Torso Tackle

by R. W. Clinger

  Torso Tackle

  By R.W. Clinger

  Published by JMS Books LLC

  Visit jms-books.com for more information.

  Copyright 2013 R.W. Clinger

  ISBN 9781611524871

  Cover Design: Written Ink Designs | written-ink.com

  Image(s) used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.

  All rights reserved.

  WARNING: This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it is an infringement of the copyright of this work and violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

  No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.

  This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It contains substantial sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which may be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Published in the United States of America.

  * * * *

  Torso Tackle

  By R.W. Clinger

  Part 1: Ben

  Chapter 1: Stress Retention

  Chapter 2: Coveting Ben

  Chapter 3: Unexpected Kiss

  Chapter 4: Snuggle Bunny

  Chapter 5: Playing with Balls

  Chapter 6: Breathless

  Chapter 7: Army Brats

  Chapter 8: Disclosure

  Chapter 9: Lust-Spell

  Chapter 10: Under His Skin

  Part 2: Jory

  Chapter 11: Zoe Time

  Chapter 12: Helping Out a Man in Need

  Chapter 13: Empty Room

  Chapter 14: Nocturnal Beauties

  Chapter 15: Closer

  Chapter 16: The Bruised Darkness

  Chapter 17: Euphoria

  Chapter 18: Bubbly Inside

  Chapter 19: Torso Tackle

  Chapter 20: Boyfriends

  Part 3: Between Men

  Chapter 21: Men of Our Dreams

  Chapter 22: Man-Blend

  Chapter 23: Jock

  Chapter 24: Affairs

  Chapter 25: In the Upstairs Hallway

  Chapter 26: Shoot

  Chapter 27: Pumpkin Love

  Chapter 28: Footballers

  Chapter 29: Office Visit

  Chapter 30: Caught

  Part 4: Men, Afar

  Chapter 31: Train

  Chapter 32: Fools for Flesh

  Chapter 33: Ben, Afar

  Chapter 34: Simone’s Soothing

  Chapter 35: Coffee Talk

  Chapter 36: Admission

  Chapter 37: Cowboy

  Chapter 38: Some Solace

  Chapter 39: In Talon Park

  Chapter 40: I Was Hoping You Would Say That

  Part 1: Ben

  Chapter 1: Stress Retention

  “Close your eyes and don’t move,” I say over Jory’s right shoulder. My hands are locked against his tight torso, and my fingertips dig into his hairy skin.

  “Where do you think I’m going to go?”

  “Be quiet. Concentrate.”

  We stand in the center of my office, blocking out the sounds of the city: horns blaring, people yelling, pigeons on the concrete windowsill doing whatever pigeons do in early October. My firm middle is pressed against his backside, exactly where I want it to be. I breathe in his scent of Lever 2000 soap and expensive cologne.

  “I feel it,” Jory whispers.

  My fingertips deeply dig into his chest’s firm muscles and I reply, “Your core. Now inhale slowly.”

  He listens, taking in a deep breath.

  “And exhale.”

  Jory continues to listen.

  “This is how you relax. This is a good way to find your Zen after a stressful game on the field.”

  “Or before?”

  “Exactly.” I place my chin on his shoulder. I want to kiss his neck; a desire I have always wanted to accomplish with his skin for the last two years. Jory Sole will send me to the hospital, though, if I do decide to cup my lips against his corded skin. One punch will turn into twenty. A coma for three months will be a gift from him if I decide to carry out such a risky act. There is no way I will make a move on the football player, though. Instead, I pass on my hunger for his delicious flesh.

  “Sebastian, are you hard back there?”

  I lie and say, “It’s your imagination.”

  “I swear I feel your dick against my ass. What’s going on, man?”

  “You’re wrong,” I reply, drop my hand from his middle, and pull away from him.

