Maring Territory

It was when I threw a match in the third round of the U.S. Open that I fully realized I was obsessed by him. I wasn't afraid of going up against the young Miguel Herrera—the heartthrob of the tennis world groupies they had nicknamed the Argentine Firecracker. I had beaten him all three times we had met on the pro circuit the last two years. It was because I knew I was aging out of the circuit just as he was coming into his own here that I had thrown that match. We were both winning and might meet in the fourth round, and I couldn't have that. I couldn't be sure I'd win this time.

He was gorgeous and I could tell that he was becoming available. Until now, he had been sequestered by his coaches—his parents—since he was a child. They'd brought him to the states, to Bolettieri in Florida, at a very young age, and had always been there, watching him like eagles, homeschooling him, keeping him away from everyone not inside his tight circle, focusing him completely on developing his tennis and his lovely body. Even between matches, in the locker rooms, his body may have been on display and he certainly had the opportunity to see mine—I made sure that was so—but even then his father was at his side, protecting him from everyone buzzing around the wonder child.

Miguel had been headstrong. He had rebelled and acted out on the tennis court, and he had filed emancipation papers a year earlier, but all that had done was to make judges side with his parents long enough that when he finally got free of them, he had only exchanged their watchfulness for that of a court-appointed guardian. But he had finally gotten free of that as well, today, on his eighteenth birthday.

I knew he, the hard- tanned-bodied Latin honey with the sultry looks and the shock of black curly hair dipping down into his eyes, was interested in men. I could see it in his eyes in the locker room and I could see it in his face and his body movements when he faced me and others on the tennis court. But he hadn't had the opportunity. And obstinate rebel that he was, I knew that the smothering he had received contributed to his willingness to be bold and wild. My worry was that all of the other men I knew who might be interested, were, indeed, interested in Miguel. It was just a matter of who could get to him first.

I had to have him, and I had to master him before I ever lost a match to him. I had to have him not only on the tennis court, but in bed as well. I had to fuck him and—most important—I had to be the first one who fucked him. I had to mark my territory on the new generation of tennis stars before my own star faded away.

I made my move when he stopped by in the players' lounge to commiserate with me on my third round match loss. Ironically, he had lost too. But there was no time for regrets on having thrown my match unnecessarily. I quickly suggested that we play a match of our own on his hotel court the next day—the day he turned eighteen—and he accepted. I was worried enough that he would lose his virginity before I could get to him that I asked whether he wanted to go out that evening, but he flashed me a look of regret, tinged with a sultry come-hither look, pointed to the middle-aged child protection official plastered to his side, and said that, regrettably, he was still under wraps until the morning.

"We will just have to wait for tomorrow," he said. And he left me wondering whether that thought excited him half as much as it did me.

I met him in the lobby of the hotel, both of us dressed for tennis, bright and early the next morning. He turned toward the corridor out to the courts, but I touched him at the waist to get his attention, and said I had a better idea. That I had a limo waiting out front and thought we could go for a ride to some courts up the Hudson River near Hyde Park.

"You want me to take a ride with you?" he asked, a little confused.

I increased the pressure of my hand at his waist.

"More explicitly, I want to ride you." I said, volleying right for the point. "I've seen the way you've been eyeing me, and unless I'm mistaken, you are willing. I want to be the first one to ride you. Would I be?"

"Yes," Miguel responded in a weak voice. And I could feel him trembling under the pressure of my hand. I moved the other one to his waist, holding him up with both of my strong hands, making sure his knees wouldn't give out.

"Not here. I booked out at the tennis court, and . . ." Miguel mumbled.

"I have a car waiting outside. I didn't come for tennis," I said, crowding him, not giving him room to think it out, to come up with objections. "You need someone experienced for the first," I said, reasoning with him. "You're a young stallion. Everyone will want you. You have a brilliant career ahead of you, and I don't just mean on the tennis court. You need to be broken in right. I can do that for you. Come with me. Out of the hotel. Into the car. Into my arms. Let me be the first."

He put his hand on my arm and looked at the door to the street with hungry eyes, and I knew he was mine.

The limo, with its darkly smoked windows, was being driven by a friend of mine, an occasional fuck buddy who had agreed to cruise up the Hudson on parkways and back roads for as long as I wanted him to.

