Spike's Dream Match! Part 2 - Challenge Accepted

Colt’s off-handed challenge still was fresh in Spike’s mind as he left the GSA gym the next evening. It was a warm twilight, with just the hint of autumn on its breeze. In typical Texas fashion, the sunset over the GSA compound was a beautiful golden-red, the sort of natural wonder that turned even meandering sluts like Spike into romantics.

Maybe it was because of a good pump or that he just happened to be well hydrated, but Spike decided to walk and drink his protein shake before heading straight to the mess hall. Besides, Cian tended to hang out there around this time of night...and one always took care to note their rivals schedule, which was a perfectly healthy thing to do (according to Spike that is). So, Spike took the long way around and headed towards the GSA offices, a building made from a converted barn.

Spike half-remembered what Colt had once told him about this being his family’s inherited land. Before Colt, it had been a ranch. Spike sensed a story there, a bit of family drama no doubt. Beyond that facet, though, he rarely walked over to the offices these days unless putting in a special commissary order request (usually Black and White cookies, a little taste of New York to keep him grounded so far from home).

He wasn’t exactly surprised to see Colt outside the office, lounging with one cowboy boot against the side of the barn. He sipped from a bottle of beer, staring dreamily off into the sunset like some Wild West hero after the dust had settled from the gunfight.

That tight, white t-shirt he was wearing—looking like it was a one exhale away from ripping right off his chest—caught Spike’s attention all the more. He averted his eyes, though. Colt was a family man, literally someone’s father (Buck, who had inherited his father’s good looks, but not his powers). He was also Spike’s boyhood hero, which in a way, also made Colt his first crush as well.

“You look sweaty,” Colt called out to Spike, content to do a loop around the barn and mind his own business.

Spike froze. Oh goodness, he’s talking to me again. “Chest day,” Spike said, sheepishly.

Colt smiled. And hot damn, was that smile worth a thousand bucks. “So that’s why you’re looking so perky there in the pecs, huh?”

Spike rarely blushed, but he felt the red tingle his cheeks. “Well, some of us have to work really hard to get your level of pectacularness.” Pectacularness? Really? Why am I such a dork?

Colt laughed and raised his beer. And then, he tugged on his shirt and gave Spike a pec bounce, his chest rippling under his tight shirt.

Spike had never gotten to erect so quickly, and there was no hiding it in the gym shirts. “Wow,” he stuttered, turning away. “That’s…huh…what was I doing again?”

“Ha! Get your ass over here, boy.”

“I’m…a bit preoccupied, sir.”

“Oh, come on, you don’t think I’ve seen a few hard-ons in my time? Besides my own of course.”

Wait. Was this for real? No, it had to be a joke. Colt looked all business on the surface, but he was a jokester to the core, and fond of mischief. Still, Spike wasn’t about to refuse his boss and favorite spellbreaker. He smiled and walked over, for the first time a little self-conscious of his own endowment.

Wait, no. He really is looking at it. What the hell? 

Colt gave him a look—“don’t be so shy”, and Spike found himself leaning against the side of the barn with him. Spike, who—let’s face it—had been around the block again and back—suddenly felt like he was back in high school, fumbling under the bleachers, completely virgin. But he remembered that, as far as he knew, Colt was straight as an arrow. His dalliances with women were infamous, at least according to Rosa, who always had the juiciest gossip on hand.

Colt placed his hand on the barn, just above Spike’s head—nothing too intimate, but well within his personal space. “Are the other boys playing nice with you, son?”

Every time this man called him son, Spike felt a drop of precum start to drip. He hoped Colt wouldn’t notice. “You should really be asking if I’m playing nice with the boys,” Spike said confidently. He was shocked at the line! To Colt, of all people? The angel on his shoulder told him, Careful now. This is your boss and your friend’s dad.

But the devil on Spike’s shoulder shot back with, Play your cards right, and he could be your dad too.

Who was Spike to listen to now?

