In Drake Reborn: Part 2, things were looking bad for everyone’s favorite jobber Drake Marcos. Knowing Drake, getting pec smothered by the beefcake archangel Gabriel would surely test his will to keep fighting. But then again, the star of this piece of homoerotic wrestling fiction is not the Drake we’ve come to know and love. And now the climactic finale…
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Drake Reborn – by Bard
Part 3
There’s a sudden burst of energy and struggle. It’s hard to see exactly what’s going on because fucking Billy keeps stepping in front of me, but when I lean over far enough to the right, I see Drake hoisting Gabriel up way, way off his feet in a bearhug. Fuck, yes! I barely resist the urge to applaud.
Drake comes stutter-stepping out of the corner with his opponent writhing like a trapped animal. He arches his back, hoisting Gabriel still higher off his feet. Gabriel’s thick legs splay wide apart. Abruptly, Drake lunges forward, pounding Gabriel’s tailbone squarely across his right knee in an exquisite atomic drop. Gabriel actually screams. No acting in that high pitched wail!
Drake’s earlier “breather” had to have been a ruse, because he’s bouncing on the balls of his feet and looking fresh as a sweaty daisy right now. He drives a drilling knee squarely into the center of Gabriel’s thickly muscled back, and again, the Brit wails. There’s no hesitancy. No interruption in Drake’s momentum at all as he hops into the air and drops the back of his right thigh squarely into the back of Gabriel’s head. I wince involuntarily. I’m not sure if Gabriel’s pretty face is going to look nearly so pretty in a moment.
Drake is on fire now, steam rolling all over the bulging Brit. There’s no self-congratulations. No distraction. He moves with smooth confidence, dragging Gabriel up to his knees just so he can land a swinging knee to the pretty boy’s face, flinging him back to the mat in a heap. All of those pretty, pretty fresh muscles on Drake scoop Gabriel up off the mat like a child, swinging him high and slamming him with total authority to his back. Gabriel’s lower back arches in agony instinctively, and fuck it all if Drake doesn’t drive his heel viciously down into the cherub’s lower abs, pounding him back to the mat again.
With uncharacteristic (newly characteristic?) deliberateness, Drake grabs Gabriel’s ankles and rolls him to his stomach. Straddling all of that hot, hot muscle, Drake squats low in a Boston crab, leaning way back and making the Brit literally scream in pain. Drake’s face is fucking glowing, and it’s not just the sweat. He makes eye contact with me, briefly, and that over-the-top, handsome as fuck grin stretches across his face. It’s a good thing the Boss didn’t forbid me from grabbing my crotch, because there’s no stopping me at the moment. Gabriel slaps the mat furiously, screaming, “I give! I give! I give!” Drake ignores him a good long while, just making the pretty boy suffer like his bitch.
I can tell the production crew are going crazy for the action, because Billy and Jonny are crossing in front of me repeatedly, getting every angle of the action they can. So I’m not exactly sure how Gabriel ended up racked across Drake’s shoulders, but I’m thrilled to the core to watch our former jobber claw the fuck out of the Brit’s balls, yanking on his chin with the other hand, bending the petite powerhouse like a twist tie around his neck. Angel boy is screaming again. I’m not sure if it’s a submission, but I don’t think Drake is caring either way. He bounces on the balls of his feet, and Gabriel’s screams are comically punctuated with involuntary gasps. I’m sure it’s a submission. I’m equally sure, it’s not going to matter.
Drake unceremoniously dumps his quivering opponent backward off his shoulders. Gabriel’s muscled body slams to the mat like dead weight. Drake’s lightly hairy chest heaves, but he’s far from exhausted, I can tell. A half second later, Drake is grinding the ball of his right foot into the Brit’s temple, pinning the side of his face to the mat. “Take off your trunks!” Drake barks. I swear to god, I’ve never heard that voice before. Where the fuck did that voice just come from? It’s about half an octave deeper, with a lifetime of viciousness behind it. It’s like nothing I’ve ever heard come out of Drake’s mouth before.
“Fuck… You!” Gabriel sputters, trying to shove Drake’s foot away. Jonny has one knee up on the ring apron now, clearly zooming his camera in to capture the humiliation. He’s also obstructing my view again, god damn it.
