Jason Morgan meant more to me than all of the autographed photos, shiny boxing statues, Global Middleweight Championship belts, and stacks upon stacks of memorabilia that crammed the dusty shelves of my trophy cabinet, its warped glass doors shimmering across one wall of the back-front room I seldom entered except to entertain exuberant, reminiscing relatives and former trainers.
He was beautiful and fragile-looking when he slept curled beside me at night, snoring softly, sometimes whimpering at the occasional daemon marauding through his dreams.
His hand always slipped around my waist or shoulder, his hairy chest wriggling against mine, whenever I awoke just before dawn and, irresistibly, my hand crept across his pillow to lightly scratch his thick, cropped hair.
He was unmistakably a man not to rouse recklessly, his face flushed and the sinews in his neck writhing, when he was caught up in a heated argument with another bicycle messenger or, more likely, was earnestly negotiating a truce between rival bike services about to come to blows in the broad public square at Sansome and Sutter streets, its long, curving parapet the turf of dozens of handsomely disheveled, thick-calved messengers swaggering and lounging between dispatches.
Still asleep this morning, he lay naked on his belly in front of me, his muscular, hairy legs slightly spread, the sheet jumbled around his feet in the stifling heat rare even in late fall for San Francisco.
Peeling off my sweat-soaked gym shorts and jockstrap, I marveled at his massive calves and thighs. I straightened and flicked my clothes toward the overflowing hamper in one corner, as his astonishingly pale ass drew my attention, its powerful, twin globes covered by a dense forest of curly, brown hair that also climbed up his lower back in a fading triangle along his spine.
Taking my balls in one hand and gently pulling them out from between my muscular thighs, I swallowed dryly, enjoying the sensation of stretching my sweaty scrotum confined all morning in the tight pouch of my jock.
I recalled with growing excitement the previous night when I’d carefully turned him over to face away from me on the bed, my rigid cock sheathed in the velvety, tight warmth of his ass, and we’d finished fucking on our knees.
Grunting and careful to move as little as possible inside him, I was kneading his narrow, brown waist for some time, desperate not to ejaculate first, when he groaned loudly, rearing up to clutch the headboard with one hand, and slammed his hips back into mine.
Like most serious bike riders’ torsos, his upper body wasn’t nearly as developed as his legs. I massaged his lean back and kissed his wide, square shoulders surprisingly powerful from daily pulling at handlebars made grueling by the City’s steep hills.
When he suddenly bellowed at the headboard, I felt the walls of his ass clench around my hard-on, and I knew he was coming.
I flung my broad, hairy chest across his back and grabbed his fist firing up and down his erection, his pungent semen spurting like buckshot over the tangled bedspread.
I came listening to the heavy splattering of his load, excitedly extending my chin over his neck to bite his earlobe, as my stomach muscles contracted hard and held my hips firmly against his creamy white ass. The rippling ferocity of my orgasm nearly overwhelmed me. I was convinced, as my nuts unloaded round after round, that I’d later discover the finger-like tip of my condom bulging to the bursting point with my semen.
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