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“Dignity? You’ve got a space to sleep, food to eat every day and night, and a job that’s gonna pay you more than you’re worth. You want to know what a lack of dignity looks like? Maybe you should sleep out here with all the pigs and eat from their trough. Then you’ll realize why I stress cleanliness and thoroughness and—”
“Bullshit. You’re just being hard on me ‘cause you like it.” He puts his hands to my chest and shoves again.
I shove him right back. “I told you, put your hands on me one more time and I’ll—”
He grabs my shirt.
I grab his tight shirt right back with both my hands.
Threads pop. I damn near rip his top right off his sweaty chest as I grapple with the boy. We’re both out of words. All we have is our hands, the hot breath pumping out of our flared nostrils, and white-hot anger in our eyes.
Then his shirt tears completely and he falls to the mud.
I lose my balance, scraps of his shirt in my fist, and fall back.
The next second, he’s on top of me, his angry face in front of mine. There’s no sense or reason to our angry grappling as we roll over once, twice, three times in the sticky mud. Both our hats flew off at some point, and now I’ve got mud in my ears and hair as I try to find something to cling to. All he’s got is his sweaty, bare torso, and there isn’t anywhere to grab hold of but his arms, chiseled chest, or ridiculously slender waist. We roll over again.
Our fighting slows. Or is it just an illusion? The only thing I know is my hands all over his body, and what it feels like to touch him—and for him to touch me. I never thought this was something that would happen. I never thought—
I slam onto my back.
His toned, muscled chest is pressed to my face as he scrambles to grab a better hold of me. What is he doing exactly? What is he trying to accomplish?
I growl against his sweaty skin, just as unsuccessful in finding a place on his body to grab hold of. His arms are slippery. His back, too. My hand, desperate to find some leverage to use in flipping him over, dares to slide lower down his back.
Lower.
Then my fingers find the waistband of his underwear, poking out from his low-hanging jeans. Then I touch denim. Then a belt loop, and finally the firm, tight embrace of his ass cheek.
We’re still struggling.
His breaths are crashing in my ear as he tries to figure out what to do with me.
Still blinded by his sweaty skin pressed to my face, I squeeze his ass with all my might, trying to flip him over. I squeeze harder. Then harder.
Why does anger and excitement feel like the same thing?
His thigh slides up between my legs in his effort to grab hold of me. It slips right into my crotch, then begins to knead me, like some kind of angry massage. I can’t manage to get his muscular thigh out from between my legs. It keeps rubbing, pumping, and thrusting as Hoyt tries to resist me flipping him over.
My hand still squeezing his ass, his muscular thigh grinding into my crotch, I can’t escape the prison of his efforts.
My dick starts stiffening up.
It’s out of my control. This whole situation. This fight. His wet, toned chest on my face. His ass cupped by my squeezing hand. His thigh pressing firmly onto my quickly swelling, exposed crotch.
For some reason, I grow even angrier.
With renewed energy, I give one huge thrust of my arms, and the boy flips over and slams to his back. He squints against the sudden sunlight pouring over his grimy face as I tower over him, straddling his stomach between my powerful legs. He lets out one feeble whimper of frustration as I grab hold of his wrists and pin them to the mud above his head.
Hoyt’s face is flushed and sweaty, cheeks caked with mud, as he glares up at me, breathing heavily, lips snarling.
Everything is slow and focused again. His eyes, burning me. His teeth, slightly bared as he sucks in breath after breath. And his nostrils are flared with his efforts.
But he’s stopped fighting back.
I have him pinned, sitting on him, holding his wrists to the mud, my sweaty face above his, looking down on him as if from a mountaintop, victorious.
Has he given in?
His eyes were full of anger before, but I can’t say that’s what’s in them anymore. As he works to catch his breath, all I see in his eyes is a strange mixture of adrenaline, excitement, frustration, and curiosity. Is he surprised by my strength? Or is he surprised that he’s run out of it himself?