I handed Miguel into the back seat of the limo and I had my tennis shirt over my head as I entered behind him and my shorts stripped off before my butt hit the seat. I wasn't wearing anything under them. I had wanted to be ready for action.

I went to Miguel immediately, wrapping an arm around him, finding his lips with mine, forcing his hand into my lap so he could see how much I wanted him, how much I had to give him. I didn't want him to have time to rethink this. I captured his eyes with mine. His showed a fierce fight between fright and uncertainty on the one side and desire and wonder on the other. I let loose of his lips and buried my lips and teeth in his neck, while my hand went to measuring and weighing his cock and balls through the fabric of his tennis shorts. He gasped in surprise and I grunted in appreciation at what I found there. I stopped to strip off his T-shirt and then my hand went up to his belly and my mouth went back to sucking deeply along his neck below his ear—raising a bruise there, marking my territory for all to see for the week to come. I was here. I was here first.

He was burbling nothings with soft, rhythmic sounds, completely stunned by what was happening and with how fast it was happening. My hand slid down his belly, beyond his waistband, and grabbed his engorging cock and squeezed it hard. And this time it was I who gasped and he who grunted and threw his head back against the padded seat and began making funny little sounds at the back of his throat. I had gasped at the discovery that he hadn't been wearing anything under his tennis shorts either.

I stripped his shorts right off and turned and lifted his lithe body with my hands at his hips and just brought his cock to and into my mouth and drank him into me to the root, my hands now cupping his buttocks to my face. His body just sort of flopped around a bit in that awkward position, his knees hitting about midway up the seat back and his head at first in the back window well, watching the road race by, and then, as he arched his back and tried to rise, digging his fingers into my hair, either trying to pull my face off his cock or grind face and pelvis together, I knew not which, and eventually arching his back toward the front of the car, one hand holding onto a leather ceiling strap for leverage and the other scrabbling around, trying to find a grip in the rich velour covering the car's ceiling. At one point I left my attack on his cock to bite him hard enough where his plate-like belly folded into the top of his groin to make him cry out—mostly in surprise, not hard enough to make him scream in pain. He didn't know why I did this, but I knew why. Marking my territory. I was here first.

I moved my palms so that I could get the tips of a finger from each hand into his virginal hole, and Miguel came at the back of my throat quickly in the heavy, strong spurts of the virile, but-as-yet-little-used, youthful cum. I swallowed his sweet juice. He was mine.

I let him just collapse down into my lap then, facing me, his butt in my lap and his hands now spread on the floor of the car, trying to hold his torso up, as I docked our cocks together and stroked them lightly, captured his eyes with mine, and whispered endearments to him. My other hand was busy exploring his nipples and belly. I raised my legs with my feet buried in the thick cushioning on the backs of the seats in front of it, and Miguel relieved the pressure on his hands by laying his back along my legs.

After his breathing had calmed and he seemed rested, I dragged his hips up my chest, causing his legs to wishbone out wide, his athletic thighs bulging with muscle, as his feet found purchase out wide on the ceiling of the car. And I buried my face in the sweet, honest, youth smell of the rosebud between firm, yet creamy butt cheeks. Miguel moaned and made little gurgling sounds for me while I tongued and then fingered his ass, my fingers wet with the KY I'd had tucked in the seat cushion. He cried out in ecstasy as I slowly opened his ass to me—blowing on his tight rosebud to make him sigh and twitch, tonguing him deeply to make him moan, finger fucking him to make him gasp and grunt.

When he was sufficiently open, I slid my hands under him and sat him, facing me, in my lap again. He was on his haunches, his knees buried in the back of the seat cushion, sitting on my thighs, our cocks once more docked. I pulled a condom out from the seat cushions and made him open the packet and sheath my sword. I rubbed that down good with KY and then I lifted him with my hands cupped under his butt and positioned him on my now-throbbing cock.

He was pleading with me to go slowly, and I fully intended to do that, and spent considerable time just lodging the head of my cock inside the opening of his hole, when the car took an inconvenient lurch over a pothole, and I lost grip on his butt cheeks and he slid hard down my pole. He arched his back and screamed in pain. He was beating on my chest and trying to rise off me, but I figured that, since he was already fully skewered, he might as well stay that way and I just hugged him and held him close in my lap until his sobbing and trembling quieted down. Which it did in short time, and I felt his canal loosening and widening to accommodate me. I wasn't super big, so it wasn't as if he'd been split or anything.