Colt laughed at the flirtatious remark. “I see.” There was something kind of sexy about the smell of beer on a handsome man’s breath, Spike thought. Then, Colt’s eyes went down. “Damn, I know how to pick ‘em. Saw you looking like that yesterday when you were standing over Cian. Victory make you hard, huh, son?”

Eyes wide in shock, Spike had to look away. “Colt!”

“Hey,” Colt said, hands up in the air. “If I’m crossing a boundary here, you have every right to tell me to fuck off. I know I’m in a position of power. I promise if this is going too far, you just tell me and I'll shut right up. I won’t ever put you in a spot where you’re uncomfortable, okay, son? Promise.”

How could a man be this good and this sexy? Spike bit his lip. Now he knew how Eve must have felt in the garden with the serpent. And speaking of snakes, Spike’s was firmly at attention now. 

“No, it’s...okay,” Spike said quietly. He looked up at Colt. “I just…well, I’m not sure if you’re hitting on me or not, but I don’t want to be messing either. I mean, I just assumed you were…”

The cowboy king rolled his eyes. “Look, everyone’s a bot queer in my fed, understood? All those ranch hands growing up, you don’t think I’ve had a few rolls in the hay?” He laughed and reached out to play with Spike’s hair. “Maybe just don’t tell Buck, got it? Trying to set a good example for the kid.”

Like father, like son. Now it made sense. “Hey, my hair is gross.”

“I like ‘em a bit sweaty,” Colt said, leaning in closer. He pushed the front of his jeans against Spike’s gym shorts, which were tenting almost straight out now. To Spike’s genuine surprise, he moved his hips, deliberately grazing against it.

This is really happening! Spike felt like the dog who’d caught the car. What was he going to do ow—hump it?

And the devil on his shoulder said, hump it like you’ve never been in a heat like this before.

“So, how about that challenge,” Colt said, suddenly taking on a more confident, teasing tone. “I heard you shooting your mouth off, thinking you could take me on.”

“Colt, you were like my idol when I was growing up, I could never!”

“I could go easy on you, you know,” Colt said, brushing a lock of Spike's hair back and giving him a pat on the head. Then, sure and sudden, he grabbed the back of Spike’s head and drove it closer to him, giving him a hard, serious look. “Unless, you like it rough. Do ya, son?”

Ohmygoddessohymygoddessohmygodess.

Spike took the bait. He looked Colt dead in the eyes, and mustering up all his bratty sub energy, said, “Do you honestly think you’d be rough enough for me?”

Colt reeled back, his head tilted back in a grin as if to say, You really just poked the bear now. Spike immediately suspected he was about to be in the best kind of trouble.

“Son,” Colt said, leering down at him with a cold menace. “You don’t know pain like the pain I’d put you through. Tell you what though? We’ll make it fair. I’ll give you some soma before the match, and I won’t take a damn drop. Deal?” He extended his hand.

It would put Colt at a disadvantage, of course, and potentially endanger him—especially because Spike figured he’d have to go rougher than usual if he was to survive a match with man who'd broken more spines than one could find in a single library. Soma was what kept spellbreakers from sustaining real injury from either magickal or physical trauma. Not drinking it meant, essentially, a death sentence.

“I mean, maybe I should agree not to drink any either?” Spike offered.

Colt arched his eyebrows. “Kid, I’ve crippled guys before—are you sure?”

“Heh! On second thought, my career is just starting out. I’ll drink the soma. Are you sure you’ll be okay though?

Colt laughed again, and Spike felt like he’d just bitten off more than he could chew—and there was a lot to chew on Colt. “Son, it’s not me you should be worried about.” He leaned his head in, and brushed his stubble against Spike’s cheek as he whispered, “You’re about to find out what happens when you a challenge a real cowboy, kiddo.”

Spike couldn’t help it. He felt a stream of pre-cum leak from his shorts. And then, he made the mistake of looking down, drawing Colt’s attention to the wet spot on his shorts.

