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Jacob Lash was getting fucked between the asscheeks tonight. In fact, he’d vociferously insisted on it, in terms suggesting that it would insult his manhood not to do so.
It’s possible Pocket might have baited Lash into this position.
Did they know how much it would outrage him to casually imply they’d bet a dime against him in tonight’s match? Were they specifically aware that a comment about The Brooklyn Bruiser’s rumored superior glute strength would evoke an immediate need to refute the claim? Could they tell in advance that Lash would not be able to resist the urge to follow up with sexual innuendo when they incidentally dropped the phrase “hot dog” during the conversation?
Well, yes. Yes they did.
Look, Pocket was having a rough time of it. Currently Lash was the only thing in their life they could reliably manipulate into doing what they wanted. They needed a little win, okay?
If anything, they’d underestimated Lash’s susceptibility to the bait. Fifteen minutes before the match in the Bear Pit changing room wouldn’t have been their first choice of time and place, but here he was insisting RIGHT HERE, RIGHT NOW.
Now Lash was naked, and they were clothed, and if Lash didn’t walk out the door into the arena at 9:45 on the dot, the arena manager would walk right in here to hustle him out. For all that they’d been the one to engineer this situation, Pocket didn’t feel quite as in control as they’d thought they would. But they couldn’t back down now.
They actually didn’t know a single thing about the quality of The Brooklyn Bruiser’s glutes. Looking at Lash from behind, bent over a massage table with his shorts on the floor and his legs proudly spread, it was hard to imagine that the other guy could compete. Those thighs were like a pair of tree trunks, and Lash’s buttocks called to mind the first time they’d seen Michelangelo’s David and felt an overpowering urge to put their hands on the divots of its marble cheeks.
Naturally they didn’t say any of that out loud, though. If Lash knew they thought his ass was comparable to a Renaissance masterpiece, they would never hear the end of it.
Pocket swallowed hard and loosened their collar. “I don’t see what the big deal is.”
Lash scoffed and craned his head over his shoulder and Pocket tried very hard to maintain an impassive expression on their face in spite of the way that the motion made Lash’s balls shift between his legs.
“That’s only because you haven’t experienced the power of The Lash’s spectacular ass first-hand. These buns could crack a coconut.”
“That doesn’t seem like a great pitch for putting my dick between them.”
Lash’s ass cheeks executed a series of alternating jiggles that demonstrated a genuinely impressive degree of independent control over his muscles. The overall effect was ridiculous, until his glutes contracted in a quick series of clutching motions and Pocket’s face suddenly felt uncomfortably hot.
“No need to be scared. The Lash promises to treat your meat with care.” Lash finally turned his face back away, which was a tremendous relief, because it was getting harder and harder to hide the tent in their pants. Especially when Lash arched his back like a cat and gave his buns one more slow, tight squeeze.
“Now slide that sausage between these buns and I’ll show you what a real set of champion glutes can do.”
It was suddenly very hard to breathe as Pocket unfastened their trousers, slid down their shorts, and pulled out their cock. They hesitated just a beat, then stripped off their gloves and threw them aside.
“Don’t be shy, you can—“
Pocket sank their fingers into his flesh, pried him apart with their thumbs, leaned their weight into him and pressed their stiff length along his crack. “I can do what?” came their husky whisper.
For once, Lash was struck speechless—if only for a moment. His glutes suffered no such interruption in function: he clenched around Pocket with a ripple of muscle that sent shivers through their gut and left them clutching the edge of the table for balance.
“…You can just stay right where you are while I squeeze some mayo outta that hot dog.”
This was one of the least erotic things anyone had ever said to Pocket. It was the kind of statement with such negative erotic weight that under other circumstances it might cause a guy to immediately zip up their pants and go home. But in that moment, the sensation of having their hand right on that divot and feeling taut muscle ripple under their palm as Lash clenched around their dick was enough to balance the scales and keep them right where they were.
Then his glutes started pulsing. Pocket gasped, and twitched, and drove their hips into Lash till their balls pressed against his, and said, “Nice trick, I guess. Were you gonna show me something The Bruiser can’t do?”
Most of the things Pocket desired were incredibly difficult to obtain. They required patience. Hard work. Sacrifice. A lot of pain, a lot of suffering.
