Gladiators

“So”, said Richard Finch's Commanding Officer, Lieutenant Colonel Philip Weekes, “It seems that your 'friendly' wrestling match with the US Marines was not as friendly as we might have wished. Last night Colonel Poppelhincken, the USMC Commander, bent my ear on that subject for the best part of an hour. He seemed rather upset. Would you mind filling me in, Richard?”  

Lieutenant Colonel Weekes, a typical Para Battalion Commander, was  a young, fast-tracked Army “flyer”; probably in his early thirties, Richard thought. He was very fit and energetic; had floppy blond hair, ice-blue eyes and a ruddy complexion. Richard, who liked fair-haired men, would have been happy to fill him in anytime, although not in the usual colloquial sense of that expression. Although Lieutenant Colonel Weekes' eyesight was excellent, he kept a pair of dummy eyeglasses, with non-magnifying lenses and thick, black “Strongboy” frames, in his desk for difficult interviews. He now glared at Richard through them. Richard stared darkly back; the Lieutenant Colonel blinked first.     

“Colonel,” said Richard, after a moment's silence. “The USMC, most of whom are keen wrestlers, had been told for years that the British Forces did not wrestle, although they might box. They recently discovered that 5 Para did wrestle, so they invited us to field a team for a 'friendly' match: one officer (that was me), one NCO (that was Sergeant Kincaid) and one enlisted man (that was Lance-Corporal Roddy McSpunk) against three US Marines of similar rank. There was however a factor of which I was unaware before the match: the long-standing rivalry between our Regiment and the British Royal Marines has rubbed off on the US Marine Corps too; they regard the Royal Marines as their elder brothers. So they take their side in the rivalry, which they take much more seriously than the Royals do - I don't think that the US Marines really understand the concept of a 'friendly rivalry'; they see it as a family feud, a la Mark Twain - so there was a partisan atmosphere from the start.” 

“Ah... I didn't know about that background,” said Colonel Weekes. “But what  happened to inflame the atmosphere further?” 

“McSpunk was sent off for a foul.” 

“What sort of foul?” groaned the Colonel. 

“A below-the-belt sort of foul: McSpunk's opponent called him something he didn't like, so McSpunk gave him a "Glasgow kiss", then grabbed his balls and squeezed them hard. The Marine Private was quite badly hurt; he claims that McSpunk may have ruined his chances of fatherhood, as well as spoiling his looks by breaking his nose!” 

“Dear God! Why, in heaven's name, did you include that tyke - that little psychopath - in the team? What did his opponent call him, anyway?” 

“McSpunk begged to be included; he's a good wrestler; I hadn't the heart to say 'no' and how was I to foresee that the Marine would call him 'Short Ass'!”  

“Oh Lord!” 

They both laughed; McSpunk was very conscious of being only five feet, seven inches tall; albeit (in his own eyes) five feet, seven inches of male perfection. But immediately afterwards Colonel Weekes felt obliged to put on his severe face again.

“Seriously, McSpunk should not have done that. Mere verbal provocation does not justify violence of that kind. Put him on fatigues; that'll give him time to reflect on these things. And there was a suggestion that you yourself might have been guilty of a foul too, in your bout.” 

“There was such a suggestion, but the Ref – who was a French officer - did not uphold the complaint.” 

“So what happened in your case?” 

“My opponent and I had a disagreement about dress.”

“What the fuck...?”  

“You heard correctly, Colonel. He disapproved of my wrestling kit and said so,” explained Richard. 

“Yes; that was mentioned. You were aware that ladies were going to be present?” 

“Ladies?” said Richard. “Oh, you mean the USMC Wags - wives and girlfriends? No, I hadn't been made aware; I had the impression that it was to be a men-only evening. I might not have accepted, had I known; women at boxing and wrestling matches are a bloody nuisance; they tend to misbehave and these ones did. I suppose they get excited by all that bare, sweating male flesh!” 

“Some women are starting to box and wrestle, too” observed Colonel Weeks. 