I can’t see exactly what’s happening when Drake bends forward, but soon enough, he has Gabriel’s hot, muscled body stretched out deliciously in a full nelson. The Brit starts to fight it, muscling his arms downward to break the hold. Drake nips that in the bud by suddenly slamming Gabriel face-first into the nearest turnbuckle, still locked down on that sensational full nelson. The muscle cherub’s eyes roll into the back of his head as Drake pulls him out of the corner. Fuck, I think he may have just passed out there for a second.
Drake parades the muscleboy around the ring, grinding his crotch violently against the Brit’s ass. He pauses at the next turnbuckle to pound that pretty, pretty face once again. Gabriel’s knees buckle, but Drake hoists him back up and around the ring again. All four corners get the pleasure of tenderizing that legendary baby face. I’m pretty sure his nose isn’t broken, but there are dark bruises starting to form around the Brit’s eyes and cheeks.
Finally, Drake flings his prey into the center of the ring again. Gabriel kneels there on his hands and knees, teetering forward and backward like he’s about to collapse or vomit. “Take… off… your… trunks!” Daemon commands in that same voice that grabs me by the base of the balls.
Gabriel is sucking on air now, so it takes a few second for him to finally swallow the pain and humiliation just enough to quietly whisper, “fuck…. you.”
Drake place kicks the kid in the ribs so hard that Gabriel is lifted off his hands and knees and sent sprawling to his back at the edge of the ring. Drake follows without pause, hooking his right foot under Gabriel’s shoulder and kicking him underneath the ropes and tumbling off the ring apron to the floor below, just a few feet in front of me.
Billy backs up so quickly to keep Gabriel in frame that I think he’s going to sit in my lap. Not that I mind. The kid’s got a sweet ass. But fuck, I want to see what’s happening! Between Billy and Jonny, I just catch glimpses of Drake tying Gabriel’s arms in the ropes, his hot muscles hanging like meat in a butcher’s window. Drake strokes the muscle cherub’s pecs. He pinches Gabriel’s nipples, and the Brit gasps quietly, a gentle smile on his face. Clearly, Drake abruptly applies considerably more pressure, because suddenly Gabriel cries out in pain.
Without warning, Gabriel lifts his legs and snaps them around Drake’s torso. Drake cocks his right fist to cut this shit out pronto, but he freezes in mid-swing as Gabriel squeezes hard. Drake gasps, his eyes flutter shut. Oh, fuck, that’s hurting. Gabriel’s thighs are incredible to watch, flexing, grinding. His arms are still trapped in the ropes, but if he keeps this up long enough, he may just suck the momentum right out of my fight boy.
No worries. Drake claws the Brit’s balls so helpfully perched right in front of him. Gabriel’s scissors fall apart in a wail of screams. He bucks and bounces in the ropes, twisting his hips in a completely vain attempt to escape the ball trap latched onto him. Drake leans in close, his face inches away from Gabriel’s, twisted in agony. Tears, seriously, tears are squeezing out of the Brit’s swollen, bruised face.
Drake pries the ropes apart and Gabriel sags to a motionless heap on the ring apron. Thankfully, Billy and Jonny head around the corner to get better angles on the action as Drake drags the muscle cherub by the hair back into the ring. Smooth as silk, Drake scoops the baby face Brit up like a rag doll, holding him there across his chest for what seems like hours. Drake’s hot, hairy thighs glisten with sweat, bulging and flexing gorgeously. Then he slams the boy to his lower back again. Gabriel whimpers, his back arched high, the back of both hands clutching at his throbbing lower spine.
“Now,” Daemon growls from whatever pit of hell he’s possessing Drake’s body. “Take… off… your… trunks.” Gabriel groans incoherently for a while, rolling to his side. I’m not sure if he’s even registering what’s been said. But he must, because he reaches down with both hands, hooking his thumbs inside the top of his trunks and slowly dragging them down his massive thighs. He’s got a heather jock strap on underneath.
Holy shit, the jock strap doesn’t last long. Drake rips it off violently. There are strings of elastic and shredded cotton everywhere, but nothing is actually attached to Gabriel’s body any longer. He’s perfectly, gorgeously naked, flat on his back, staring up at Drake.
