Will ride for one ticket to Saturday's Stingrays game and dinner. Box 482. Include pic/stats.
The notice at the Tampa underground newspaper was short and simple and was accompanied by a thumbnail photo and URL to his Web page at a gay dating site. Ryan hadn't tried this approach before, but he'd been told it worked for other guys—as long as you didn't get too picky. He really, really wanted to go to the semipro basketball game. The Stingrays were hot, hot, hot this year, especially that power forward Shane Thompson. Ryan just hoped he was advertising in time. The paper hit the stands Monday; he probably should have given it more than a week.
By Thursday he decided the scheme was working as far as offers went—he knew there wasn't anything a guy interested in such stuff wouldn't be interested in when they checked out his photo and Web site—but out of a dozen contacts there were a dozen toads. Most of them so old Ryan was surprised they could walk to the seats in the basketball arena.
Thursday night he was panicked. Friday morning he was resigned that he wasn't going to the Stingrays' game the next afternoon. But when he checked the box at the underground newspaper's office, he found one envelope. Inside the envelope what he found was not the requested photo and stats, but an actual ticket to the game and copy of a menu for the exclusive Charter House restaurant right on Tampa Bay.
He was leery about not getting stats, and now he was faced with the decision to take the plunge or sell the ticket. It didn't seem ethical to sell the ticket, though, assuming it was a real ticket, which he'd only find out if he tried using it. What the hell, he thought. By today even some of the toads who'd answered his ad earlier in the week were looking better and better. This wasn't a promise of a ticket; it was the ticket. He went home to decide what to wear. It would have to be both sporty and a bit dressy if they were going to the Charter House. Good thing that, as a male model, he had great taste and fit and had just about any event covered in his closet.
Surprise, surprise. The ticket got him into the arena on Saturday afternoon. He'd decided on tailored trousers, an expensive polo shirt that fit his cut physique like a glove, and tasseled leather loafers with footsie socks that looked like he wasn't wearing any. Oh, and black mesh bikini briefs, with a pouch that pushed his junk out front. An even greater surprise when he entered the arena was that the seat was a great one, down just off the floor and at the side of the court.
The guys on either side of the seat, which Ryan lived in fear that he'd find was a duplicate ticketed seat and he'd be the one very publicly tossed out of it, were already there and in place. Both were burly and middle aged. Both were expensively dressed. Both were toads. And neither showed enough interest in him for him to even begin to ask which one of them was his date. Each had a young bimbo on the other side of him to mesh with during the time outs.
Ten regulation minutes into the game, he found himself spending more time trying to figure out how to solve this mystery then following the play on the court, although the Stingrays were on fire—or rather their star power forward, Shane Thompson, was on fire. The short forward, Jared Jackson, was being great on helping Thompson get into position, but Thompson was finding the basket from nearly every spot on the floor. He was making the basket three times for every miss.
At the ten-minute mark Ryan's mystery was solved. Jackson was giving Thompson body protection as Thompson went for a shot, which he made, but a player on the other side, desperately trying to reach Thompson before he could make a shot, fouled Jackson. The collision was one that the solid Jackson withstood, but it sent the other player to the floor with a howl, writhing on the floor, and grabbing at a wounded limb.
As the medics came onto the floor and others gathered around the downed player, Jackson turned to the stands—he was nearly within reach of where Ryan sat—winked directly at Ryan, and called out "Dinner at the Charter House. Stay put afterward. Someone will come for you."
The men on either side of Ryan turned and hit him with questioning looks, and all Ryan could think of, while he was blushing, was to swivel his torso and head around and look up the rows behind him as if the message was being sent further up in the stands.
He trembled and fidgeted the rest of the game, unable to get completely comfortable for the hard on that just wouldn't go away and that he was sure the men on either side of him were aware of even though the game was such a slugfest and their dates were so demanding and needy that there wasn't much opportunity for their minds to wander.
A ticket for a ride.
Ryan could fill in the stats for Jackson himself, with the help of the glossy program the guy sitting next to him was leafing through. Six eight and 240 pounds. Solidly built. Ryan was five nine and 150 pounds soaking wet. Ryan could only hyperventilate at the possible other stat that was significant. The man's hands were the size of baseball mitts, and his feet were at least size thirteen. And as far as a photo, Ryan didn't need any. There were photos enough of the handsome, chocolate brown player, with dreadlocks down to his shoulders, tattoos all over the body that was exposed in uniform shots. And he was right out there on the court for Ryan to watch his movements resembling those both of a dancer and prize fighter.