“Yuck,” said Richard, with a shudder and a grimace that spoke volumes. “But going back to the question of my kit, all US Army, Navy or Marine Corps wrestlers count as amateurs, however skilled they might be; they're like collegiate wrestlers. So they wear American amateur wrestling kit, which involves a skin-tight, garishly-coloured 'singlet', with a number on it like a football jersey, covering the whole torso and coming halfway down their legs; often with short sleeves as well. It is more like a leotard than proper ring-gear. Their cocks and balls show up clearly inside the spray-on Lycra; that's indecent, if you like. If a chap gets an erection, it's impossible to conceal it. Same goes for trunks, of course, but it's far more obvious with a singlet. They also wear knee-pads, other bits of body-armour and helmets to protect whatever brains they may possess, plus boots. We on the other hand are registered as independent wrestlers, since the Army does not recognise or subsidise our sport. We dress like professionals. They seemed not to like that.” 

“So what did you wear that night?” asked Colonel Weekes.  

“Brief black trunks, wrist-bands, black knee-pads and boots. Kincaid wore much the same.” 

“That was all?” asked the Colonel.

“That was all, Colonel,” smiled Richard, rather smugly. “But I think we both can bear that degree of exposure.”

This was not in doubt; In addition to his tough good looks, Richard's physique was midway between Apollo and Hercules; he radiated macho sex-appeal. So, for that matter, did Sergeant Kincaid, who was rumoured to be the handsomest man in the Army. The impact of seeing the two of them clad like that or, more accurately, unclad like that, on a bunch of oversexed, bored American women whose imaginations had probably been fuelled by Playgirl's Erotic Fantasies, had been electrifying. 

“I see,” murmured Lieutenant Colonel Weekes, all-too-easily imagining the scene. “If it comes to that, what did McSpunk wear?”

“A wet-look electric-blue Speedo and very little else.”  

“Why am I not surprised?” sighed Weekes. 

Richard continued: “The Wags certainly seemed to be getting the hots for me and Kincaid; probably for McSpunk, too; his muscles are pretty good. Their remarks were perfectly audible. You can imagine the sort of thing: (Here he switched into nasal, falsetto American English) 'Gee, look at the buns on that guy!' and 'Wow, look at his bulge!' That sort of thing.” 

Richard was an excellent mimic. Lieutenant Colonel Weekes chuckled in spite of himself. Richard continued:

“Several of them pulled off their knickers and threw them at us. That was the first time I've ever received that particularaccolade!”

Colonel Weekes continued to chuckle: “You're in good company, Richard. They do that to rock-stars!” 

“I wouldn't know,” said Richard. He detested all forms of modern popular music and had never attended a rock concert. Flying knickers, he decided, were yet another excellent reason for avoiding them. He continued: “Since the match, both Patrick Kincaid and I have received several indecent proposals by post, mostly from married women, with 'phone numbers and information about the days and times when their 'old man' is likely not to be in!” 

Lieutenant Colonel Weekes now looked worried: “Hmm... I'm beginning to see why the US Marines are so upset about this episode. Richard, for God's sake promise me you won't follow-up any of those indecent proposals? And that goes for Kincaid, too!” 

Richard grinned broadly: “No chance, Colonel! You have my word!” Richard found women, with very few exceptions, eminently resistible. So, most of the time, did Kincaid. 

“Good. And what about the foul that you're alleged to have perpetrated?”  

“The worst foul that Kincaid and I committed was to win our bouts. You know how Americans hate losing; look at what happens at Wimbledon! One decision against them and they start jumping up and down and demanding a rematch. Apart from that, my opponent, a Lieutenant Stoltzfuss, as I said, did not like my fighting in trunks. Presently I managed to get him in an upside-down bear-hug and administered a pile-driver; head-first into the canvas. That stunned Stoltzfuss for a few minutes. I walked to the side of the ring; I was grinning, acknowledging the British cheers, when Stoltzfuss suddenly came back to life, grabbed my trunks from behind and tried to pull them down: Americans call that 'pantsing', apparently. My ass was exposed! I wasn't wearing anything under my trunks; they were too damn' small to wear a jock inside them. This was serious!”  

“I bet the Wags liked that!” interrupted Colonel Weekes. 

“Very likely. So, for different reasons, did the men,” said Richard grimly. “There was laughter, ironic cheers and wolf-whistles. I just managed to save my dignity; I shook off Stoltzfuss; jumped aside; pulled up my trunks; re-tied the drawstring and then punched Stoltzfuss as he was rising to his feet. He came for me. I knocked him down again, this time more seriously. I then tried to haul him to his feet, so as to punch him in the face, using his silly puke-yellow singlet to pull him up. At that point disaster struck.” 

“What sort of disaster?”