Colt whistled. “Well, hot damn. That the kind of match you want, eh?” Then, he reached down and grabbed Spike’s erect cock. “Just take a look at that. Can’t wait to make it mine.” He then cupped Spike’s ass with his other hand. “This too.”

Spike, left stunned, froze to the ground as he watched Colt veer off towards the practice ring. “Don’t worry, son, I’ll make sure it’s locked so nobody can walk in on us. Drop by in five minutes. And maybe cancel any appointments you got on tomorrow—something tells me you won’t be in a position to make them...”

                                                         ___

The hour before the match was filled with anticipation. As Spike showered off his gym swat, he couldn’t quell the beating of his heart—or the throbbing hard-on—each time he realized that he was about to throw down with the first man to make him realize that he liked men in the first place! 

Of course, Colt wasn’t really as old he’d seemed to Spike back when he was growing up. He’d retired from full time productions in his late thirties, and the man was somewhere in his mid-to-late forties now. An age gap of twenty-five years or so, yes, but certainly not a barrier. Spike’s approach to men was, as long as they were of legal age and able to consent, it was come one, come all (...and more than once, typically).

Hot water and soap ran down the rivers of Spike’s body lines, and he couldn’t help but tug at himself here or there as he thought of what it would be like to finally touch Colt’s muscles in person. Kiss his biceps and suck on his pecs... 

By rights, he’d been fantasizing about this moment for most of his life, but oddly enough he’d put thoughts of indecency aside once he’d learned Colt was a father and his son was quickly becoming one of Spike’s most trusted confidants.

The devil on his shoulder whispered: Collect the set. COLLECT THE SET!

Spike but his lip. One thing at a time.

Even though he was excited, nervousness was the other side of that coin. Colt wasn’t likely to go easy on him, despite his 'good-guy' attitude. He was tough Face. Not that Spike had any issues with a little necessary roughness either. He took Colt on his word and decided to cancel his plans for tomorrow.

Towel wrapped around his pink, muscular torso, Spike sneaked back into his dorm room—Kengo was out training, thankfully, though the polite musclebear wasn’t one to pry or ask questions anyway. Spike chose a plain white brief-cut for his trunks and pulled it over his thick thighs. There was no hiding his stubborn boner now, especially with the white fabric clinging tightly to it—only making it harder. Oh well. Spike knew he looked like a straight up jobber right, but that he was glad to play the part. Then again, the thought of defeating Colt was almost more delicious...

Gym bag slung over his shoulder, and baggy running pants to hide his ‘glory’ from any passers-by, Spike made his way to the practice ring, strategizing over how he’d take the big, bad cowboy down. It was definitely a David and Goliath situation—Spike’s favorite kind of matchup (especially when he got to play the part of David). He figured it was easiest to go for a choke or a sleeper to bring the big stud down. It would be a bit brutal, and even a tad disrespectful, but the thought of taming his legend, watching all that muscle struggling to release itself as he put on the pressure, all the while nuzzling and rubbing himself against his muscle back as the hunk-daddy slowly faded away in his grip…

Spike coughed, tactfully moving the gym back from his shoulder to just in front of his pants. Lucky for him, he was already at the ringside door. Not another spellbreaker in sight, and the sun had dipped low enough below the horizon that he doubted anybody would spot him going to into the ring room anyway.

He found the door open. “Hello?” He called out, wincing as his voice cracked. Damn, still nervous.

It wasn’t difficult to spot Colt, already standing inside the ring like he was the god of grappling himself. “Hey, little guy,” the cowboy said, already fully geared up in his iconic lightning-bolt vest and white leather chaps. Back towards Spike, long hair flowing free down his rippling back, Colt tugged at the ropes, stretching his muscles. His thigh and leg muscles bulged out, hamstrings on dull display, and his gear looking like it was clinging to dear life on his rock-hard ass. He was a cowboy, but he was built like a fucking stallion.