It was nice, for once, for something they wanted to be so incredibly easy to get.
Lash reacted exactly as expected. “Oh, I’ll SHOW you,” came the cocky reply. He began rolling back into Pocket, contracting his glutes to the rhythm of his hips, and they had to bite their lip to choke back the moan building in their throat.
Now that Lash wasn’t looking at them any more, they didn’t need to hide how much they were enjoying this. They sank their fingers into his hips and shamelessly pulled him in closer, matched his rhythm and fucked in to his asscheeks. His flesh was soft in their hands, until he clenched, and then for a moment they could believe that statue came to life and squeezed their cock between its marble thighs.
Pocket could have just leaned in to him, clinging to his hips like this for dear life, and let him do all the work. But baiting Lash into trying to prove something to them, that was all just pretext. They didn’t actually need him to convince them of anything: they already wanted their hands on his thighs, their cock in his ass, their eyes on his rippling back while he stroked them off between his cheeks.
They just wanted an excuse to fuck Lash without HIM knowing that. He’d be absolutely intolerable if he knew how incredible it felt, gliding along his skin. Or how it felt like a spring wound up in their gut when they realized he was shaved smooth from his balls to his asshole. There was no hiding how hard they were grinding into his backside, but if Lash could see how fast their cock started to leak, how their whole face flushed red, how a few drops of oil between them was all that it took to send them to the edge? God, they would never hear the end of it.
The harder they fucked him, the harder he bucked back. He had to be getting tired. POCKET was getting tired. Sweat pooled on their brow, their thighs were starting to burn, and their breath came hot and heavy in short, hoarse gasps in time to their thrusts. Beads of sweat glistened on the small of Lash’s back too, but he didn’t slow down. He kept on relentlessly squeezing Pocket’s cock in his glutes, rolling his hips back into them with the control of a belly dancer and the strength of an ox.
Pocket blinked back the sweat beading on their lashes, tasted the salt on their lips, bowed their head over Lash’s bare back. They could feel themself slipping closer and closer to the edge, their control growing weaker with each stroke. Pocket wanted him, and the closer they got the less they cared if he knew. They dug in their nails and dragged him in closer. Buried their face into his back. Licked the sweat from his spine. Muffled their moans with his skin and came, Lash still ruthlessly working them through it like he meant to wring them dry.
He finally stopped when they cried out for mercy. Legs turned to jelly and their cock like a hot coal between their legs, they slumped over him.
Lash gave his buttocks a couple more playful squeezes in quick succession, as if punctuating his argument with a closing “QED”, and Pocket almost yelped out loud. “Okay, okay, okay,” they gasped, pulling away before he could do any more damage to their oversensitive cock.
Lash rolled over with a smirk on his face and gave them the kind of exaggerated look-over that was almost certainly intended for them to notice. Pocket, still catching their breath, struggled to re-assert their dignity and pull their pants back up. If they didn’t say something fast, Lash was gonna pre-empt them with something horrible, and—
Whoops. Too late.
“I’d ask how you like those buns, but I think the results speak for themself.” He reached behind his back. His hand came back with incontrovertible proof. Then, because he was a huge asshole, and what did Pocket even expect, he leaned forward and wiped his hand off on Pocket’s shirt.
“You are disgusting,” Pocket groaned.
“And you just can’t get enough of it, can you?”
“Please talk less.”
Lash grinned, smug as ever, and pulled up his shorts with a brisk snap of elastic. “Much as I’d love to stay and hear the full review of how The Lash just rocked your world… there’s some loser from Brooklyn out there waiting to get his ass kicked.”
Pocket got as far as opening their mouth to reply before Lash muscled in to their space, grabbed their chin, and pressed a rough kiss into their lips.
“But you better have that ass ready to go by the time I’m done pounding this chump into the mat.”
He gave Pocket a little pat on the cheek. “You should know better than to doubt The Lash’s greatness. So I’m gonna be needing a full apology. If you know what I mean.”
With that, Lash bounded out the door and swaggered down to the boxing ring, leaving Pocket’s cheeks on fire and their cock already stirring again.
He won, of course. When they returned to his apartment together, Pocket did indeed apologize thoroughly, at great length, and for an impressive duration of time. And they didn’t feel it relevant at any point to mention that the dime they’d wagered had actually been on Lash.