A Man for Michael

Chapter Two

Chapter Two

The only thing that had changed about Donnie’s place was the faces.

Stepping into the noisy, poorly lit basement the stench of sweat, stale cigarettes and beer put Mike right back into his fighting days. Surrounded by shouts of bloodlust, testosterone sizzling in the air, he felt like that tough kid again, fresh off the streets of Allston, one of the tougher neighborhoods in Beantown. He’d spent his late teens and twenties fighting in this club, getting his face beat in like a punching bag every weekend in order to scrape together the money he needed to buy his gym. Looking back, Mike was grateful he’d made it to thirty-six.

Even the pit-cage in the center of the place was the same. Donnie was a cheap bastard. Couldn’t even use his generous income from the fighters to upgrade the hard rubber matting in the center and the chain link wall guards that kept the fighters from being hurtled into the bloodthirsty crowds.

Noodle and Mike jostled their way through the press of bodies toward the back where Donnie’s office was—just to let him know they were here and ready to work. Mike opened Donnie’s office door without bothering to knock because Donnie would never have heard such a tiny sound over the crowds.

Donnie looked up from his desk, that mercenary gleam still in his rat eyes, his skin still shining with an ever-present sheen of sweat due to his corpulent body. He’d never thrown a punch in his whole rotten life, but he got lots of money selling bets on guys who did.

A crooked smile spread across Donnie’s thin lips when he saw Mike and proffered a fat hand. “Mikey Hard Head Antonio. Never thought I’d see your broken nose in my place again.”

Mike gritted his teeth at the reference to how many times his face had ended up looking like a tomato someone had thrown against a wall and accepted the handshake. “Yeah, well, here I am.”

Donnie chuckled against the backdrop sounds of the club-goers outside, rumbling in anticipation of seeing the Chow. He nodded in Noodle’s direction. “Yeah, seems our friend here is in one of his usual scrapes.”

“Never mind that.” Mike wasn’t going to let Donnie take shots at Noodle no matter how much of a jerk his friend was. “We’re just letting you know we’re here to run the tickets and bounce razzers.” Well, Mike would do the bouncing. Noodle couldn’t bounce a ball, never mind a guy trying to start a fight. Even though Mike had lost a significant amount of his power lifter’s muscle mass, he still had the rounded hard physique of a heavyweight who could kick a razzer’s ass and make him go to the back of the line to wait his turn or get the hell out.

Donnie chuckled again and waved a dismissive hand. “Whatever you say, Mikey. Just be extra tough tonight. There’ll probably be a shitload of those assholes trying to get into the pit with the Chow. Even though the little scrapper’s undefeated.”

Mike nodded, not wanting to stay in close quarters with Donnie any longer than he had to. It wasn’t that he was ungrateful for all Donnie had done for him back in the day, it’s just he didn’t like how Donnie condescended to people, treating them like pieces of meat. Donnie was like a lot of people in the world today and well, even though part of Mike was still a tough kid from a broken family, he’d always thought that made it more important to be nice to people, especially when they were worse off than you.

Noodle and Mike left the office and worked their way through the crowds, taking bet tickets on the fights and keeping an eye on anyone in attendance whose hungry expression had the potential of a razzer.

Donnie finally came out into the center of the pit, clanging his little bell, and holding up a chubby hand to stave off the rounds of cheers that drowned out his voice. As was Donnie’s c**k-teasing style, he named the fighters of the first three rounds to take place before the main event. A deafening chorus of boos and hisses met his announcement. Mike knew Donnie couldn’t have cared less. The guy was going to reap f*****g gold tonight if everything Noodle told Mike about the Chow was true. He was a five-foot-eight guy who could bring down giants in a few kicks—the most amazing fighter.

Standing at the edge of the cage, Mike’s gaze went to the emperor’s box, a seating area at the end of the pit reserved for those who paid a hundred or more to get in or who supported a particularly good fighter. A man in an expensive suit and dark hawk-eyes sat there, flanked by two larger men, presumably his goon bodyguards. A tiny smug smile curved the guy’s lips and his thinning hair was combed back on his scalp. Mike didn’t need to be told this character was most likely the Chow’s sponsor or something like that.

The first three rounds went relatively quick, the crowds cheering with extra gusto, probably because they wanted the preliminary fights over so they could see the Chow.

Finally, after the last guy had been knocked unconscious and lay in a heap, blood running down his face, Donnie made a show of signaling his two runners to come out and drag the defeated fighter out of the pit-cage. Someone stomped their foot near the pit and soon the entire club filled with the roaring clamor of stomping feet and shouts of “Chow now! Chow now! Chow now!”