Spike dropped his gym bag, not entirely on purpose. This was either about to be a huge mistake, or the best decision of his life. He looked at Colt as if he was one of the thunder gods he always subconsciously reminded him of. A mix of Thor's looks with Zeus' sensibilities. 

And if Colt was a god, then hell, Spike was his high priest.

The cowboy king turned around and gave his student a reassuring smile. “You ready to get in the ring with your hero, boy?” He grinned. There was bit of mischief, and malevolence, in that grin. “Why don’t you lock the door so nobody walks in on us? Might be hard to explain to the others, y'know?”

Spike gulped and did as he was told. A wise choice. Then, he turned and just stared up at his icon, whose body was so broad that it nearly blocked out the overhead lights. Halogen wasn’t the sexiest lighting, but on Colt, it made him look almost like a Greek statue.

The cowboy stretched his arms to the ceiling—it had to be an intimidation tactic, Spike thought. Or titillation. “Now, listen up bucko because it’s always good to lay down some ground rules. First, I can be a bit of bastard when I’m putting the pressure on a pretty ponyboy like yourself. You wimpering and whining isn’t going to help your cause, so let’s say the safety word is ‘red’. Simple, yeah?”

This was not Colt’s first rodeo, it seemed—pun fully intended. “Got it,” Spike said, giving his hero a shy smile. Then, he looked up and met his eyes—challenging him head on. “You’ll need to remember that too once I’ve got you tapping out.”

The spellbreaking champion raised an eyebrow. “That so, son? Huh. You are a cocky little son of a bitch, ain’t ya?.” He then stood back and slowly peeled his white vest off his marble torso, one sleeve loop at a tome—keeping eye contact with Spike the whole time. His lips curled up into a snarl. “Ain’t ya, son?” He repeated, and then proceeded to pump his pecs, left and right, as he tossed the vest outside the ring onto the ground.

Spike didn’t think a display like that was humanly possible. It was almost hypnotic. He felt a stream of precum shoot out into his gear as he bit his lip.

Almost as if Colt could read his thoughts, he said, “Ditch the damn pants, boy, what do you think this? Let me look at you real good.”

Didn’t need to ask Spike twice. He found his courage and pulled his pants over his gear, kickpads, and white boots.

Colt whistled at his new boytoy. “Would ya look at that, it’s Goldilocks in his tight, little white panties. You’re tenting real nice for your wrangler, ponyboy.” He sneered and slowly—methodically—raised his band-bounded bicep to the air, giving it a good flex. Every vein popped. “Why you still hiding out there all scared? I ain’t gonna hurt ya...yet. Step into my ring, boy. This is where real men fight.”

Spike felt like the fly to the spider. He was entranced. He slid in, trying to act tough and professional, and then hopped to his feet, taking on a fighter’s poise.

Colt just laughed. “Aww, that’s adorable. You’re so scrappy, boy.” He stepped closer, though non-threatening. Spike sensed he wanted him to be at ease. Just enough. “So, how about stakes, huh? What does the winner get?”

Spike hadn’t even thought about it--he’d been so caught off guard by the proposal. He pushed away the shyness for a moment, reverting to his baser instincts. “Stakes, huh? Well. I guess I’m okay with whatever.”

Colt sized him up, leering over his tender, but firm, pale body. “'Whatever', huh? Well, how about the victor gets his opponent’s ass. Full experience.”

Spike’s heart nearly beat out of his chest. “Y-you sure?”

Colt shrugged—the veneer of the cocky, badass spellbreaker subsiding for a moment. “Why not boy? We’re two men, right? I dunno about you, but I’m horny as shit.” Then, he took as step closer, into Spike’s personal space. “You can trust me, boy. I’ll listen. I’m gonna hurt you real good—no doubt—but you don’t gotta worry. You’re safe with your hero.”

The unspoken energy between them—a magnetic force—suddenly intensified. Colt took Spike in his arms and pulled him into his hard body, bringing his face down to Spike’s lips and kissing him deep.