“You’ve never met anything like me before,” Daemon hisses. I swear, it sounds like steam pipes, there’s so much pressure, such vicious intensity behind every word. “My name is Daemon. And I’m here to drag your beautiful ass back to hell with me.”
Gabriel is weeping! Jesus, Drake’s doing a mind fuck on this kid. He’s seriously terrified.
“Say my name,” Daemon snarls.
“Daemon,” Gabriel gasps, almost a whisper.
“Say my name!” Daemon barks louder, planting his right foot on Gabriel’s chest and staring down into his face. The grin stretched across his face looks maniacal now!
“Daemon!” Gabriel shouts through sobs. He reaches up, pleadingly stroking Drake’s calf. Gabriel’s legendary anaconda is fully engorged and also weeping.
Drake drags him up by the hair to a seated position, quickly kneeling behind him. He wraps his right bicep across the muscle cherub’s throat. With a sudden jerk, he locks down hard, making Gabriel’s tear-filled eyes snap open wide.
I can’t hear what Daemon is saying. It’s a low murmur, cooing, demanding directly into Gabriel’s ear as he locks down the blood flow to the Brit’s brain. Billy obviously wants to get the words on the record as well, because he’s climbing up to the ring apron and zooming in, as close as he can. Is Gabriel being commanded to start stroking his mammoth cock, or is he just being driven over the edge by the mesmerizing words of his opponent?
What the fuck ever! Gabriel’s starting to pound out his gargantuan member with both hands, and it’s truly epic! With Drake choking him out, it doesn’t take long at all for the cherub to explode. I don’t realize that my mouth is hanging open in awe until I notice that Drake is staring right at me, still bearing down on his fading opponent, but looking, fixed, right into my eyes.
A half a minute later, and Gabriel’s arms fall limply to the mat. His abs and pecs are coated in his own cum. Drake drops him to his back roughly and crawls on top of him, saddling into a schoolboy pin. He leans forward, his crotch grinding into the unconscious kid’s face, and slaps the mat. “One!” He takes a good, long time, face fucking the fallen angel enthusiastically, before slapping the mat again. “Two!”
Holy fuck! Holy fuck!
“Three!” Drake slaps the mat one last time before leaning back and flexing his beautiful, fresh biceps for Billy and the camera.
Holy fuck. Drake just turned heel.
The first time I posted about my appreciation of the value added by tan lines, I received some surprising back channel heat. There are, apparently, some guys who find tan lines unsightly. I honestly had no idea. I’ve always found them provocative and tantalizing. There’s something that much closer to naked about tan lines. They signal something vulnerable, something delicate, to otherwise hard bodied beefcake. They allude to modesty unmasked, to an uncommon intimacy shared with those who get a glimpse of them. Tan lines serve as a literal and figurative boundary, and in the homoerotic gaze, they seem to inherently speak to disregarding boundaries and propriety and self-restraint. All my respect to the hot hunks on a quest for that all-over tan, but as for me, I get an extra hard heart pump from an impossible to miss tan line!
“No,” Gabriel chuckles, staring down at the dazed stud on his knees in front of him, “now I distinctly remember you being right here once before.” He grabs the back of Drake’s head with both hands and shoves his face into his body. Even on his knees, Drake’s mouth comes mid-chest to the bulging muscle cherub standing in front of him. Gabriel smothers him there, deep in the crevice between his massive pecs. I can hear Drake grunting, struggling for air. He presses his hands against Gabriel’s hips, attempting to pry his face away, but the Brit holds him in place with a vice-like grip. About 30 seconds of pec smothering in, and Drake’s arms start to go slack. Oh, fuck.
Slowly, Gabriel drags Drake’s slackening face down his torso. Drake’s lips stretch and twist across the pronounced ridges of Gabriel’s abs. Down, down Gabriel presses his opponent’s face until Drake his hunched forward, his mouth pressed hard against the muscle cherub’s big bulge. Holy shit. HUGE bulge! Gabriel’s legendary cock is visibly growing right before my eyes. Well, most immediately, it’s growing right before Drake’s lips. Gabriel’s head rolls backward, his eyes closed, obviously getting stoked to the edge. Fuck, they look like both of them may very well ditch the wrestling and just start fucking. Not that I’d mind watching that. But…come on, wrestling!
Sidelineland 