Like a benevolent master, Donnie held up his hand and nodded. Immediately, the chant gave way to cheers, hooting and clapping. In spite of everything Mike felt about this place, he had to admit his own blood had heated, his heartbeat quickening with the telltale anticipation of a good fight, not to mention his intrigue at Noodle’s description of the Chow. In fact, it was this Bruce Lee image of some gorgeous guy, muscles flexing as he leaped and kicked, that had really convinced Mike to come. Well, that and the fact that Noodle’s ass was on the line because he’d been to the loan sharks again.

Without another word, Donnie pointed to the entryway of the pit-cage and a runner pulled the gate back.

The crowd went wild and Mike’s body was pressed hard against the chain link sides. He succumbed to the weight against him and watched the first fighter come in, a beefy guy wearing nothing but tight studded leather in straps around his body. He was bald and wore a competitive scowl, which showed large rows of white teeth gleaming in the lights. A mixed round of cheers and boos followed this guy whose name he couldn’t remember from the tickets, caught up as he was by his own anticipation of seeing the Chow.

Leather Guy moved in a tight, beastlike circle of the pit, obviously trying to rouse support from the crowd. However, the cheers grew suddenly deafening and Mike knew why. Straining to see the gate through the lunge of bodies, Mike saw the star of the evening emerge at the pit entrance and caught his breath.

So unexpected was Mike’s physical response that he began to shiver.

The videos hadn’t lied. The Chow looked to be about five-foot-eight or so, his dark hair shorn almost to his scalp. Even through the press of the crowd, Mike could see the guy’s physical beauty emanating like a light. His skin, the color of roasted almonds, offset the sleekness of his muscles. His torso tapered into a V-shape and his shoulders were surprisingly broad for his stature. His hairless pecs were round and hard, the dark gold skin and brown n*****s gleaming under the lights.

His face was a beautiful mask of intensity, and he stared at his opponent from large almond-shaped eyes. His full lips were parted, his breathing hard, his hands clenched in fists at his sides. Below he wore a pair of ratty-looking baggy pants and black slip-on shoes, the kind that guys wore in kung-fu films.

Mike’s heartbeat rose and something inside told him it wasn’t from anticipation of the fight. He found his gaze riveted on the Chow’s face, to the intensity blazing in his large eyes. Sweat erupted on Mike’s body that wasn’t only from the hot press of the crowd. The sensation of arousal curled in his groin and his c**k twitched and started to harden.

That’s when he saw it.

A collar like a bulldog would wear, its shiny spikes glinting in the lights, was fastened around the Chow’s neck. Okay, Mike would have dismissed such an article as a gimmick. But then he saw the collar was attached to a leash, the other end of it held by a large goon, also in an expensive suit. No doubt that suit had also been bought by the Chow’s sweat and blood.

A sick feeling rose in the pit of Mike’s stomach at the sight of the leash, the bile churning in sharp contrast to the unexpected fanning of desire in his entire body. He swallowed hard, the roar of the crowd around fading to the background in his consciousness. It was just like a scene in a movie the way he blocked out the chaos and bloodlust around him to concentrate his attention solely on the Chow.

In the next moment, the goon holding the leash reached out and unclipped it. Before Mike could blink, the Chow bounded into the ring and leapt through the air. His hard, powerful body sailed in defiance of gravity, and one kung-fu shoe-clad foot pounded into his opponent’s beefy chest.

Leather Man staggered back, his mouth open in a stunned expression. He hit the chain link wall and growled. After a moment he gathered himself and charged the Chow. The Chow twisted and turned, avoiding the large body hurtling toward him and took a running jump. He ricocheted off the chain link wall and delivered another sharp kick.

Once again, Leather Man staggered back. To the galoot’s credit, he put up a lengthy, exciting fight. But the Chow’s punches, flying kicks and chops finally did him in. One last kick from the Chow left Leather Man in a heap in the center of the pit. The crowd’s thundering practically made the earth shake.

Donnie lumbered into the pit and held one of the Chow’s rippling arms up in the air to another rousing thunder of hurrahs. He turned the Chow this way and that, and Mike was captured by the sight of the Chow’s chest heaving from the adrenaline of the fight. Sweat gleamed off the Chow’s smooth, cut muscles, seizing Mike with the most wicked desire to lick the salty moisture right off the Chow’s skin.

Donnie turned him some more and the Chow’s gaze came even to where Mike stood.

Their gazes locked. Mike could swear the Chow was staring right at him.

Donnie went to move the Chow to another angle, giving the crowd a view of the glorious victor. However, the Chow yanked his hand back and stared at Mike. It couldn’t have been more than a few seconds that they watched each other, but s**t, however long it was, was too damn short. Mike could have stood there indefinitely.

Mike blinked and in the space it took his eyelids to shutter, the Chow had turned and paced back to the entrance of the pit where he stood, waiting like a trained animal for the suited guy to clip his leash back on.