“Stoltzfuss is a big, chubby man and weighs a ton. His Lycra singlet gave way under the strain. It split down the back, from neck to ass. Now it was his ass that was on display! To make it even funnier, he was wearing a tiny scarlet thong inside his singlet; to keep his genitals in place, I presume. It might have looked sexy on some people, but between  Stolzfuss's oversized ass-cheeks it just looked ridiculous. At first he didn't notice what had happened; he was too busy trying to get his hands on me. I dodged around the ring with him in hot pursuit, giving all the spectators a really good view. What a hoot! To judge from their laughter, everyone else thought the same.” 

Richard paused and sipped coffee. He smiled reminiscently. 

“Finally it dawned on Stoltzfuss, who is not the most perceptive of men,  that all was not well; or else he felt the draught up his ass. Anyway, the penny dropped: his singlet was disintegrating and his big muscle-ass was now completely exposed! He screamed like an express-train entering a tunnel and ran off down the catwalk yelling blue murder.” 

Colonel Weekes could no longer keep a straight face. “I wish I'd seen that!” he sighed.   

“No problem,” said Richard. “You can; Corporal Benedict captured it all on his cine-camera. A few minutes later Stoltzfuss came charging back, full of aggression and fury, in a new singlet; bright green, this time. He wanted to kill me! So I had to do something drastic. I tripped him up and administered one of my specialities: the suspended surfboard.” 

“Bob Gordon's told me all about that” said the Colonel drily. “You inflicted it on him recently. He could hardly walk afterwards.”

And that's not the only thing I did to him recently! thought Richard. Aloud, he said: 

“Yes, Colonel! So I don't need to explain it again. To cut a long story short, I hauled Stoltzfuss high above me, putting the maximum strain on his spine and joints. Of course, he bucked around in agony, which made it all the worse for him. He used the most terrible language; the air turned blue. I then stretched his  spine even further back; the pressure switched to his neck. He was screaming again; this time in earnest, but he did not want to submit; especially not to me, the detested Limey Finch! Eventually, of course, he had to; the pain was too great. He was carried out on a stretcher. Victory to me!” 

Richard was now laughing happily at the memory. It was as if he were  recalling scoring a brilliant century at cricket.  

Colonel Weekes put his serious expression back on. “Okay, you won; but you may have inflicted more damage than you realised. Stoltzfuss is still in the  Infirmary. Under the circumstances it would be a tactful gesture to call on him; take him some fruit or flowers!” 

“Tactful?” said Richard. ”I think not. He hates my guts!” 

“I meant tactful in the sense of being seen to do the right thing. Good for UK-US relations, if not necessarily for Finch-Stoltzfuss relations. It's an Order,” said Weekes.

“Oh I suppose so,” said Richard.  

“You mean 'Yes Sir!'” said his Commanding Officer crisply. “Talking of which,” continued Weekes, “Like Lieutenant Stoltzfuss, Colonel Poppelhincken thinks that trunks are provocative and barely decent. The Wags' reaction to your and Kincaid's kit will have confirmed him in that view. And as of next week the US Marines are commanded to wear singlets for wrestling and baggy shorts for swimming at all times. That too was an Order.”  

“That Order is ridiculous and tyrannical,” began Richard. “Their singlets leave nothing to the imagination anyway...”

“They won't, as of next week,” said Colonel Weekes drily. “The Marines have instructions to wear foundation garments in the form of extra-thick jockstraps!”

“Bollocks!” said Richard, in disbelief.

“Yes, exactly!” 

“What is Poppelhincken's problem?” asked Richard.

“Colonel Poppelhincken has only recently arrived from the USA and is not used to European ways. On one of his first inspections he found that some young Marines had bought swimming trunks locally and were wearing them. You know how little the average pair of German bathing trunks covers! So he ordered that it should be baggy shorts for all. Worse still, he found that some of his young men were taking advantage of a local by-law to develop an all-over tan by swimming and sunbathing naked in parks and on beaches where that is permitted! The good Colonel was shocked. So he is putting a stop to that, too.”      

“That man deserves a nasty comeuppance,” said Richard quietly. 

“Not just now, please, Richard,” said Colonel Weekes hurriedly. “I mean it; bilateral relations are fraught enough as it is. You'll be relieved to hear that I do not intend to impose a similar rule here, although Colonel Poppelhincken urged me to do so. He also gave me a lecture about immorality in the Armed Forces in general.” 