After he had calmed down, we kissed, the tension draining out of him, and I told him to come up a little bit off my lap on his haunches, which he did and he arched his back and head so he was looking up at the ceiling, and grabbed his ankles with his hands. I fucked up into him slowly and deeply then and came before too long. I was nervous and highly aroused myself at my victory, and I couldn't hold off any longer. But I wasn't finished with him, and we were far up the Hudson River parkway, not even ready to turn back for the hotel yet.

I pulled him off me and set him back down on my lap and then rolled the used condom off my still half-hard cock and threw it on the floor. I rubbed my cum-slathered rod around his tender inner thighs until the cock was dry. Marking my territory.

I held Miguel there, his chest arched away from me, while I played with his nipples with my tongue and pulled on his cock. I buried my face in each of his pits in turn and inhaled the pungent-sweet aromas of the pure sweat of youth. He came a second time under the attention my hands were giving him while I tongued his pits and chest.

Then, hard again now myself, I made him roll another condom on my cock and I turned him to where he was sitting in the seat, his legs thrown out, one foot once more dug into the ceiling of the car and the other on the headrest for the driver's seat, and I knelt between his legs and fucked him again, my eyes holding his in thrall, watching his pain turn to desire, to lust, to ecstasy, the Argentine Firecracker meeting my thrusts with those of his own pelvis, fully into the fuck, fully mine.

When I'd cum again, I rose up on my knees on the car seat, my knees straddling his thighs, and pulled off the condom and threw it on the floor of the car. I went up on my feet, hovering over him then, keeping him imprisoned with my body, and rubbed my cum-wet cock over his nipples and chest and into his pits. He registered surprise, but he didn't fight me. He didn't even fight me when I forced my still-hard cock between his lips and made him suck off the rest of my semen. Semen I'd spilt between his legs. His first semen from a lover. His first cocksucking. Marking my territory; laying claim to yet another one of his firsts.

I tore open a condom packet and sheathed his cock then and came down on it in his lap, our bare chest chafing against each other as mine slid up and down his. Riding his cock now. Riding him long and hard. Making him grunt and groan and call out endearments and my name and his never-before-imagined love for fucking.

By the time he shot off up into me with the hot, strong fountaining of healthy youth—his first fucking and ejaculation inside a man's ass canal; my ass canal; me first—I was hard again. Another condom on my cock and I was fucking him again, his head now buried in the seat cushions, his knees fighting for purchase on the edge of the seat, and me behind him, fucking him hard, furiously, deep from behind. Shooting off. Sliding condom off and slapping my cock dry on the small of his back and on his tender butt cheeks. Marking my territory.

Another condom and the youthful, athletic Miguel suspended in air in the back seat of the limo. Fists wrapped around straps above the back seat doors on either side, heels dug into headrests of the front seats, head buried into the middle of the top of the back seat. Me hunched over in a half-standing position, between Miguel's outstretched legs and facing him, butt to the back of the middle of the front seat, my hands supporting the small of his back where it rose to his hips—suspending his body there, between the floor and the ceiling of the car, me stroking his hips back and forth on my cock. And just before I ejaculated, me bringing my mouth down to his nipple and biting him there. Marking my territory.

The limo now gliding back into New York City, the towers of the city visible now, if we had been looking for them. But we weren't looking for them. Athletes in our prime, even if an era apart, a last condom and me stroking him from behind in a side split, his leg waving in the air, and us stretched along the back seat of the car. Whispering endearments to each other. Making plans for meetings at future tournaments, although I knew in my heart that there weren't many more future tournaments for me. No matter. I had marked my territory in the next generation of tennis champions.

Later, I gathered up condoms strewn across the floor of the limousine—trophies for me to keep; better for me now than a U.S. Open trophy—even as Miguel would have internal trophies of my marking of my territory even if the more visible markings wouldn't last a week. No matter there, either. I knew it wouldn't be long before someone else was at him. Surely shorter than a week. And they would see and know that they weren't the first. As I gathered up the condoms, I smiled and gave a little laugh—remembering what Miguel whispered to me during our last coupling when I asked him about not having any underwear on. He had told me that I was so anxious to get him into the limo that I hadn't let him finish explaining. He had had no intention of playing tennis that morning either. He had booked a cabana at the hotel's sports center. He had already chosen me for his first.