I think I'll just spin out like before, but my biggest alarm is the extent of exhaustion. I try to fight his weight, it comes back on me. No need to stop my battle; it's done for him.

I gulp down breath like it's going out of style. He's gotta know, and I'm dying to rest, but with his beef covering my core - his hardest on mine, his chest on my throbbing bone - he's earned his way to refuse me. The only thing I'd call 'gentle', from all-damn-night, is the grip of his hands sliding down my feet.

I stutter. "Wh-what are y-... No, DON'T-"

I'm yelling; He's took all his fingers down each sole, and just when I'm helpless, he worsens by tickling. I can't yip and shake like a puss... I restrain, and send the agony through toestiffening and angry moans. They still come light and airy... Goddamnit, he's laughing down there, with his huge-ass fuckin' dick on my chest. I can't keep from squinting - another way to make it through - but from his core, I can feel that he's swung back to leer at me. "Ya'd best go tame and let it happen. Five minutes an' you'll be beggin' for this."

Bullshit, how would I... But oh hell... What am I in for. "Wh-whyyy... Sto-stop... Ma-A-AN, MUHHRCY!! "

I force open my gaze, straight to the ref. He can't help me now, not with one hand tugging his hairy sack, and a finger of the other's at his dickhead, running rapid strokes, petting his foreskin. He throws the lightest moan, and I can't rule my eyes, hold them open long enough to watch his cream run down the mushroom. If Ark keeps holding me, torturing my feet... If our dicks get any closer to touching at the head, I can't stave it off...

... He draws up, puts his torso to the air, just when restraint's failed me and I'm shaking like mad. I'm so goddamn tired-out, it's a breeze for him to stand, brandish an elbow, fall in half-turn and sock my gut with the cap. Half his weight's bashed me on the paunch, so hard my dick bounces, safely missed but moving little, half-glued to my bod for just how stone-fucking-rigid I am. Pain washes over me, tickles linger in my feet, but it's the will that makes me look at him, his mouth and snout inches over mine. He's pulled the upper hand out from under me... Goddamn Aussie stud, the cruel brute, can't he just take what's his... Do something so I can have relief, drain my sack and make it all come flying out...

He speaks, and the tone's so rich and hearty I flutter in my spine. "Boy, you crumbled like a chav when I quit dawdling." His head dips down; the scalp passes my chin, and he's next to my chest fuzz, dead-middle of my pec. I freeze stiff and wail out; he's poked tongue through his lips and teases my nip, lapping so fast it vibrates me. He only quits to belittle the man he's made harmless. "And here you said if I laid out, ya'd get to the payoff. Well, mate..." He shoves a hand between our guts, making way to my crotch. These burdened nuts - full as fuck, aching to send my load up and through this fat sausage - alert me he's sat his tip, its wet hole, on their valley. I get to know his pre trails between them; mine had long ago glazed every inch of manhood. He pushes in, my own sack hits my taint. The guys are raucous; another yowl, then a hot rope's splash on my cheek and temple. Ark brings his sentence to a close; I take the break for what it is, proof-positive he's needing like me. "... I'm the better man. So you pony up that hole."

Think of my mental thread. If you can't imagine, I'll lay it out for you. 'I should've won. But I want this. Shit, it's not right... I let him spoil me... God he's huge, the head's all OVER my sack... I... I couldn't hold on.......... ......... I deserve this.' It's like slow-motion... He dips, his fatass cockhead stretches my scrote, his chuckling taunts me. I hate him for winning, but pray he'll rip my hole so fuckin' deep, own me like a manbitch; serves me right for being an embarassment, falling in disgrace to new meat. My tongue creeps on my cheek, wicking off the cum from what manly fucker fired on me. Ark's core lowers steady; mine's wracked with shallow quivers, he's to blame for dragging tip down my gooch, exploiting me, indulging himself. My brain still sparks in two directions. 'It shoulda been me... But it wasn't... Shit, just... Just cram it in already...'

His core throws heat on me like hell... My hair, head to chest to tail, sops with what we've both been leaking, every pore. He crowds even closer; his chin arches, mine falls. What I want - what serves me right - hits my tailhole, and storms in the damp, tight passage.