“It's quite hard to live a moral life when you're super-fit and bursting with testosterone. Apart from that, we have our reputation to live up to,” opined Richard. “We are, after all, 'the brutal and licentious soldiery'! What else does Poppelhincken propose for the Marines?”  

“A long training run first thing in the morning, every morning; plenty of cold showers; lots of ping-pong, baseball, square-dancing and debates.” 

“Fuck me five times!” said Richard. “I go running every day; I frequently take cold showers; I have been known to dance; I took part in debates at Cambridge and none of this has made me any less licentious. Poppelhincken's a prat! Both he and Stoltzfuss deserve something; something drolly delicious...” 

“I'll pretend that I did not hear that, Richard," said Lieutenant Colonel Weekes.

For the record, Richard did duly call on Lieutenant Stoltzfuss in the American Infirmary and presented him with a large punnet of loquats, to which he had discovered that Stoltzfuss was addicted. They had been  doctored; as Richard intended, they gave Stoltzfuss a volcanic dose of diarrhoea and prolonged his sojourn in hospital. Richard also thoughtfully presented some loquats to McSpunk's victim, who was languishing in a nearby bed, with similar results. McSpunk cheered and fell about laughing when Richard later told him, while swearing him to secrecy.  

Weekes continued: "But still on that subject, would you give me some instruction on the suspended surfboard? I don't wrestle but I do practise Mixed Martial Arts, for which it might come in handy.”

“Yes, of course, Sir! Shall we make a date now and reserve the boxing gym? The ring there should be adequate, if a bit small.” Richard sounded as keen as mustard.

His Commanding officer gave Richard a wintry smile. “Later, perhaps, Richard, when I've  had time to develop my technique. Let me not try to run before I can walk. I don't want to provide a hilarious spectacle for the rest of the Battalion. I'd prefer my first lessons - and my first pratfalls - to happen in the privacy of my house.” 

“Okay, Sir!”

Like Major Bob Gordon, the Lieutenant Colonel lived off-base in a secluded house and, like Bob, he possessed a well-equipped home gym. 

Later, as he drove back to his quarters, Richard was chuckling quietly to himself. Based on his experience with Major Bob, he might - who knew? - end the lesson by having sex with Lieutenant Colonel Weekes. He suddenly had the pleasing vision of his young Commanding Officer completely naked and bent over; his floppy blond hair falling across his face, gasping, groaning, swearing and finally losing control, while Richard, thrusting balls-deep, made him take it like a man. 

“Both my Company Commander and my Commanding Officer! Phwoar!That must constitute some kind of record,” thought Richard. “Well, one can hope...”

Richard's first sexual joust with Major Bob had been memorable but for the next ten days he had seen little of Bob. 4 Coy, like the rest of 5 Para, was involved in a major exercise with NATO Partners. Bob and Richard were both manically busy as a result; even so, Richard  occasionally wondered whether Bob might be avoiding him. After all, Richard had fucked Bob – who was a big, strong man and Richard's Company Commander - in his ass. Although it had been fun at the time, could it in retrospect have turned sour for Bob? Oh Bloody Hell. In the event, Richard's misgivings proved to be baseless.  

Richard's memories of that afternoon were good. Bob had subsided onto the floor and surrendered to him. He lay waiting for Richard's next move. Richard's objective lay between Bob's hard, symmetrical  ass-cheeks: his pink man-hole. Richard probed it delicately with his finger, arousing Bob further; when finally he felt Bob's ass sucking in the finger, he prepared for the final assault; what Richard called his “conquest” of Bob.  

Just as the great heterosexual lovers of the past regarded the siege and possession of a beautiful woman as a noble achievement, so Richard saw the seduction of a strong and handsome man as a splendid battle honour. Ideally conquest should be preceded by a real battle: boxing, wrestling or mixed martial arts; the other man must put up a fight. Love, sex and pain went together in Richard's book; both men should get physically hurt, although not seriously. 

The stronger the other man was, the better, and Bob's physical strength was obvious. Even when he was dressed, Richard liked to watch the play of his arm and shoulder muscles under the thin material of his shirt. He exuded a whiff of pure masculinity, like the scent of expensive shaving-soap and bay rum that was noticeable on him first thing in the morning. 

