Page 21 of A Good Prospect

No, he’d have to fight to prove that. A couple of his left hooks connected with Ophir’s cheekbone, satisfying, resounding thuds that gave Salvador more energy to bounce on his toes and duck from another uppercut. Drops of blood from the cut on Ophir’s face were flung onto Sal’s shoulders as he bounced around. He must have become too confident, as he fell for a few of Ophir’s feints and put his skull directly in line with a wide swinging uppercut that had his dancing toes removed from the dirt.

It felt as though his body hovered in the air for a few short seconds, arms and legs splayed like a corn husk doll, before a powerful right cross slammed his entire skeleton back down to earth so mightily he seemed to make an indentation in the soil. The breath was compressed out of his lungs in an audible “ooph,” and his light head floated up to the ceiling. Tamasin’s high girlish lilt brought his consciousness back down to earth.

“Ooh, he’s down!” she cried, ignoring the rules that dictated she stay out of the ring.

I’m not down. Sal struggled to move his limbs. When that failed, he tried to move a finger. Something light fell onto his stomach, and he realized Tamasin had thrown her sponge into the ring. It became apparent it would not be a fair stand-up fight, though, when Ophir took advantage of his prone, insensate condition to jump upon his hips, straddling him so tightly that the firm globes of his muscular ass were planted squarely on either side of Sal’s bulging erection.

Was this some new kind of bare-knuckle move, a kind of hold to keep a downed man from getting back up? Ophir had declared no kicks or blows below the belt, but he was not kicking or striking, merely pinning both his wrists above his head in one of his broad fists. Leaning over to put his lips near Sal’s ear, Ophir growled,

“You damned brawler. You’re just a slugger moving slowly with no finesse at all. How did you think you could best me?”

Salvador humped furiously to buck the prizefighter off his hips. To his mortification, this only served to wedge his stiff penis even more securely into the enticing cleft of Ophir’s ass. Raising his knees to the barn’s roof with his boots securely planted in the dirt, he only wound up bowling Ophir’s hips more firmly against his own. He broke out into a clammy sweat when he felt Ophir’s bulky erection pressed solidly against his. Was Ophir becoming hot, knowing the attractive girl was watching them?

Tamasin had been calling time. “Twenty-one, twenty, nineteen…”

Now Sal struggled to lift his torso from the dirt. Ophir only had him pinned with one hand, after all. But Ophir had the leverage as he leaned over him from above, and his free hand now pinned down a shoulder. He did not sit up straight, but continued to whisper angry warnings into Sal’s ear.

“Your punching pattern is predictable.” He continued to insult Sal. “But you make up for that with raw power. You could probably knock me out with a single punch.”

“Lárgate de mí!” Sal snorted. Get off me!

“We can fight for the girl,” Ophir panted, his breath creating steam on Sal’s neck. The musky fresh odor of horsehair imbued Sal’s nostrils, almost like a drug causing his mind to drift, his body to relax and stop struggling. “It’s a fair contest. And you know what I think would help her make up her mind?”

“Twelve, eleven…”

“I could get up if you’d just get off me!”

The hand that pinned Sal’s shoulder now released him. But Ophir didn’t let him up. He dragged his fingertips sensually up his shoulder to his throat—there was no doubting this now, this was not a boxing move—to cradle Sal’s jaw in his palm. His palm was hot and moist against Sal’s throat, and he could have easily snapped his neck, so perhaps it was a boxing maneuver. Ophir hadn’t said anything about no neck-breaking. But since Sal could by now easily feel the throbbing of Ophir’s massive prick against his own, it wasn’t his neck he feared for.

Ophir whispered huskily, “It would make the girl very randy to decide which of us is the most sensual kisser.”

Before the implications of this could register, Ophir pressed his sculpted cupid’s lips to Sal’s.

It was not a chaste, companionable kiss, but blatantly erotic as Ophir parted his lips and tickled the tip of his tongue against the inside of Sal’s upper lip. Sal could relax and give in to the kiss, since Ophir was the aggressor, and Sal himself had no option in the matter. In some faraway realm, Tamasin’s reedy lilt was petering out.

“Two…” She waited a very long time before saying, “One.”

No one budged at the proclamation of “one.” Instead Sal tilted his head to one side so his nose wouldn’t clash with Ophir’s, and he slid into what felt like the longest, most drunken and lusty kiss of his lifetime. It made no difference that it was a man who kissed him. They blatantly feasted on one another, and the thrusts of Sal’s hips were no longer to buck Ophir off, but to revel in the rush of semen that spurted up the length of his penis and threatened to ejaculate out the tip. A few drops did discharge, Sal could tell, as he felt Ophir answer his thrusts by swaying his own bulky prick against him. Ay dios, if he ejaculated with no direct contact like this, it would be entirely obvious against the front of his pants, walking about with a wet stain when he was declared the loser of the bout!

Ophir emitted nearly inaudible moans as he licked at Sal’s mouth, cradling his jaw in his palm. Sal wished more than anything that he would at least release one of his wrists so he could touch Ophir too. For weeks he’d been longing to fondle any one part of that magnificent body—just a beautifully molded shoulder would do. It was a sin and an embarrassment to be attracted to another man, but there were so few women in California, a man had to obtain satiation somewhere. Was he androgynous, a sodomita? It didn’t matter right now as he added his sighs to mingle with Ophir’s increasingly lascivious moans. They smacked at each other’s mouths with loud sucking sounds, and Sal could feel the vibration of Ophir’s growls resonating against his mouth.

“Ah,” Ophir sighed as he drew away. Still hunched over and gripping Sal’s wrists, there was a trace of a smile at the corners of his mouth. “You’re no beaten man,” he said, tracing a shape with his thumb on the underside of Sal’s jaw. “That contest was a draw.”

Sal’s head was dizzy with lust. He knew that once Ophir jumped off of him, his erection would stand out brazenly for all to see. But he felt compelled by social mores to give a few more efforts at struggling his wrists free. “Why don’t we let the umpire decide?” He attempted a snarl, but it probably came out passionately.

Grinning lopsidedly, Ophir released Sal’s wrists with a snap and leaped to his feet. He reached a hand out for Sal to take, but Sal was too shamed and bewildered to take it. As he struggled to stand, he wiped his face free of some blood drips from Ophir’s cheekbone.

“We’ll have to stitch that wound,” Sal said casually, turning away from Ophir.

Ophir laughed outright now, and turned to where Tamasin seemed to cling weakly to one of their ring stakes. Completely ashen now, her lower jaw hung slack, only her eyes bouncing between the two men, burdened with questions. “What’s your ruling, umpire? Who won the battle?”

“I—” Tamasin said.

“Now, no offensive or irritating expressions from noncombatants,” Ophir said jovially. “Those are the rules.”

Salvador cast the woman a sidelong grin, achingly aware that his erect penis stood at half-mast, tenting his pants. Over his shoulder he saw Ophir in the same state, and the poor girl was going loca deciding between the two.

“It’s a draw,” Sal suggested forcefully. “A draw.”

“I—” she said again. Her jaw slung lower, and this time her arm moved to lift the whiskey bottle to her mouth. She looked back and forth between the men with wide, dilated eyes as she drank, at last squeezing her eyes shut, presumably in terror.

“A draw?” Sal suggested to Ophir.

Ophir appeared satisfied with that. He nodded in agreement. “A draw.”