It feels like all of me contributes to my yell... Everything he's smashed, or licked, or tickled, saved up to make that whore-moan flood out of me. His left hand holds him up; his right one grabs my shoulder, and the sunuvabitch pushes down so strong he fights the mat and puts me into his thrust. So hard, so fuckin' deep... It can't be less than ten inches, and I still don't feel his 'pad' on my assflesh. I hear only shouts, groans from all the men around us, stroking off or fucking; even if I can't watch, I know nobody's idle. And I feel only him... It hurts more every second, he shoves in with all the rage and craze we've built up, and goes harder each time I gasp a whimper. He destroys my focus; I'd say his name, but it jogs out of me like wordsyrup, formless and gooed. "A-arrr...Fuuuuck... Youwwww-... Arrkk, yuhwwwiii-wi-WIIIiiinnnn..." My head's low and dangling; I drool, it runs to my nose, either side. "OHHh-h-hhfuck..."

"Lost... The day... Eh, fuckin'... half-pint..." He's rough, ruthless; pounds me like a toy. His voice is a nonstop taste of heaven. "... Can't take my muscle... So you'll take... My load... Fuckin'... Slut, ya... Proper cumsleeve..." So hard my ass suffers more than my dick, which sits hard as the metal walls. At last I know what I've done to the losers, week after week; my cock lay hard as Ark's, but he can use his, give it what it wants. Mine's made to sit and pump its throb, untended, unempowered to let off its stress. This is what it means to be defeated. This is why Roddy, Mike, Paul and the rest shot ten feet high when I'd done their initiation. They never lasted in the ring close to what I have, now, to have Ark lay his mitts on victory... In light of that... Daaamn, how hard will I go off when he finally lets me.

I can't look; my lids may as well be welded shut. His fuckstick jams me, flays my insides, makes my gut a living, moaning fleshlight. I shiver when his snout touches mine; he rolls into my ass like I'm his first in ages, though it'd be so dumb to think I am. For a while our tails had been weapons; now, mine jerks, his wobbles, another vessel for our nerves to dance in the goddamn ecstasy. I'd be proud to call myself his toy, every hour 'til this place fills again... If he wants me speechless, aching in my dick's every pent-up inch but simply takin' it, I'd call that a privelege.

But the stud he is wants more. "C'mon mate..." The words, the air they push, skim my cheeks. "Earn it... Buck into it..." He orders, and well, could YOU help yourself? His hips, his hand on my shoulder and my own legs all conspire, sync'ed to drive that mass of cock far and hard. My muscle - every fiber - arcs like it's taken voltage. My head just drops to the mat; it rocks to either side, carving ditches, a pit to flail in bliss. I strain to tell him; he should know what he's doing to me. "Fuuu-uckman... B-blast-in, take-m-my-yyy-..."

He knows what I mean before it even comes out. More length rushes in; I feel his base, after meeting a foot of solid rod. He's so goddamn-rock, his throb strums in my pecs... Or is it just my own pulse, in conniption, while he plays with my head through his pumps. "Best get-used to me-jizzflute-I paid-my dues-now take it-like a-man..."

Damn, when I can think again, I'll wish I knew the hoss who broke HIM in. Now I'm just thrown into shivers, yells, while the light beyond my eyelids goes strong again. He's leaned up... He fixes pose so quick there's not a scratch in his rhythm, kneeling over me, one big-ass hand spread on my chest. He groans on every thrust; who wouldn't with twelve fat inches holed up in a bastard like me, in command of their own friction and the guy who fell to them.

"Flex... That ass, bloke." He sends me a task, I do it. My cheeks close hard around him; I'm rewarded as he rams through the pressure, and we share a telling scream. Hard to say who gets the better deal; my deep, sweaty hole, or his navy blue dong, chiseling me with mass. He's endowed, taking charge, and I find out his crafty streak. He puts a hand to my haunch; I'm rolled to my side, at the same time he drops to my back. He never leaves my asshole... It takes his virile stabbing, while he joins us, chest-to-spine, and locks his legs around mine. Held to the ground; held to him, and his pivoting meat. The hand that stayed on my chest, and now the other, pinching my dick at its base. New ground for me... It's pain, and glory, together.

I know he's won the right to use me. Fact is, it was known the second he'd walked his tall beef from the crowd. And I know, as I can feel, he won't move again before he goes off, and spurts that load he's been building all up the same tailhole he's stretched and tenderized.

We've no need for words; more guys shoot the ring with thick, steaming white. I lay back, treat my ears to his groans, while we're drizzled. "Urrgghh... ONNGHhhh..." He's the loudest. So many men are howling joy; so many monsters are spurting, having cum leave their owners with glory... But he grunts the loudest, the warmest. Shows superior pleasure, and Christ, he's not even peaked.

But he can't wait forever. Not if my feet, my glutes, have anything to do with it. When he shoves in, I push with both heels, tense the ring he's ravaging. Tiny sounds 'clap' under us; it's his sack nudging my crackbase. My nuts tremble; SHIT are they heavy with cum. Always, after a bout, but tonight raised the bar. I'd give my right hand to go first, but I know what's up when his fingers bend on my chest, raking claws on a harmless path through hair. One yelp from him, a thunder of a growl, and his breath holds inside him. It's coming... Mother-o'-God, I feel it in his dick, their veins expand...