That day there had been no lube or Vaseline to hand and no time to run around looking for something suitable; nature's lube – Richard's saliva – would have to do. Both men were already pouring with sweat and Richard's cock was slippery with pre-cum. He spat into his hand and smeared his weapon with spit. Next, Richard grabbed Bob's legs, rolled him onto his back with his ass-hole pointing skyward. He pushed the great powerful thighs forward and apart, so that they rested on his stomach; mounted and slowly entered him. Bob's ass was hot and tight; Richard had to use force. (I'm forcing a virgin! When did I last do that?) 

“BASTARD!” snarled Bob between clenched teeth. 

“That I am”, muttered Richard, warming to his task. 

“You're also a... Aargh!” Bob was shouting again. Presumably he had meant to add “sadist” or some similar epithet, but he clenched his teeth and became speechless once more.   

Richard watched Bob's face. At first he kept his eyes tight-shut and his mouth closed, as though he were enduring punishment. He was breathing heavily. 

Then Bob opened his eyes and stared into Richard's. Suddenly he seemed to have shed years from his age. The lines of experience had been erased; his face was that of a teenager being fucked for the first time. His eyes were wide; his eyebrows were raised in two startled arcs. His mouth opened. Emotions were playing across Bob's face: pain, shock, disbelief, momentary anger and then more pain, suddenly gave way to a big, bewildered grin. Richard continued to thrust.  

“Wow, wow, wow!!”

I'm hitting his prostate. Now he's getting that great feeling. 

“Wow, wow WOW!!” 

Bob closed his eyes again and smiled. He reached up, grabbed his cock and began to jerk himself off.  

Richard smiled down at Bob and thought: It's going to be okay. I really like this guy and he seems to like me a lot, too!  

“Aren't you going to say anything, Bob?” 

“Yes! Come back later and stay the night! Stay as many nights as you like!” 

Still inside his man, Richard bent almost double to kiss Bob on the lips. Their kiss lasted several minutes. Thereafter Richard quite often did stay the night, although they had to be careful and discreet. That added to the excitement. He was also embarking on one of the most challenging, passionate and strenuous relationships of his life, with a man who was big enough and strong enough sometimes to take physical control of him. In the process they learned a new respect for each other.  

A few weeks after these events, Sergeant Kincaid again called on Richard to discuss work and enjoy one of Richard's strong, excellent coffees. As they were nursing their mugs, the talk turned to other matters: 

“Me and some of the lads went to the 'Hermann-Goering-Schwimmbad' last week”, said Kincaid, smiling reminiscently. 

The 'Hermann-Goering-Schwimmbad' in the nearby town had been constructed during the Third Reich; hence its former name. It was still the biggest, best and most popular swimming pool in the region. Like everything else that had survived from those days, the swimming pool had been rechristened, but the British soldiers liked to use the original name, happily aware that this still made many Germans uncomfortable. All Nazi symbols had been removed in 1945, but there remained some frescoes and statues of muscular, heroic men and women, which irresistibly recalled the 1936 Berlin Olympics.  

“And guess who else was there?” continued Kincaid. “Our Company Commander with his son, Bob Junior!”   

“Why not?” said Richard. “I heard that Junior was here on a visit. His father told me that he swims for his school. You know how fond he is of that boy; if Young Bob wanted to spend every single afternoon at the Goering-Schwimmbad, Major Bob would arrange it.”

“To be sure, to be sure,” said Kincaid. “He's a fine lad. But I was a bit surprised by Major Bob!” He looked at Richard over the edge of his coffee mug. 

“Oh yeah? How? Why?”   

“Well, when he came up out of the water, I saw that he'd ditched his old swimming shorts and was wearing a red Speedo; like the ones you wear, except that yours are black or blue. To be sure, he's a fine figure of a man; he can carry it off! But he's also taken to shaving his whole body, just like you! He's as smooth as a baby's bottom these days!”  

Kincaid was smiling brightly at Richard. 

“I didn't know that,” said Richard untruthfully, while improvising rapidly. “But Bob once asked me why I shave myself. I told him that by doing that I had shaved a couple of minutes off the time it takes me to swim a length at the Goering-Schwimmbad. It reduces water-drag. He probably wants to do the same thing.”  

“Is that right?” said Kincaid. “I daresay he does! Hey! Is that the time? I must be off!” He stood up, grinned at Richard; then put on a straight face, saluted and marched out. 

Richard said nothing, but his mind was working overtime: Well, fuck me five times! Bloody Kincaid is Sherlock-Holmesing again! He suspects something; and he's right, damn him! Must be more careful!