Finished by Hand (2 page)

With a feeling of pleasure rushing through him, Mr Grisham went back to work on the shiny black shaft. The gentleman's breathing had become steadily more rapid and heavy. In a frantic whisper, the Moroccan said, ‘I don't think I can hold out much longer!'

Little did he know that the best was yet to come.

Mr Grisham had pushed the twitching, jerking shaft back into his mouth, worked on it with his lips and tongue so as to ensure it was properly wet and lubricated, then he began inching his lips further down the magnificent meat. He did his best to make his mouth into a vacuum and slowly sucked more and more of it in until, when he'd managed to take almost half of it, he had felt the tip of it as it banged up against the back of his throat. Consciously he had then relaxed his muscles and kept right on gulping and swallowing.

Above him, he had heard the Moroccan gentleman catch his breath several times, an incredulous expression on his face as he finally realised what was happening. Within seconds, Mr Grisham had felt the Moroccan's thighs flex, his buttocks clench and his scrotum pull itself up tight against his body as the sales assistant continued the pleasurable task of working his way down the midnight black shaft. Inch by swollen inch, he had taken more into his mouth and down his throat, enjoying the sensation as he slowly rocked his head back and forth.

Then young Mr Grisham knew it was time for the final push and eagerly thrust his head forward, gulping down the remaining few centimetres of this fantastic ebony prick. It slid down easy – the customer's entire cock now packed into the warm, wet tightness of the assistant's mouth and throat, his firm tongue sliding out under the shaft to poke and lap at the tightly constricted scrotum.

The sensations had finally proven too much. The Moroccan clenched his teeth as he did his best to choke back the sounds of his release, but his body jerked quite strongly as his load of hot come gushed down the young assistant's throat. He must have been saving it up for some time, because his body spasmed over and over, and with each twitching jerk came yet another load of hot jism. The sensation was exhilarating for Mr Grisham and sheer ecstasy for the Moroccan.

Eventually, his body stopped trembling, his knees regained some of their strength, and his cock shuddered with the aftershocks of joy. Dazed and disoriented for a moment, he finally let go of Mr Grisham's head and he watched in wonderment as the sales assistant slowly eased the softening shaft out of his throat, one delicious inch at a time. Finally, he had left only the head of it in his mouth. He sucked hard on it, milking it and swallowing the last few drops of the salty-sweet goodness, before letting it slip, deflated, from between his lips.

Standing upright, he had taken a clean handkerchief from his pocket, dabbed several times at his mouth, then proceeded to help the Moroccan gentleman down from the wooden bench.

As the gentleman had seated himself, still panting from the exertion of his release, young Mr Grisham said, ‘I think sir will now find the trousers will fit much better than before. However –' he paused and glanced down at himself ‘– I seem to have developed a similar problem of my own.'

The gentleman had smiled broadly, again flashing the hint of gold amongst the whiteness of his teeth. ‘It is an uncomfortable thing, is it not?' He raised a hand and stroked at the now prominent bulge at the front of Mr Grisham's own trousers. ‘As you so kindly helped me out, I feel I owe you a debt of gratitude. If you would allow me to repay that debt?'

He had then slipped a hand underneath Mr Grisham's jacket, hooking his fingers over the waistband of his trousers, and had gently pulled the young sales assistant so he was standing directly in front of him. Still seated, the Moroccan had reached up and carefully unbuttoned Mr Grisham's jacket, pushing it wide so as to expose the neat waistcoat. Several more buttons later and the young assistant's belt buckle had been deftly undone. With the palm of his hand, he had again cupped the prominent bulge, and had felt it twitch and jerk in response.

With aching slowness, the Moroccan had teased and pulled at the zip, popping it open one tooth at a time, until completely undone. Then his hands were back up again, either side of Mr Grisham's hips, the thumbs hooked around the waistband of the trousers and Mr Grisham's underwear. He had slowly pushed the garments down beyond Mr Grisham's knees, then ran the flat of his hands back up his legs and thighs, slipping both thumbs between his legs, until his dextrous black hands slid in and around Mr Grisham's groin, the Moroccan's thumbs tucked up behind the sales assistant's hot scrotum.

He had opened his mouth wide and, without touching the shaft, he had brought his head over the top of the young assistant's erection, deliberately engulfing it in a cloud of warm, sweet breath.

Looking down, Mr Grisham had sighed involuntarily at the sight of the Moroccan's head close to his crotch, his own dark-veined shaft seemingly vanishing between sensuously wet lips. Then came the sweet sensation of thumbs rapidly tapping, rubbing, and vibrating against his scrotum and the root of his shaft, closely followed by the incredible heat as the Moroccan's mouth closed tightly onto his achingly hard cock.