  Jory spins around, facing me. He takes a second to study me and ogles my 5'10”, twenty-six-year-old frame. His gaze studies my blond hair, topaz blue eyes, and thin build. Of course he finds my 180 pounds attractive, which I believe is everything he seems to like in a man. I’m a pretty boy with a career in alternative physical therapy, ex-smoker, runner, indiscreetly gay (except with professional football players), and I’m currently single.

  I study his six-three frame from head to toe, placing him at twenty-eight-years-old: onyx-colored hair and eyes, slim nose, broad shoulders, no tattoos, pecs of steel, rigid lines that design his abs, pelt of dark fur on his massive V-shaped chest, Diesel jeans snug around his narrow middle, leather belt in place with a silver buckle, and no shoes.

  No longer is my wood a concern. It goes limp as quickly as it inflates because of his awareness of the tool. Instead, I ask, “What do you think about the stress retention exercise?”

  He lights up with an ear-to-ear smile that beams white and says, “I think that breathing maneuver will work when I start to freak out because of nerves.”

  I poke his chest with an extended finger and respond, “Don’t just use it for football. It’s a proven technique for all stressful situations.”

  He holds out a titanic hand for me to shake, which I do, and compliments me. “You’re a genius at this stuff.”

  “Making the body feel better is my career. It’s what I went to school for. It’s why I’m in business and get up in the morning.”

  “I should have had you in my life a long time ago.”

  It’s music to my ears; something I have always wanted to hear from him. “Better late than never,” is my response, and he gathers up his shirt from my sofa, slipping his bulky arms into the cotton material. Unfortunately, he has every intention of covering his rigid chest, reducing my interest. Before this transpires, he heads to my office door for his exit exposing his hairy perfection for my simple delight.

  “Jory!” I call out his name, nervous as hell and jittery in the middle of the floor. Never has a guy caused me to feel so…uneven, but the football player does. Shame on him.

  His dress shirt is still unbuttoned. The cotton is open and his richly tanned and furry chest is generously exposed for my pleasure. Royal blue shirttails drape down and over his leather belt and its silver buckle, which causes my rod to bounce inside its khakis.

  “What?” escapes his handsome and pink-lipped mouth.

  “Next week, same time, same place?”

  “I wouldn’t miss it,” he replies, vanishing from my life again.

  Dammit!

  Chapter 2: Coveting Ben

  Ben lifts weights in our living room, distracting me again. No longer can I concentrate on my client notes, particularly the one-hour therapy session with Jory Sole.

 
Ben has been my roommate for the last two years. Craigslist brought us together. Upon meeting Ben, I coveted him almost immediately. He stands six foot two, bald, and model-gorgeous. He makes a really great friend, and a reliable roommate who pays his rent on time. His Hawaii-green eyes sparkle as he lifts a two-hundred-plus barbell. Bare pecs flex. Buffed thigh muscles stretch with perfection. Sweat lingers against his ripped abs and dented navel. The hairless guy is beautiful. No, stunning. No wonder he models for magazines and is splashed over billboards across the city. I’d model, too, if I had his dimples, rigid jawline, and rock-my-world biceps.

  At our kitchen table, I drop my pen to my leather-bound notebook. “My God, you are one fine specimen of man. Too bad you’re straight.”

  Ben chuckles in a masculine manner, preparing for another lift on his back, but doesn't say anything.

  “I would definitely be glad to mentor you if you ever want to try my queer world out.”

  A grunt escapes his beautifully pink lips as he lifts and lowers the barbell. Sweat clings to his forehead; something I want to lick away.

  “Tell me Zoe covets your skin like I do. It would make me feel better. Because knowing you're not someone’s sexual toy would absolutely devastate and kill me.”

  His lift is finished—God bless his productivity and commitment—and he sits up, sweating and huffing on the bench under his tight ass. Ben finds a hand towel and begins his wipe-down, which is a total turn-on for me as he swirls limp cotton over his chiseled chest. He shares a twinkling stare with me, his adorable smile, which is often seen in glossy fashion magazines, and finally responds. “The football player isn't putting out for you yet, is he?”

