I stood up. “Well?”

Allen looked up at me and whistled again. “Your body just gets better and better with age. How do you do it?”

“Diet and exercise,” I replied.

He shook his head. “Still a smart-ass.” He pointed the camera at me. “Give me a double biceps pose.”

I obliged and stood there, going through pose after pose at his direction, remembering the first time I’d ever done this.

Fifteen years ago, I’d been in my early twenties and starting to explore my interest in wrestling. I’d always loved it, getting an erotic charge from watching the sweating muscular studs on television beating on each other in the ring. I’d always been a little ashamed of my interest in wrestling, thinking it weird and strange, and kept it a deep secret I didn’t share with anyone. One day in a gay bookstore in the French Quarter, I’d found a glossy magazine called, simply, Wrestling. I’d bought it, taken it home with me, and discovered inside its pages of glorious photos of hot men wrestling naked, an advertisement for a “connection” service. For fifty dollars per year, you could get listed in their quarterly contact newsletter and possibly connect with other guys into wrestling. I wrote the service a letter, a check for fifty dollars, and included a photo of me in a red Speedo a friend had taken at the beach in Pensacola over Memorial Day weekend. The service hadn’t been that great; over the first year I got a couple of letters and photos from guys all over the country, but despite corresponding with them I’d never actually met anyone.

Then one day I got a letter from Allen.

He was coming to New Orleans and wanted to meet me. He was a trained professional wrestler; had even done some pro shows for independent promotions in the Midwest. You’ve got a great pro look, he’d said, and I’d love the chance to see what you got.

He’d included a photo that got me hard as soon as I looked at it. He was a big man, and in the photo he was wearing a tight pair of black trunks with a silver lightning bolt across the crotch. His smooth skin was oiled and tanned, glistening in the lights, and he was also wearing boots and kneepads—but the most exciting thing to me about it was he was posing in the corner of a ring, with his right foot up on the lower rope. He had long blond hair that hung to his massively muscled shoulders.

I wrote him back—and that was how it all began.

“I saw your last video,” he said, taking another shot of me from behind as I flexed my back muscles. “I really wish you wouldn’t do that erotic stuff. That’s for private.”

I bit my tongue. He’d been against my doing wrestling videos for Top Rope Productions from the very beginning. “The fans like my cock,” I said instead of the harsh rejoinder I wanted to say.

“It’s a gorgeous cock.” He snapped another picture. “But you shouldn’t have let everyone see it—the videos where you could see how big and thick it is in your trunks were a lot hotter than the ones where you blow loads on your victims.”

Little do you know that part of the reason I started doing the erotic matches on tape was because I knew you wouldn’t approve, I thought.

“Well, the kid thought it was a hot match.” He closed the camera and set it down, lighting another cigarette. “He’s been hot for this match ever since.”

“Well, bring him out, then.” I shrugged. “Don’t you want some pre-match shots of the two of us?” I knew he did; he’d also tape the match, and when we were done, he’d have us pose for “action” shots.

It was like doing a Top Rope shoot, only on a smaller scale and for free.

The entire time I’d been in the room, there hadn’t been a sound out of the bathroom. I remembered the first time Allen had had me hide in the bathroom while I waited for an opponent. I’d been nervous. The only person I’d done a pro match with at that point had been Allen—and while he’d been a great mentor, teaching me moves, holds, and techniques, I was still nervous. The guy I was wrestling was an old friend of Allen’s from his days on the indie pro wrestling circuit—and Allen had raved about him to me for so long that I was absolutely terrified I wouldn’t measure up, either as a wrestler or with my body. Davey has his own private ring up in Cincinnati, he’d told me, and invites guys up to use it and work with him all the time. He’d shown me a picture of Davey—his body drenched in sweat, his red and white trunks clinging to his body, his arms outstretched in victory over his head, a championship belt around his waist.

He was hot.

The bathroom door opened and the kid stepped out. I inhaled sharply.

Allen had been right, damn him—he knew me all too well.

The kid was a few inches shorter than me, and “kid” was an appropriate description. He didn’t look like he was over eighteen. He had close-cropped brown hair, pale skin with reddish cheeks, and his body was extraordinary. His shoulders were broad and his waist so narrow I could probably close my hands around it and have the fingers meet. His chest was strong, his pecs firm with quarter-sized erect purple nipples. His legs were muscular and defined as well. He was wearing a white bikini that was barely a half inch wide on the sides, white kneepads, white boots, and a white Zorro-style mask over his green eyes.

My cock became instantly and achingly erect.

“Cage, meet Billy the Kid Weston.” Allen glanced down at my crotch and smirked, damn him.

The Kid gave me a big, nervous smile, sticking out his right hand. “It’s an honor to meet you, Cage.”

I took his hand after a moment and squeezed it until he involuntarily gasped. “It’s going to be a pleasure to kick your ass.”

He pulled his hand away and got right up in my face, our chests barely brushing against each other. “The only ass that’s getting kicked is yours, old man.” His voice was young, and squeaked a bit when he called me old.

“Okay then,” I replied evenly. “Loser gets fucked. Deal?”

“You’re going to love the way my cock feels in your ass, old man.”

Nothing gets my cock harder than a cocky young muscle stud—and we kept mouthing off to each other as Allen took the pictures he wanted. I was ready for the match to start. As we kept posing, I admired his body and imagined how it would look writhing in pain as I twisted it into submission hold after submission hold.

“Okay, that’s good.” Allen put the camera down and picked up the video camera. “You guys ready?”

“I’m always ready,” the Kid growled, getting up in my face again.

I drove my right fist into his abs. He doubled over, and I linked my hands together and brought them down on his exposed back, driving him down into the mattresses, gasping. “Too fucking easy,” I said, straddling his back and reaching under his chin with both hands. As I pulled his head back, I slid my knees under his armpits, anchoring them and slipping his arms over my quads. I sat down on the small of his back, stretched my arms straight out, and leaned back. I flexed every muscle in my upper body and let out a howl of triumph. He was breathing hard, moaning every time he exhaled as I cranked harder and pulled his head even further back. I’d ease up for a little bit, listening to him trying to catch his breath before pulling him back again. “I’ll break your pussy back,” I whispered in his ear. “You ready to give?”

I had to give him credit—most guys gave in and submitted to the camel clutch almost immediately. He held out for longer than most guys—but he finally surrendered to the inevitable, slapping my leg and half shouting, “I submit! I submit! I SUBMIT!”

I released the pressure and let him hang there, his arms still draped over my quads. It was tempting—oh so tempting—to put him through it all over again, but I hadn’t even broken a sweat yet, so I shoved his arms off and stood up. I flexed both biceps over him for the video camera, and looked over at Allen. “This is it? I expected a bit of a challenge—at least to break a sweat.”