Within moments the sales assistant had felt the tingling starting in his groin, his heart rate quickening, and his breath catching at the back of his throat almost every time in inhaled. The Moroccan's tongue had danced around, over, and even teased into the slit, but then the Moroccan had suddenly pulled his head back, allowing the young man's shaft to slide free.

Confused and frustrated, Mr Grisham had been about to say something when the Moroccan had firmly grasped the jerking shaft in his hand. Almost in a blur, his dark fist moved up and down, squeezing and pulling, his thumb sometimes coming over the top to be almost swallowed up by the young assistant's foreskin as the Moroccan worked the ball of his thumb against the sensitive head.

The sight from above and sensation of the dark hand wrapped around his cock had been enough to push him over the edge, and the tingling from around his tightened scrotum had given him barely enough time to say, ‘I'm coming!'

But, instead of pulling away, the Moroccan had moved his face closer, his fist slamming firmly into the young man's groin before sliding itself upwards again in quick succession, squeezing and pulling as it went. It had been too much even for him to control, and when the Moroccan's other hand had slipped hotly between Mr Grisham's legs he had been left with little choice but to shoot gobbet after gobbet of white-hot come across the Moroccan's dark face and into his eagerly open mouth.

Some ten minutes later, once Mr Grisham had readjusted his clothing and helped the Moroccan gentleman wipe his face and get dressed again, they had exited the changing room one at a time so as not to attract attention.

Over by the till, young Mr Grisham had the pleasure of ringing up several items for the Moroccan gentleman, now back in his flattering houndstooth jacket, shirt, tie, and slacks. As the sales assistant had processed the gentleman's credit card he had also reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a slim, silver business card case. He had extracted a card and, before presenting it, he turned it over. On the back, in a flourish of penmanship, he had written a phone number.

Smiling broadly, he handed the card over, saying, ‘If you have any further problems with any of your new purchases, sir, please do not hesitate to call, and I will see what I can do to help. It's all part of the Marquis & Delaney experience. We consider customer satisfaction to be the biggest part of our aftersales service …'

The Hung Games
by Elizabeth Coldwell

The chain feels heavy in my hand. I stroke the cold metal links as I wait, watching a watery sun rise over the city's broken skyline. I would've preferred rope as part of my armoury – more flexible, lighter to carry, especially when you've been on your feet for two days straight – but that had already been allocated, so you just have to make the best of what you're given.

My stomach rumbles, but I resist the urge to unwrap my last protein bar. Physical hunger doesn't bother me so much, nor thirst; the appetite I'm really aching to satisfy is the one that has my cock swelling, aching to bury itself in a hot mouth or the tight crevice of a welcoming arse. I thought I'd prepared myself for whatever the game could throw at me, but the one thing no one ever told me was just how horny I'd get. It's my own fault, I suppose; when Wade was taken while I crouched in my hiding place in the bushes, a matter of metres away, I should have resisted the urge to watch.

Though it still surprises me that Wade went down with so little of a fight. When we all came together at the starting line, everyone had him pegged as the winner of this year's game. The TV and live streaming crews fighting to stick their microphones under his nose clearly seemed to think so. Who could blame them? He had everything the audience loves. A professional footballer in the days before everything fell apart, he'd retained a fit, athletic body well into his late 30s. With bulging muscles, velvet-smooth black skin, and chin-length hair woven into dozens of tiny braids, who couldn't fail to be attracted to him? My cock had given an appreciative twitch as I watched him shrug into the earth-toned combat gear that was the standard uniform of the games, admiring the broad, sinewy expanse of his back and his round, firm arse. If I was to meet my fate at the hands of any of the men here, I'd rather it was Wade, confident in his abilities but not too cocky, than Darien – cold, arrogant, and never less than completely in control. Darien had been the champion for the last four years; here was the man who seemed destined to dethrone him.

Except it hasn't worked like that. One by one, all the challengers have been hunted down and dispatched. Now I am the only one who remains, and I don't know how much longer I can stay a step ahead of Darien.

Though I can't see them, I know cameras are on my every move, relaying feeds from across the length and breadth of the arena. This place was once the site of the Olympic Games, back when I was a kid, but it has long since fallen into ruin. The huge, formerly state-of-the-art stadium is now a ruined steel and concrete shell, while the formal parkland is overgrown with straggling weeds, and home to feral dogs that are every bit as much of a threat as the human competitors in this game. I'm certain eyes are on me now, the director cutting between Darien and me as the final battle, the climax of this eagerly watched contest, approaches.