  I play dumb, and respond, “Who are you talking about?”

  “Jory Sole. The quarterback for the Vipers. The guy you’re madly in love with. The guy every queer man and single woman desires in this city.”

  “Lust, my friend,” I correct. “I am in lust with him.”

  He laughs at me, drawing the towel across his ripped torso, absorbing his lingering sweat. “Have you tried to put the moves on him yet?”

  I tell him about my Zen session with Jory, unable to leave out my intrusive boner and embarrassment.

  Ben chokes with laughter while chugging water from a plastic bottle.

  “It really happened. I’m standing behind the guy and I pop wood. And he notices it. He wanted to know what was going on behind him. What was I supposed to say?”

  He swallows his gulp of water, wipes a firm hand across his Prince Charming mouth, and asks, “Did he have a look in his eyes that said he wanted to blow you?”

  What’s nice about Ben is that he’s not homophobic. The guy is a liberal all the way. Besides, his little brother is gay; a high school band fag who is going to be as handsome as Ben when he finally grows into his skin and muscle. In truth, Ben is easy to talk to, and someone who gives me great advice—at least most of the time.

  “Jory did not want to blow me,” I concede with a frown. “That doesn’t mean I didn’t want him to, because God knows I did.”

  “Too bad for you. Maybe next session you can nail him. Or better yet, he can nail you.”

  “Ben, I am totally out of that man’s league. I’m weak and have no athletic ability whatsoever. Plus, Jory is straight and…”

  He stands, ready to head off to the shower, and says, “You don’t know that he’s straight. Rumors in town say Jory likes guys. I’ve heard it, among other friends of mine. Some guys are like that, you know. The rumors are true, even though the queens sport girlfriends.”

  “They’re just rumors,” I sigh. “They mean nothing.”

  “Still, it doesn’t give you any reason to be hard on yourself. You have a lot to offer a guy. You take care of your body by running, have nice looks, you’re smart, and I’m pretty sure you know what to do with your hands since you’re an alternative physical therapist. I know guys like a pair of good hands to wrap around their…”

  “Go get a shower, Ben. I hear you. There’s no reason to mention the obvious.”

  On his way down the hall, shaking his taut ass for my pleasure, he calls over his shoulder, “And just for the record, Zoe does covet my skin.”

  I holler, “Whatever!” Then I find my pen and notebook again, becoming lost in my work and notes.

  Chapter 3: Unexpected Kiss

  Jory throws a long pass at Walker, who is open on the forty yard line, and the crowd goes wild when the Vanmer Vipers score another touchdown, walking away with the game. Blue and gold colors wave in the outside bleachers. Roars are heard all over the city. A giant LCD screen behind and above the goalposts catch a shot of Jory smiling from ear to ear in his helmet, proud of his performance, finding joy in pleasuring his football fans.

  A minute later number five on the team, a sexy tight-bottomed Rock Carson, kicks a field goal, adding one more point to the Vipers’ score. Again, the Saturday afternoon crowd goes wild in the bleachers, cheering at the top of their voices, witnessing another October weekend of fun-filled football and the Vipers edging their way into a divisional championship.

  The opposing team, the Milford Marlins, grows angrier by the minute. No longer can their head quarterback throw well with his fractured wrist. Nor can his sidearm run, due to a twisted right ankle. The Vipers have successfully taken down their rival team, depleting its players one by one, and play by play.

  Ben leans into me and jollily confesses, “It pays to be the quarterback’s therapist, Sebastian. These seats are awesome.”

  We sit side by side at the fifty yard line, three seats back from the Vipers. In truth, the seats are incredible. If I didn’t work for Jory Sole, Ben and I wouldn’t be enjoying the great seats, or this home game between the Vipers and the Marlins.