There was no doubt about it; Jared Jackson was a black bull. And probably as virile as a bull. Was it only one ride Ryan had promised? It was a good thing that the play on the court had justified a roaring cheer in the crowd, because Ryan could hear himself moan.
* * * *
"Hold still and open for me," Jared murmured in a deep, soothing voice.
"Go slow," Ryan whimpered. God, it had to be almost eight inches. And thick and throbbing. Ryan had nearly had to unhinge his jaw getting it into his mouth, although Jared had been good and undemanding about that—like he'd been about everything so far. It was Ryan who wanted the bragging rights of throating it all—if he could. Which he couldn't quite.
They were standing in the middle of Jared's plush bedroom, with the floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over Tampa Bay from many stories up, a bedroom that was dominated by a king-sized bed, which Ryan was looking at with both arousal and trepidation. Jared had also asked him to stay the night, and Ryan had agreed. Jared had also made clear that he would fuck Ryan multiple times, but he had couched it as both a request and as an experience Ryan didn't want to miss. The man was a smooth-tongued devil. Ryan had agreed to it all.
But with the mushroom cap of an eight incher already buried inside him up to the rim for the first time, pulsing and coaxing Ryan open . . .
"Oh, fuck, be good to me," Ryan cried out. He was standing—or had been standing up to a few seconds ago, naked, with Jared, also magnificently naked standing behind him, his arms wrapped around Ryan's belly and chest. Ryan had lifted and turned his head and Jared had lowered and turned his to go into a deep kiss as Ryan felt the pressure of Jared's strong arm pulling Ryan's feet off the floor, the small of his back dragging along Jared's upcurved, rock hard, throbbing, jet-black cock until the bulb of the cock slid between Ryan's butt cheeks and pressed at Ryan's entrance.
Jared had already been on his knees behind Ryan, an arm wrapped around the smaller man, holding him upright, and his other hand encasing and stroking Ryan's cock, with time outs to pull on and squeeze Ryan's ball sac, while Jared's long, pink tongue ate out and teased open Ryan's hole.
There was no way, though, that Ryan's channel was going to be open enough to comfortably take the cock—at least not the first time.
Jared had whispered, "Don't worry, we'll get it to fit like a glove the third or fourth time," which was said soothingly enough and probably was meant to reassure, but it only made Ryan hyperventilate.
"Open to me, baby. Open to me," Jared hissed as they groaned in harmony on the slow deep penetration, Jared slowly pulling Ryan's channel down on the jet-black staff.
He held there for a moment, buried to the root, as Ryan moaned, "Oh, shit, oh Jezus. It's so big. Oh fuck." Ryan's face was buried in the hollow of Jared's shoulder and he was gripping Jared's biceps with the nails of both hands.
"Let loose and slowly bend forward. Reach for the floor with your hands," Jared commanded. "Don't worry, I've got you. We're about to go downtown with this." As Ryan slowly jackknifed forward, reaching for the carpet and letting his head dangle as Jared bent his knees and went into a half crouch, taking the weight of the smaller man on his beefy thighs. His hands went to clutching Ryan's waist on each side. He started to pull Ryan, doubled over and suspended in front of him, on and off the cock, slowly, but with increasing depths of slide.
Throughout, although he was fucking Ryan with a mammoth cock, he took it slow and handled Ryan gently and tenderly.
Jared had been a perfect gentleman all evening. At the end of the game, Ryan had remained in his seat until an usher came to him and escorted him to a private dressing room, with a shower, where Jared appeared and let Ryan watch him shower and dress. When clothed, the basketball player looked more stylish and ready for an expensive restaurant than Ryan did.
He drove to the restaurant in a Jaguar roadster, advised Ryan on the menu as if he ate there regularly, which, as far as Ryan knew, he did, and expertly selected the wine, pronouncing French like he was a native. Ryan wouldn't know if he was doing it well, but the waiter seemed impressed, which impressed Ryan.