... His shout starts, and won't end. Guys pre- and post-peak unleash their "YEEAHHH!! ", sheer machismo, a pour of majesty over us. I hate my eyes for not seeing his core, how it must've held so tense, while his footlong piece went off, shooting rope after rope while it fucked the living daylights outta me. every thrust has a shot, every shot has a yell... Fuck he's into his climax, and it's royal, the ride of my life. I whine like a pup; he drags over my prostate, juggles innards with his tip, and everything's tighter by the flooding jizz. Fifteen, sixteen bursts, he's still giving it... I'll risk being tacky, but I'm glad he's for the men, 'cuz elsewise who knows how many whelps he'd have fathered. The makings hit my limit; he goes on pumping it, as it weeps out my hole around his monster. Goddamn, I was never screwed this hard... Does he find me that much, or maybe it is backed up... But no, it's neither. It's what's right, when a punk like me gets hung out to dry, to take my pride and bash it like the cave where he shoves that swelling gun.

Hot, sticky white is pervasive; it puddles under us, hits our bods from the fellas, fills me tight from his huge, hot tool... Shiiiit, and my own... It's leaving my balls... He's pushed me over, I'm... I'm...

FUUUUUCK.

The first shot splats his hand; he may feel the force, but nothing like I do. Twice each second, a jailbreak, and my cock overloads with bliss. I'm shooting pure lust; all I'd wanted him, gave to him, now distilled into thick, hard spatters from dragonhood. Comes so crazy-hard, and he still holds me in a legclamp, still fucks me so deep with last-milkings. I spout a spiel of impulse, loud but intended to him. "OHHFUUCKI'MTHESPOILS... BEENWON-IWANT... YOUOWNME..."

"SCREAM it, mate..." He takes my ass, and his peak, so pro'... When the flood shut off, he stayed loose to grind my aching hole. "Tell the boys... I've bagged you..." Strange how phrasing sheds light on a man. He won't call me bitch, even when I'd thrive on it. The ways he'd need to show my place - to me, the guys, himself - are done, and done well. My head flogs the ground. Drool seeps out my open maw. He's squeezing my base, and I can't stop shooting.

It's fuckin' everywhere. He's got the grip of a crab, and it swells my dick like saline, inch-after inch in a peak even gods can't deserve. I'm writhing, whipping sweatpools out from under me, bathing my stomach in jizz. The guys glaze me less and less, their noise settles to a din of gruff relief, so low and lush. Ark's spent himself; he keeps fucking me, but the flood's just a pocket, churned but unfueled. The loser has the last hurrah; I yowl like a bitch in heat, while the bunk streaks outta me, streams down my haunch, meets the rubber and blends to soft-white sweatcum puddles.

Such a goddamn climax... My pecs twitch, nose flares, the weight in my sack so grandly vacates. It sloooowly runs out, I give less and thrash weaker, and it's still roped me in. Ark's pinch loosens from my shaft, his legs retreat from me; our bodies slide smooth in tumbling, his dick inches past my thigh, 'til he's back above my prone self and can re-plug my hole. I can't form a word from the noise passing my throat... He's hard as hell inside me, but the shoves are ended. I'm stiff everywhere, ten seconds past the final, dribbled shot; takes that long for my nerves to quit their chorus. My limbs calm their tussle, my meat contracts one time to start the after-ooze. I can open my eyes; I've willed it, to know the state of our troupe. The warehouse, the low-lit walls, house one gigantic ball of glow.

Of course, Ark's on his knees and over me, with snout straight-down and panting, his core muscle folded in a curve; my ass drained him more than the match. I'm spread-eagle, my chest hair's webbed with hot cream; the 'legs' of white show how many around us made donations. And though Ark's the major attraction, the score of my week, month, season, there's pure gold in the onlookers. Paul's speedo's half-down, his floppy dogmeat's dangling a thread-glob of jizz; his cumtrail runs from his feet to my cheek. He stands by Rich; both hands are beneath that ox's singlet, one on nipple, one on bulge. One twists and one rubs; just why Rich's is the silkiest croon of all men. And every man's had his moment... Roddy was one to lead the charge, and his gun sits chubbed in his paw; he's stroking tenderly, and his load still sticks on Ark's brow, one of so many that lion shot from hairy loins. Yaril stands tall, a hand on each hip. His giant horsecock's straight-horizontal; his neck's forward with each grunt, for the licking by his seal sub; the hungry slut's cleaning every trace of salty residue, while his grounded ass leaks the largest portions.