Hearing what sounds like the snap of a twig beneath an approaching foot, I press myself against the weathered trunk of an ash tree. As skilfully as I've tried to conceal my tracks on my way down to the relative sanctuary of the riverbank, with its sheltering reed beds, it seems Darien has found and followed them. A conversation floats back to my mind; one I had with the boys as we sat crowded round the computer monitor in Fox's apartment, watching the coverage of last year's games.

‘That Darien, man,' someone – it might have been Mickey – had said, helping himself to another couple of fingers of Fox's bathtub gin. ‘The way he finds them all, it's like he's got superhuman powers. Whatever they do, wherever they hide, they just can't get away from him.'

‘That's 'cos it's all a fix,' Fox had asserted, voice slurring slightly from the potency of his home-made booze. ‘There's someone watching the feeds, telling him where the other contestants are. If the guy wasn't so popular with the audience, he'd have been taken down long before now.'

‘How do you know this?' Mickey sounded scornful, even though he loved a good conspiracy theory as much as the next man.

‘One of the other guys in enforcement, well, his ex-girlfriend used to be a runner on the show. She told him everything, but swore him to secrecy, and not just so she wouldn't lose her job. I mean, people would go mad if the truth got out. They love the idea that someone's going to come along and take Darien down, but they love the fact he always wins in the end even more.'

I bite back a sour laugh. At the time, I'd been just as sceptical as Mickey, but that was before I went for my annual medical assessment. Whatever notes the doctor scribbled on my form led to my being called up for this year's game. I hadn't been able to refuse – not when the alternative was three years' prison time – and I duly took my place alongside the other seven hopefuls hoping to dethrone Darien. Now, as I crouch among the reeds, tired and in dire need of a hot shower, listening to those soft footfalls come ever closer, I can't help wondering if Fox was right. Has someone told Darien where I'm hiding and, if so, what chance do I have of escaping him?

Keeping my wits about me is half the battle. I clutch the length of chain tighter in my hand, partly for reassurance, partly because it's the only weapon I have. Darien has the rope – and now I wonder if he really did get it through random chance, or if that too was preordained. He wields it like a pro, just like he does everything.

‘Hey, Venness, I'm coming for you!' It's Darien's trademark cry, guaranteed to strike fear into the souls of his opponents when he calls their name. Usually, it's the last thing anyone hears before he bears down on them, and I know he's got to be almost on top of me now. But he hasn't yet spotted me, as I flatten myself a little closer to the boggy ground, feeling dampness seep through my combat gear to add to all the little miseries that make surviving the game for any length of time such a challenge. The TV helicopter is circling, its blades making a relentless chopping sound above my head. They have night vision, thermal imaging; they must know where I am. And if Fox is right, they can relay that information to Darien any time they like.

Peering out from my hiding place, I see booted feet, squelching in the mud. He's so close, and still he doesn't see me. I've only got one chance here, and I've got to make the most of it, because once he knows where I am, it's all over. Somewhere close by, a bird lets out a raucous caw. Darien turns in the direction of the noise – whether he thinks it's me, calling in an attempt at parley, I have no idea, but he's distracted just long enough for me to throw the chain across his path in a haphazard loop. When he steps forward again, his foot lands in the circle of links, and I tug hard, pulling the chain toward me and sending him sprawling.

Seeing the big man lying in the mud is shocking, having built him up in my mind into some invincible stalking machine, but I know I've only got a moment to press home my advantage. Leaping out from the reeds, I fling myself on top of him, using my full weight to hold him down while I wrestle the rope from his belt.

‘Venness, what the fuck do you think you're playing at?' he roars, wriggling beneath me in an attempt to shake me loose. But I'm running on adrenaline and pure exhilaration; the feeling of having brought the champion low gives me a strength I never knew I possessed till now. Wrestling first one of his wrists, then the other, into the small of his back, I loop the rope around them, tying it almost painfully tight. Having caught him, there's no way I'm letting him slip free.

But having him trussed and helpless on the ground is only half of what's required. I have to finish this.

‘Get up – now,' I order him in a voice rich with sudden authority, smacking the end of the chain on the ground to emphasise the urgency of the action. He looks around him, as if expecting someone to emerge from the neighbouring bushes and come to his assistance, and for a moment I actually wonder if he does have unseen help to call on. Nothing would surprise me any longer, in the light of Fox's claims about these games. But, at last, he gets to his knees, mud smeared on his craggily handsome face and bits of twig caught in his thick, golden-red hair. I don't think I've ever seen the man look more vulnerable – or more attractive. My cock pushes at the crotch of my combat pants as a strong thrill of power and arousal runs through me.