Mike stood there, gaping, wondering at how the Chow let this man lead him away in the direction of the holding room, as if the Chow had not just pummeled a man more than twice his size into the ground. They made no show of his bound state, conveying the lack of gimmick in it.

The sudden nearly overwhelming urge to follow them and get the Chow away from his captor seized Mike, but he had to stay by the pit-cage and keep the razzers from starting chaos. The jostling and razzing was rampant this night as any number of idiots wanted to bully their way into the cage pit to fight the Chow. Once that task was done, Mike went back to the holding room, but the Chow was long gone.

Finally the session was over. Noodle and Mike received their cut, which was generous indeed, and the two of them caught a cab back to Allston. The entire ride, Mike listened to Noodle’s ramblings of joy about how he was free now and what a f*****g amazing friend Mike was. Noodle seemed oblivious to Mike’s distracted state.

Mike’s mind was filled only with images of the Chow and of the moment their eyes met. Mike had heard people talk about moments like that over the years, but he hadn’t yet had one for himself. Now he had, and the power of it had every nerve ending in his body simmering.

Mike let Noodle crash on his couch. He took a shower and went to bed, eventually falling asleep to dreams full of the Chow. The Chow fighting, leaping through the air, the fierce look in his almond-shaped eyes, the sweat glistening on his flawless skin. Then Mike dreamed of lying on top of him, their naked bodies pressed together. The Chow was his, gazing up at him from under heavy lids, his full lips parted, wanting Mike’s kiss. Mike moved over him, their hard c***s gliding against each other, silk over hard muscle rubbing together in the most f*****g incredible bliss.

Mike woke up in a sweat, his chest heaving, mind racing. And even though he’d sworn to Noodle that he’d never go back to Donnie’s, he knew he’d be there the next night, collecting tickets, this time determined to get close to the Chow any way he could.

* * * * *

My name is Cory Chow. I was born in Hong Kong, April 26, 1982. That makes me twenty-four now. My mum’s name is…was…May. And my dad was Chow Sing Fen.

Cory recited his facts silently as he sat in the tub being washed. It helped him ignore Duffie’s rough hands and he also never wanted to forget who he was or where he’d come from. There had been a time he’d known something different. There had been a time his mother held him and smiled at him. She’d wanted him to be better, to rise above. She’d made certain he imitated the way the rich London people she cleaned for spoke, so he would sound cultured, educated. She’d looked at him in this sweet way as if he really mattered somehow. Just like that bloke who’d been staring at him through the fence after his fight, as if Cory were…special.

Duffie tossed the washcloth into the tub. Cory looked at him just as the large man turned to Master. “Don’t know why I got to wash ‘is bollocks, Guv’nor.”

Master smiled from where he sat back against the counter, dressed in his black robe, watching. “’Cuz I enjoy it. Stand up, Cory.”

Cory obeyed and stood up from the hot water, which streamed off his arms and legs, chest and back.

Duffie growled and pulled his sleeve up, retrieving the cloth from the bottom of the tub.

“Soap ‘im up good. I fancy a suck and he always does it better when he’s riled up.”

“Yes, Guv’nor.” Duffie soaped up the cloth and slapped it softly onto Cory’s stomach, sliding it down, wiping around his c**k and under his balls.

Cory started to get hard. He couldn’t help it. The warm wet cloth felt too good on his balls. Besides, it was what Master wanted. And yet, Cory couldn’t stop thinking about that guy, the one through the fence who’d been staring at him. It had been difficult to see him really well through the crowd, but the bloke had been tall enough and muscular enough to stand out, chest muscles straining against his white t-shirt.

Remembering that face, the crooked nose that had obviously been broken, the angular jaw, heavy with dark stubble, his skin tone a tan gold like Cory’s own, made his c**k stiffen more.

Master chuckled. “See, Duff? You’re doin’ it good. Look ‘ow excited he’s getting.”

Duffie growled again and slopped the cloth back and forth across Cory’s balls and then down his erection. “I think he’s clean enough now for you, Guv.”

Master stood away from the counter. He was looking at Cory in that way he always did when he wanted a suck. “All right, Duffie. Just get ‘im dried off and you’re excused.”

Duffie sighed and grabbed a towel, waiting while Cory climbed out of the tub and stood, dripping and naked, his c**k jutting out hard under Master’s stare.

While Duffie rubbed the hotel towel over him, Cory kept thinking about the bloke at the fight. In the moment their gazes locked, Cory wanted nothing more than to break away, tear through the fence and throw himself into his arms. He didn’t understand why he felt that way because even though he’d been wanting someone to hold him, he hadn’t ever known there was actually someone he’d feel that way about just by simply looking at him.