Groans, and chuckles, and the best type of sighs. They're made by all; we soak in our ecstacy, many rub or explore their neighbour, and I know, as Ark pulls smooth-and-steady out, we've seen the top of what our 'club' pursues, the height it strives for. I gaze in Ark's face; he's caught his breath, but I want him first to hear from me. Like my body, the voice is strong-yet-taxed. "Good show... Champ. You'll fit right in."

He comes back simply; just a snicker and a dance in his eyes. I read them, and interpret his thought; he's found a place to 'fit ', alright. He's out of me, but he pays me one last thrust; over my sack, my base, the bulge in my dong with his huge flared head. Feels so fuckin' good my teeth chatter. Denying what I'd always presumed, it feels good not to win.

I wonder how the ref may break our match down, once he's done sucking his own cum from his fingers. I wonder how long Ark'll stay the Nightrow's king; I was undefeated, and it's a joke how many can't oppose him. Like they don't already plan to try. Mostly, I wonder why all life's messes can't be half as fun to tackle.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Another hour's flown by. We tarried; cleaning all those raunchy hides and fat rods is a thing to be savoured. Hell, it should be in our by-laws, if they were written, not just scrawled in the mind of beefy manwhores. Call us louts, but we've honed it to a science.

I sit next to Ark; the bus stop's a chilly sanctum, iron bench and no roof at its only harbour this 'shady' side of town. I'm forward, hands clasped at my open knees; I don't really look at him, any more than to see his wrists dangle; it's odd to say I feel unworthy. Shit, this takes some getting used to.

Plus, there's other scenery to chew. Ahead of us, past the brick alleys, tin roofs, a lush orange spreads on the horizon. For now, we're living in a postcard; daybreak in the city. I know he wasn't reared here, so topic-talk's a good notion. I tap his hip and nod to the sky. "Look anything like that where the drains spin backward?"

His "Hmph " has just the right amount of laugh. "From the coast, it dazzles you..." He lifts an arm; I take a well-deserved slug to the neck. "... And from where I stand, you're backward."

Somehow, I get more of a kick from that. He quits the skygawking; I see in my peripheral his glance at me. I look in time to know just how sly a grin he can wear. "Thanks."

I send that guile right back at him. "Sure, but for what?"

He leans back a bit; his pupils rest low. "It's a proper quest for the right club with the good sort of clash. Everywhere from here to Perth and back..." He faces forward; no more smiles, but if anything he sounds more flippant. "It's a change not to come out a two-minute man."

Damn... So two things tonight have felt new to me: being lowered, but now, grabbing pride around him. I elbow his haunch; the abs reach to there, they're so extensive, and my lycra's re-stretched. "Only so in a beatdown, man. Where it less-matters."

He puts on a smirk; even thin-lipped goof can't undercut the butch of his presence. "A chap could put down roots with this. If you make me a swear..."

"Come again?"

Next I know, his hand sits on my shoulder, then slides a course down my back. "Basically." He light-slaps my spine... I'm sent tingles, due not only to the size of his hand. "You're there every week, right? Stands to reason if you were chief-bruiser."

I'm now about as reclined as I could be, to still find myself leaned a bit his way. "I wrote the book on 'reliable'."

It's a rush to see his growth of satisfaction. "Then I'll be adding some pages."

We trade a chuckle, some lighthearted body-jabs... He's hot for the contact, if he's anything like me. From the distance hums a diesel engine; we settle down, almost to where I wouldn't sit a hand on his rear. One squeeze, one tremor in his tail, and it's out of our systems.

He stares on me again. "You're fine on bus fare?"

It coulda been an insult, but I'm gracious. "I do well, I'm not made to beg." I decide to run with it, though; make him think it struck me, and squirm a bit. "Didn't know I looked poor."

He sees right through my scowling; he's stonewalled. "Not in coin, just in form." The bus has turned the corner; it has us realize how the space between our snouts had pared down. He straightens up, like me, but proceeds. "It'd be the least I can do. So if that's out... What say you to a little training?" Alright, fuck the bus. I'm locked on nothing but him and his toothy grin.

He explains. "You brought a lot. If it had a bit of practice, some tuning... I'd cope with a loss or two. Say... Tuesday nights, at my loft?"

The 'yes' can go unspoken. And so it's understood, at least when the bus pulls up, and we dart past rich exhaust to the folding door. There's much to plan, seated in the back, by each other. 6 AM gives all the privacy our bends deserve... And sees the dawn for a lot more than sunrise.

_ The End. _