Spike thought the phrase “real man” was bit loaded and up for debate. But Colt kissed like a man, or at least a man of maturity. It was sure. Certain. His beard stubble prickled Spike’s face as the initial shock and ecstasy subsided, giving Spike the leverage to kiss back, tender. It was like a drug. Some said one of the worst things that could ever happen to you—outside of tragedy—was finally getting what you wanted, because the expectation could never live up to the reality. 

Right now, nothing could be farther from the truth. Spike let Colt hold him tight and keep kissing him. He could barely breathe—and Spike wouldn’t have minded at all if he drowned in his hero’s arms. Neither refused to pull apart, tongues intertwining just so. Not sloppy, or messy. It was like a perfectly choreographed dance.

Colt was sure in every one of his steps, making sure to communicate with his body, gain Spike’s trust. The kissing eventually turned into grinding, with Colt forcefully placing the bulge of his yellow and white trunks against Spike’s. He wanted the younger fighter to feel his power. His heat. Every inch. Spike felt his eyes widened at how good it felt, even with both of their gear still on. Colt was already erect, and judging from what Spike felt, he was all the cowboy he claimed to be.

Still, some surprises were better saved for later...

Spike was the first to pull away, exhaling in reverence of Colt’s body. But the older fighter wouldn’t let him pull away for long—he yanked him, forcefully, back into his muscles, shoving his face between the crook of his pecs and his biceps.

“I want you to feel me up if that’s okay?” Colt whispered. With every whisper, he grazed the side of Spike’s neck and face with his stubble, causing every synapse inside Spike’s brain to fire off bursts of serotonin. Spike wasn’t just leaking spurts of precum at this point. He was flooding. It was almost like being a teenager again, and in front of his hero, it was damn embarrassing. There would ne no way to hide the blossoming stain at the front of his trunks from his opponent now!

Though he suspected Colt didn’t mind at all. His giant hand found its way to the back of Spike’s head and pushed him closer to his chest. “Come on, boy. Is this your favorite muscle on me?”

“All your muscles are my—” Spike started to say, before he found his face pressed into Colt’s pectoral, almost smothering his mouth. He smelled of Stetson cologne and hard work. Musky, yet gentlemanly. His sweat tasted sweat, with a hint of sublimated liquor or beer—a dangerous intoxication. Spike wanted to get drunk off him. This man could easily become his favorite, new addiction.

Spike’s mouth travelled across Colt’s nipple—which was endearingly perky and pink, the daintiest feature on an otherwise masculine build. Spike licked and kissed his pectoral, which Colt gladly flexed for him, accompanied now and then by a gentle “There now.” “Good boy,” and another maddening graze of his beard stubble against his face and neck.

“Just can’t stop kissing that neck of yours, boy.”

For the first time in Spike’s life, he had nothing to say. He rubbed his cheek against the bigger man’s pec, finding a strand of his blonde hair matted to his chest, from either sweat or—Spike embarrassingly suspect—his own saliva. He put it in his mouth.

“What you doing there?” Colt laughed lightly.

Spike turned red. Embarrassed. “I just…” he had nothing to say. “I used to love the way your hair hung onto your pecs like that. I don’t know why. That’s silly.”

Colt smiled warmly at him. “Ain’t silly at all,” he said. “You wanna show off those guns for me, boy? Let me admire my new toy.”

Spike was all too glad to comply with this request. Typically, he put on a look of confidence and superiority when he did this—like a king taking procession over his loyal subjects. But with Colt, he just smiled boyishly, making both his biceps peak for his hero. He suddenly felt self-conscious. He knew his muscles couldn’t compare.

Colt whistled and placed his hands over both of Spike’s biceps. “Damn, boy,” he said, rubbing them back and forth. “I knew I picked you out that night for a good reason. You’re gonna be a champ, I just know it.”

