He Kept Me After the Gym Went Dark

The Ironborn gym on East Passyunk smelled like leather, resin, and the sweat of a hundred rounds. I had already killed the front lights and was wiping down the heavy bag when Dante came out of the locker room in nothing but his hand wraps and black shorts, chest still heaving from the last bell. He was thicker than me through the shoulders, a Chicago heavyweight who had been renting ring time for three weeks and never once looked away when we clinched. Sweat tracked the deep cut of his abs and disappeared under the waistband. I was thirty-one. He was twenty-eight. Outside, the avenue had gone quiet enough that I could hear the shower he had left dripping in the back.

- You locking up, or you gonna stand there and stare.
- I'm staring. You left the water running.
- Let it run. I'm not done with you.

He stepped through the ropes without asking and bounced once on the canvas. The only light left was the bare bulb over the speed bag, and it cut him in gold and shadow, delts shining, the dark line of hair under his navel catching the glow. I dropped the towel on a stool and climbed in after him. My shirt was already gone. We had been sparring hard for an hour, and my ribs still held the memory of his hooks, a deep ache that had turned into want somewhere around round four.

- One more round. No headgear. No ref.
- Then don't tap early, Marcus.

We did not circle long. He shot in low, forearm across my chest, and drove me into the corner until the turnbuckle pad dug into my back. The vinyl smelled like salt and old fights. His thigh shoved between mine, solid as a fence post. I felt how hard he was through the thin shorts, hot and blunt against my hip, and my own cock answered so fast the waistband bit. His mouth was at my ear. His breath was ragged. There was no punch left in it.

Then neither of us spoke. He spun me, chest to the pad, and yanked my shorts to mid-thigh. Cool air hit my ass, then his hands, big and coarse from the wraps, spread me. I heard him spit, felt the warm smear, then the blunt push of his cockhead, thick enough that my breath caught. He did not slam the first inch. He leaned his weight in, one hand braced beside my head, the other clamped on my hip, and sank into me slow until I was full and shaking, forehead on the vinyl, mouth open against the smell of the ring. The stretch burned sweet and settled deep. I pushed back onto him and took the last inch myself, greedy for the weight of it. He held there, buried, heavy balls tight against me, chest stuck to my back with sweat.

He drew out and drove back in, patient and then mean. Each thrust knocked a sound out of me and shoved my hips into the pad. The ropes creaked. Canvas scuffed under our feet. Sweat ran off his chin and down my spine. I reached back, got a handful of his flexing thigh, and hauled him deeper until he hit the place that sparked behind my eyes. He stayed on it, short hard strokes, the wet slap of him loud in the dead gym. My cock swung and smacked my stomach. Precum strung in a thin hot line to the mat. I stroked myself in time, slick and tight, the head swollen and leaking over my knuckles. My knees went soft. I locked my arms in the ropes and let him use me, every thrust a heavy gorgeous shock. He bit my shoulder, not enough to break skin, just enough that I felt claimed, then shoved my hand away and took me in his wrapped fist. The tape was rough and perfect. He pumped me while he fucked me, fist and hips on the same beat, until I could not tell the stretch from the friction.

I came first, spilling hard over his knuckles and the canvas, ass clenching around him in pulses I could not stop. He lost the rhythm, slammed in deep, and flooded me with heat, his whole heavy body shuddering against my back until the last of it pulsed out. We stayed locked there, breathing like twelve rounds, his forehead between my shoulder blades, the old building ticking as it cooled. He eased out slow. I felt him leak warm down my thigh. When I turned he was flushed, cock still thick and shining, and the round was not over. I went to my knees on the rough canvas and took him in my mouth, salt and sweat and both of us. I hollowed my cheeks and took him deeper, the thick vein of him pulsing on my tongue, one hand cupping the heavy hang of his balls. I worked him until he thickened again, his hand in my hair, hips rolling hungry and slow. I stayed on him when his thighs jumped and he came a second time, bitter and hot, swallowing what I could. He pulled me up and kissed me messy, both of us half laughing because our legs were shot and the shower was still running in the dark behind the bags.

- Same time tomorrow.
- Bring your mouthguard. You're gonna need it.