Duffie ran the towel over Cory’s ass and down his thighs. The material grazed his balls in a pleasant way, even though it was Duffie holding the towel.

Duffie stood up and tossed the towel onto the counter. “’E’s dry, Guv.”

Master waved him away and Duffie went out the door to the adjoining room of the hotel suite.

“Wot’s the matter with you?” Master snapped his fingers in Cory’s face. “You ‘ad your bangers and mash like I promised you. You won another fight. Life is good.” He laughed.

Cory looked at his master, wishing so badly he were that bloke on the sidelines. Even though he liked the taste and feel of Master’s c**k in his mouth, he’d much rather be giving that other guy a suck.

Master picked up Cory’s leash and tugged it. “Come on now. Some fun before bed.” He led Cory into the bedroom, tugging the leash more so that Cory got onto the bed. He sat on his haunches, watching Master open his robe, slip it off and toss it on a nearby chair. Master had once been a fighter himself and still had a stocky, strong build. He had a nice mat of dark chest hair and a thick c**k, which was already hard, ready to be sucked.

Cory’s mouth watered. This was the one pleasurable thing he did. Fighting had begun to lose its shine, especially since that’s how his dad died. He leaned over and took Master’s c**k deep in his mouth, tightening his lips on the shaft and bobbing his head up and down.

A drop of c*m seeped from the tip and Cory swiped it away with the tip of his tongue. Master sighed and groaned, one hand resting on Cory’s head. His c**k tasted good, the silky skin musky and Cory swallowed him deep, fondling his heavy balls with one hand.

“You do that so sweet, Cory.”

The praise urged Cory on. His own c**k throbbed and twitched. Pressure built in his balls, needing release. He closed his eyes and sucked his master harder, stopping every few strokes to run his tongue around the head and push the tip into the tiny slit in the opening.

Master’s fingers pressed into his head and Cory knew that meant he was coming any second. Cory dipped his head down one more time, taking his c**k in deep.

Master groaned and erupted, shooting his hot c*m into Cory’s throat.

Cory swallowed it. He liked how it tasted, salty and sweet. He drank every last drop and let the other man’s c**k slip from his mouth. He sat up, wiping a few drops from his lips.

His master was breathing hard, but smiling, his eyelids heavy, and a sheen of sweat gleamed on his chest hairs.

Cory longed to stroke that chest, to let his fingers play in the springy-looking hairs, but Master didn’t like to be touched that way.

Master looked up at him, his eyes dark and velvety, the way they always got after Cory had sucked him. “No one does that like you, Cory.” He grinned. “Now beat yourself off while I watch.”

That was the way they did it each time. Cory lay on his side, facing his master and took his own hard c**k in his hand, stroking it the entire length eagerly. Sucking always got him excited and it never took long for him to come.

He felt Master’s gaze on him, watching him stroke himself. Some c*m oozed from the tip and he gathered it with his thumb, using it to make his hand glide on the shaft.

“That’s the way, Cory. God, I like that.”

The pleasure built in Cory’s balls. He closed his eyes. Without making it happen, he saw that bloke again. That handsome face with the large eyes staring at him, looking at him so sweet. He remembered that body too, those muscles, round and powerful-looking. A fighter himself, no doubt, that bloke.

He pictured the guy without a shirt on, muscles flexing, maybe a mat of dark hair on his chest like Master. He imagined the man’s n*****s a dark brown, like his own. He imagined tasting them, licking them.

Cory exploded. His c*m shot out in hot spurts, the image of the man strong in his mind. His climax lasted a long time and warm milky c*m pooled on his stomach.

His master chuckled. “I’m the luckiest bloke there is.” He reached for a few tissues and handed them to Cory.

Cory wiped himself off and waited to see what Master would do. Cory always wished Master would hold him and fall asleep that way under the covers, like he mattered to him.

But Master pulled the covers down and turned over. “Get to sleep, Cory. You got another match tomorrow night and I ‘ave something big planned for us.” He held onto the leash and gave it a tug, meaning Cory should get under the covers.

Cory lay on his back in the dark, staring up at the ceiling. He could still taste the tang of c*m in his mouth and it gave him an odd comfort.

“Remember, Cory. No one loves you like I do.”

Cory sighed and continued to stare upward. He thought of the guy behind the fence and thought that if Master really loved him, wouldn’t he look at him the way that bloke did? It was confusing. If Master loved him, would Cory always think of running away from him? But where would he go? He didn’t know anyone or have any money of his own.

He was alone.

The same lonely feeling that always enveloped him after the pleasure of sucking was over invaded him now. He couldn’t help but think that if this was love, he’d not feel this way.

Hopeless. Wanting to die.

Cory sighed and closed his eyes. There was only one thing he could do to get free.

And he’d do it tomorrow night.