These are the works of erotic flash fiction in the series “Memoirs of Wrestler”. All text is ©2011-14 RamTheSunlover, all rights reserved; none of the images are mine and I have credited the source where known.
Memoirs of a Wrestler – #1
I settled onto the bar stool next to Nate.
He glanced at me over his bourbon glass: “Hey.”
“Hey back,” I said. “What’s cookin’?”
“Just got a booty call from Ms. Stewart,” he responded, angling his mobile phone’s cracked and failing screen toward me.
The image showed her standing naked in high heels, bracing her palms and pressing her pussy against a wall mirror.
Grinning slightly he said: “You should come too. You know she likes wrestlers.”
I looked away, recalling her long slim fingers with the polished cabernet red nails.
How they looked with her bent over the towel rack.
With her wrists cuffed to the radiator in the men’s locker room.
With her hair wrapped in my fists.
Memoirs of a Wrestler #2
She was a blonde in my sophomore year. A blonde with unusual tastes, or so it seemed to me before I had seen more of the world.
I remembered how she cuffed herself to the radiator and looked back over her shoulder at me expectantly.
She had on black – black heels, black stockings and a black g-string. I was used to girls in jeans or cutoffs.
I remembered how it felt wrapping her hair in my fists and pulling her pussy back onto my cock – the inside was so silky and so tight at the same time.
I remembered letting go of her hair with one hand, and beginning to push into her ass with my thumb.
She looked back at me again and said: “You’ve got a brother too, right? Wrestles 187?”
“Actually,” I smiled at her with my teeth, “there’s 4 of us.”
Memoirs of a Wrestler – #3
Ms. Stewart met us at her front door wearing the black frame librarian style glasses she sometimes affected, black stockings decorated with red bows, and black high heels with red soles. My cock immediately began to swell and shift in my suit trousers.
“Oh,” she said looking at me and lifting the mask up on her forehead.
Nate said, “You remember Mike? Is this ok?”
“I remember Mike. And the other Wolf brothers,” she paused and smiled to herself, glancing at burgeoning bulge at my zipper, “and it’s ok…………..but he can only watch. This time.”
I smiled tightly, “Of course. You’re in charge……………this time.”
Nate stripped and they desported themselves on the couch. As she rode his cock in a slow rocking motion, her eyes never left me. “Take it out Mike,” she whispered.
I unzipped, pulled out my now fully swollen cock and began to stroke it slowly in my fist. She picked up her own pace, her eyes locked on my motion.
Stopping briefly, I squeezed the shaft; a pearlescent drop bloomed on the tip. She licked her lips and said, “Ok, come closer.”
Recalling for the second time that night the locker room episode , and the way her mouth formed a red O while I fed my cock into it, I began to slam my fist up and down: “Not. This. Time.”
Memoirs of a Wrestler – #4
ABW was the reason our varsity basketball team was perennially in the Final 16. She and her industrialist husband made sure the players that coach wanted to recruit got cars and apartments and cash.
And ABW got in return what she craved – an annually refreshed stable of stallions for orgies and gangbangs at her estate near campus.
The upstairs library there smelled of leather – and, that night, of sex.
She lay on the big ottoman in her black lingerie with all the varsity starters crowded around. Her pussy: filled by the 7′ center. Her hands: each stroking a fat cock. Her mouth: servicing the two forwards.
The rest of us all stood around in an outer ring, athletes in suits, boosters and wives in evening attire. All zippers open. Cocks out. Straining. Dripping. By longstanding custom, all around the ring each booster wife stroked her husband’s cock with her right hand and an athlete’s with her left.
ABW went into a frenzy. She moaned gutturally. Her beautiful big tits swayed rhythmically as she was stuffed with black cocks and covered in spurting jets of white cum.
“More!” she demanded.
In turn, each of the outside trios advanced, with each booster wife pumping her two cocks to orgasm aimed at ABW’s writhing body.
Except my trio.
Memoirs of a Wrestler – #5
Booster wife rocked back on her high heels gripping both our cocks tight. “She’s got plenty,” she purred at me, “I want mine.”
My trio stayed put.
She leaned into Booster’s shoulder. He shrugged genially at me, tugging her strapless dress down to the floor: “I’ll hold her. You do her.”
All our eyes turned back to the spurting spectacle. Cock followed cock exploding onto ABW’s glistening flesh.
Booster wife’s breathing quickened with each spurting at the center. She pumped our cocks in synch with the motion of each succeeding trio.
I turned toward her, lightly stroking her velvety shaved pussy lips with one hand and, reaching behind her with the other, pushing my thumb into her anus and two fingers up into her slick pussy.
Love using that two-handed sweet torture.
Booster and I both felt the quivering beginning of her orgasm as she stopped pumping and held us tight. He reached up roughly kneading her breast and twisting her nipple.
I pushed my thumb into her ass up to the second knuckle and rolled my fingers around inside those silky folds.
She later denied actually blacking out.
But I know better.
Memoirs of a Wrestler – #6
You know those stories you’re forever hearing about cheerleaders? They’re all true.
At least when you’re an NCAA champion wrestler – I’m here to testify.
Real high school and college wrestling attracts alpha males right from the getgo. For us, its in our genes, and our jeans.
It’s the modern, albeit bloodless, gladiator fight in the coliseum. It’s the not-really-disguised struggle for dominance, harking back to cavemen fighting over food and access to sex. Dominance and reward, an atavistic imperative for the alpha.
And the modern gladiator battling comes right when the testosterone explodes in our teens and twenties. I swear in those days, if you cut me, I bled – but T, not red. The cheerleaders can smell it on you and they want it.
Darla, the blonde, and Phoenix, the brunette, really knew how to get me fired up after we three fooled around some during freshman and sophomore years. They were already co-captains of the cheer squad by junior year, and I was on my way to my first undefeated season at 178.
They’d stand on either side of the aisle entryway to the arena and the mat. As the team was being introduced one by one by the announcer, Darla would lean over and whisper to me, “You get to fuck me if you win.” Phoenix would lean in from the other side and whisper, “I’ll watch – then you fuck my ass, but only if you pin….”
Never lost that year. Always pinned that year.