‘OK, over to that tree.' I gesture to a sturdy-trunked oak. When he doesn't immediately move to obey, I kick at the back of his leg to encourage him. It's a petty little action, sure, but I'm not just doing this for me any more; this is for Wade, and all the rest of the fallen, this year and every year that Darien has dominated the game.

He takes the hint, shuffling over with his arms roped securely behind his back. A long, thick branch extends out, a little more than head height from the ground. I loop the chain over it once, twice. If Darien wondered why I'd left plenty of rope free when tying his wrists together, he wonders no more. Those lengths are quickly secured to the dangling ends of the chain. It's an unorthodox way of holding him steady, and hardly the most secure, but it doesn't need to be. The relative lack of fight from the big man, and the look in his eyes as I stare at him, tells me he's accepted his fate.

Even though I can't see them, the cameras will be trained us on now. I can't imagine what people are saying in the studio, or in their homes. Everyone's been waiting for the moment Darien finishes this, and claims his rightful place as winner of the game; now here we are, with the roles reversed. This is my moment, and I'm determined to enjoy it to the full.

Grasping the neck of Darien's shirt in both hands, I start to pull. The material's more flimsy than is really practical in the circumstances, designed to tear. It takes almost no effort on my part to rip the garment in two, exposing the tanned, hairless expanse of his chest. His pecs and abdominal muscles have been sculpted through endless hours of working out – as champion, with the financial backing of the channel's sponsors behind him, his full-time job consists of bulking up his body and practising his combat techniques – and the ridges are so deliciously defined, I ache to run my tongue along them. But not just yet.

Darien issues a little moan as I reach for his pants. They present more of a challenge than the shirt, but with a yank that sends his fly button pinging into the undergrowth, I tear those to shreds too. He wears nothing beneath them – none of us does, it's one of the rules of the game – and his cock is immediately exposed to me, and the eyes of the watching millions. We've all seen it before, as it breaches the arse of some vanquished contestant or other, and we've acquainted ourselves with its impressive dimensions, but in the flesh it's even more magnificent – long and thick despite only being half-hard, its juicy, purple head peeping out from the covering sleeve of flesh.

This is the true point of the games, the reason viewers tune in year after year. Not so much for the thrill of the chase, the relentless pursuit of weaker prey by a truly dominant male, but to see one big-cocked stud after another brought low and stripped bare. That the man who now hangs obediently in his bonds, displayed for all to see, is Darien, the seemingly invincible, must only add to the thrill.

Aware of their need for flesh, I peel out of my own combat gear. The morning isn't warm, and goosepimples rise on my skin as I toss my shirt to the ground. The pants follow, leaving me standing in nothing but my heavy black boots, the leather scuffed and worn from two days of running and hiding. But it's not my boots the audience will be interested in. I pause for a moment, giving so many unseen eyes the chance to absorb the sight of me, and compare me to Darien. I may stand a head shorter than him, but in the department where – for the viewers at least – it really matters, I know I'm his equal. Already beginning to stiffen, stirred by my victory and the thrilling prospect of giving Darien the hard, masterful fuck we both know he needs, my cock is, I'm sure, what prompted the doctor's excited scribbling and my subsequent call-up to this year's game. In the end, it's not bravery that matters, or skill in combat, or even the easy good looks that the likes of Wade possess: it all comes down to how well hung you are.

Darien's tongue flickers out, wetting his lips, and I'm certain he's eyeing me with the same greedy speculation as the audience at home. Only they'll have to imagine how it feels to have my cock sliding into whichever orifice I choose, to touch and taste it; Darien will have that pleasure first-hand.

I hunt in the concealed pocket of my pants, and fish out the lubricant we're all given as part of our supplies. The first couple of years they broadcast the games, they gave the contestants condoms too, until they started getting complaints that they were spoiling the experience for the viewers. So now we're all subjected to tests beforehand, letting us fuck each other bareback without fear of any consequences.

But sexual diseases aren't the most immediate of my problems. There's the small matter of a significant height difference to overcome if I'm to fuck Darien in the standing position that will give everyone watching the best view of the action. The solution is to haul over a heavy, flat-topped chunk of rock and place it behind him. When I clamber up on it, my groin is pretty much level with his luscious arse. It might not be dignified, but it's practical – which has been my strategy throughout the game, when I think about it.

I spend a long while lubing myself up, wondering if the cameras are lingering on the sight of my fingers as they spread the slippery goo along my shaft. If not then, they certainly do when I turn my attentions to Darien's arsehole, repeating the process there.

‘You want this, don't you?' I murmur into his ear, not caring whether I've pitched my voice at a level the microphones will pick up.

Darien barely hesitates before replying, ‘Yes.'