  Today is guys’ day out, which Ben and I sometimes accomplish together. Zoe, his girlfriend of two years, usually goes shopping in the downtown district with her gal pals, which leaves me with some “alone time” with her sexy model boyfriend, and all the beer he and I can drink without getting totally blitzed.

  It’s too late for Ben to be worried about getting blitzed. He’s on his ninth beer and smaassshed. Zoe might be pissed to learn about this, of course, since they have dinner plans with her parents later, but I’ll at least make sure he gets back to our apartment safe and sound, without a public display of intoxication fine strapped to his ass.

  As expected, the Marlins fumble the ball and the Vipers run with it. Matty Darling, a beautiful blond piece of meat with a fuckable ass, weaves down the field. Three yards from his score he is power driven to the ground by a pissed Marlin, which causes the Vipers’ fans to boo and hiss with outrage.

  With less than a minute left in the game, Jory hikes the football. He looks to his left and right, but doesn’t see a teammate to pass it off to. Instead, before being sacked, he rushes forward two yards, leaps over a tank-sized Marlin, and scores yet again for the Vipers; bringing the crowd to their feet and loudest roar, winning the game with a final score of 24 to 3.

  Ben is so excited with the win, and drunk of course, he faces me and screams like a Viking at war. He reaches for my chin with his strong palms, holds my face still, and plants a masculine kiss on my parted lips.

  I swear his tongue darts into my mouth, but I can’t really prove it. The man-connection is short and intense, but sloppy. Honestly, I don’t know whether to be flattered by his beer-kiss or grossed out. Does the intoxicated fool even know what he has just done to me?

  None of it matters, especially since it’s just about being a guy today and enjoying beer and the game. I pass off his kiss as playful and innocent, practically carry him to my truck after the game, and make sure that he doesn’t vomit or pass out until we get back to our apartment.

  Chapter 4: Snuggle Bunny

  Although it is only four-thirty in the afternoon, Ben is so shit-faced he needs to sleep. It’s a struggle to pull the Vipers blue-and-gold jersey over his chiseled torso, since his structure is no smaller than a cit
y skyscraper. I yank it up and over his head, reveal his cut abs and perky nipples, and toss the thing over the reading chair inside his bedroom.

  The bedroom is rather bleak, if the truth be told; modern in style with just a hint of blue for color. A little amount of light seeps in through the only window. It smells like baby power, body butter, and Ben’s light sweat. This is the place where he sleeps and undresses and masturbates and dreams; his shelter away from me and my uncomplicated crush on him.

  Cautiously, I warn him, “Jeans next, my friend,” and go for the gold buttons on his denim, and zipper.

  Ben is wasted, seven too many beers over his limit. He giggles and shares, “I like it when a guy man-handles me.”

  “Yeah right,” I respond, and expose his 2[X]ist briefs cradling a plump package.

  “Yank ’em down, buddy. Use me all up just like you want to.” His words are slurred and playful, presenting this moment as enlightening; a bonus on top of the Vipers' win. “Be my daddy, Sebastian. Spank me and thank me.”

  I chuckle at his mischievous behavior, and tell him to kick off his Nikes. Ben listens like a helpful little drunk. Now, I continue to pull down his jeans to his ankles, instructing, “Step out of the denim.”

  Again, Ben listens, wavering in his intoxicated state next to me. My gaze studies the seven inches of deflated cock and tennis ball-size package inside their white cotton. The beautiful and alluring sight brings saliva to the edges of my lips and I have to lick the glistening drops away.

  “You can touch it if you want,” Ben informs, having no idea what he’s really saying since he currently resides on Planet Smashed.

  I don’t take advantage of his skin, deciding to be a best friend and hold him up from falling to the bedroom’s walnut floor. Carefully, I walk him to his queen-size bed, sit him down on its edge, and provide, “You have to sleep this off for a few hours. You have dinner with Zoe’s family at eight. Be good and get some Zs.”

  Ben pats the spot next to him on the bed and giggles. “Sit down.”