Spike’s heart melted. He didn’t know what to say. He had never been paid a great compliment. By his idol, no less!

Colt stepped back, and Spike instantly felt like he needed more. “What else got you rock hard when you were watching me on TV, huh?

He knew exactly what to say. Spike was happy to oblige, already fully hard in his gear right now. He looked down at himself, then up at Colt, and mischievously played with himself in front of his hero. “Like this?”

“I asked you a question, boy,” Colt, said, gruff, but still with that reassurance in his eyes. “You answer your champion when he asks you a question, got it?”

“Yes, sir,” Spike said, immediately taking the submissive role. “Um…” Why was he so shy all of a sudden? No. He shook the hesitation away. Colt wanted him to have fun. He was gonna have fun.

“Well…I think my ‘awakening’ was definitely when you would strut to the ring and rip off your chaps real slow.”

“Hah, you knew I was being intentional about that, didn’t you.” Colt circled him, with his typical cowboy swagger, before turning around, giving him a look of his back—every muscle sculpted as the man had been carved out of stone, not merely born. He bent over, thick hamstrings and glutes popping from beneath his cowboy chaps, which his slowly pulled off, showing off even more of his body. “So, like this?”

“…Yes.” Spike swallowed. “Like that.”

Now Colt had him in his sights. He wiped the sweat from around his beard and chin, and flicked it towards Spike, drawing closer to his opponent. Spike knew better than to draw back during a pre-fight pose down. It suggested submissiveness. If he was to challenge his idol, he was going to show him that he wasn’t some pinup pansy, but a warrior Adonis ready to scrap.

But Colt knew ring intimidation—and seduction. He pressed himself once against to his opponent, eyes locked on—a real alpha male. It hard for Spike not to feel a little scared. He knew what Colt was capable of—he’d grown up on his matches.

“Rock hard, aren’t ya?” the lightning-wielding hunk said, drawing his hand up Spike’s thigh, travelling straight to his bulge. He cupped it, but Spike forced himself from flinching or breaking his stare, all the while Colt softly pulsed his cock. Felt amazing, and dominant, but Spike couldn’t let that distract him now.

“Phew,” Colt said, staring down at the wet spot appearing on Spike’s trunks. “Looks like you already made a mess. Well, then it’s about time I made a mess out of you.” He reached into his own trunks and pulled out a small vial of white fluid, giving off a dull, iridescent glow. Soma. The stuff that kept spellbreakers from killing each other or causing permanent damage.

And, as Spike had recently discovered for himself, it also had the side effect—intended or no—of making one extremely horny and aggressive at once. As if he needed a mystical elixir for that, though...

Colt placed his lips around the stopper and pulled it off with his teeth. “Take a drink. I don’t want to kill ya, son.”

His reflexes were lightning quick. He grabbed Spike by the jaw, forcing his mouth open with other hand, and Spike had no choice but to let him. Damn, I knew he was fast but that’s unreal!

“Yeah, like that.” Colt said, pouring the liquid into his mouth. “Swallow for me, boy.” He even rubbed poor Spike’s throat like a dog, making sure he took his medicine.

It was humiliating—and Spike was ashamed that he was already letting his opponent put him in the position of jobber before the match began. But the soma hit the mark, making Spike’s body tense up with the influx of energy. He felt his muscles expanding, just slightly, and his mind turned towards aggression. He was already erect at that point, but the surge made his cock twitch, letting another drop of precum stain his white gear.

Spike became like a dog in heat, fighting to mate. He even gave a soft growl as he glared--with lust and aggression--at his idol. Let’s fucking fight!

“Good boy,” Colt said, tossing the spent bottle out of the ring. “You listen real well. You're one riled up pony now, huh, bucking and hoofing the ring? Well, I'm the cowboy here, and you're about to be broken. Tamed. Rode. Made mine.”

“You ready, boy?” Colt said, backing up and bouncing off the ropes. “Cuz I ain’t going easy on you, son...”

Next Chapter!