Ticet to Ride

Will ride for one ticket to Saturday's Stingrays game and dinner. Box 482. Include pic/stats.

The notice at the Tampa underground newspaper was short and simple and was accompanied by a thumbnail photo and URL to his Web page at a gay dating site. Ryan hadn't tried this approach before, but he'd been told it worked for other guys—as long as you didn't get too picky. He really, really wanted to go to the semipro basketball game. The Stingrays were hot, hot, hot this year, especially that power forward Shane Thompson. Ryan just hoped he was advertising in time. The paper hit the stands Monday; he probably should have given it more than a week.

By Thursday he decided the scheme was working as far as offers went—he knew there wasn't anything a guy interested in such stuff wouldn't be interested in when they checked out his photo and Web site—but out of a dozen contacts there were a dozen toads. Most of them so old Ryan was surprised they could walk to the seats in the basketball arena.

Thursday night he was panicked. Friday morning he was resigned that he wasn't going to the Stingrays' game the next afternoon. But when he checked the box at the underground newspaper's office, he found one envelope. Inside the envelope what he found was not the requested photo and stats, but an actual ticket to the game and copy of a menu for the exclusive Charter House restaurant right on Tampa Bay.

He was leery about not getting stats, and now he was faced with the decision to take the plunge or sell the ticket. It didn't seem ethical to sell the ticket, though, assuming it was a real ticket, which he'd only find out if he tried using it. What the hell, he thought. By today even some of the toads who'd answered his ad earlier in the week were looking better and better. This wasn't a promise of a ticket; it was the ticket. He went home to decide what to wear. It would have to be both sporty and a bit dressy if they were going to the Charter House. Good thing that, as a male model, he had great taste and fit and had just about any event covered in his closet.

Surprise, surprise. The ticket got him into the arena on Saturday afternoon. He'd decided on tailored trousers, an expensive polo shirt that fit his cut physique like a glove, and tasseled leather loafers with footsie socks that looked like he wasn't wearing any. Oh, and black mesh bikini briefs, with a pouch that pushed his junk out front. An even greater surprise when he entered the arena was that the seat was a great one, down just off the floor and at the side of the court.

The guys on either side of the seat, which Ryan lived in fear that he'd find was a duplicate ticketed seat and he'd be the one very publicly tossed out of it, were already there and in place. Both were burly and middle aged. Both were expensively dressed. Both were toads. And neither showed enough interest in him for him to even begin to ask which one of them was his date. Each had a young bimbo on the other side of him to mesh with during the time outs.

Ten regulation minutes into the game, he found himself spending more time trying to figure out how to solve this mystery then following the play on the court, although the Stingrays were on fire—or rather their star power forward, Shane Thompson, was on fire. The short forward, Jared Jackson, was being great on helping Thompson get into position, but Thompson was finding the basket from nearly every spot on the floor. He was making the basket three times for every miss.

At the ten-minute mark Ryan's mystery was solved. Jackson was giving Thompson body protection as Thompson went for a shot, which he made, but a player on the other side, desperately trying to reach Thompson before he could make a shot, fouled Jackson. The collision was one that the solid Jackson withstood, but it sent the other player to the floor with a howl, writhing on the floor, and grabbing at a wounded limb.

As the medics came onto the floor and others gathered around the downed player, Jackson turned to the stands—he was nearly within reach of where Ryan sat—winked directly at Ryan, and called out "Dinner at the Charter House. Stay put afterward. Someone will come for you."

The men on either side of Ryan turned and hit him with questioning looks, and all Ryan could think of, while he was blushing, was to swivel his torso and head around and look up the rows behind him as if the message was being sent further up in the stands.

He trembled and fidgeted the rest of the game, unable to get completely comfortable for the hard on that just wouldn't go away and that he was sure the men on either side of him were aware of even though the game was such a slugfest and their dates were so demanding and needy that there wasn't much opportunity for their minds to wander.

A ticket for a ride.

Ryan could fill in the stats for Jackson himself, with the help of the glossy program the guy sitting next to him was leafing through. Six eight and 240 pounds. Solidly built. Ryan was five nine and 150 pounds soaking wet. Ryan could only hyperventilate at the possible other stat that was significant. The man's hands were the size of baseball mitts, and his feet were at least size thirteen. And as far as a photo, Ryan didn't need any. There were photos enough of the handsome, chocolate brown player, with dreadlocks down to his shoulders, tattoos all over the body that was exposed in uniform shots. And he was right out there on the court for Ryan to watch his movements resembling those both of a dancer and prize fighter.

There was no doubt about it; Jared Jackson was a black bull. And probably as virile as a bull. Was it only one ride Ryan had promised? It was a good thing that the play on the court had justified a roaring cheer in the crowd, because Ryan could hear himself moan.

* * * *

"Hold still and open for me," Jared murmured in a deep, soothing voice.

"Go slow," Ryan whimpered. God, it had to be almost eight inches. And thick and throbbing. Ryan had nearly had to unhinge his jaw getting it into his mouth, although Jared had been good and undemanding about that—like he'd been about everything so far. It was Ryan who wanted the bragging rights of throating it all—if he could. Which he couldn't quite.

They were standing in the middle of Jared's plush bedroom, with the floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over Tampa Bay from many stories up, a bedroom that was dominated by a king-sized bed, which Ryan was looking at with both arousal and trepidation. Jared had also asked him to stay the night, and Ryan had agreed. Jared had also made clear that he would fuck Ryan multiple times, but he had couched it as both a request and as an experience Ryan didn't want to miss. The man was a smooth-tongued devil. Ryan had agreed to it all.

But with the mushroom cap of an eight incher already buried inside him up to the rim for the first time, pulsing and coaxing Ryan open . . .

"Oh, fuck, be good to me," Ryan cried out. He was standing—or had been standing up to a few seconds ago, naked, with Jared, also magnificently naked standing behind him, his arms wrapped around Ryan's belly and chest. Ryan had lifted and turned his head and Jared had lowered and turned his to go into a deep kiss as Ryan felt the pressure of Jared's strong arm pulling Ryan's feet off the floor, the small of his back dragging along Jared's upcurved, rock hard, throbbing, jet-black cock until the bulb of the cock slid between Ryan's butt cheeks and pressed at Ryan's entrance.

Jared had already been on his knees behind Ryan, an arm wrapped around the smaller man, holding him upright, and his other hand encasing and stroking Ryan's cock, with time outs to pull on and squeeze Ryan's ball sac, while Jared's long, pink tongue ate out and teased open Ryan's hole.

There was no way, though, that Ryan's channel was going to be open enough to comfortably take the cock—at least not the first time.

Jared had whispered, "Don't worry, we'll get it to fit like a glove the third or fourth time," which was said soothingly enough and probably was meant to reassure, but it only made Ryan hyperventilate.

"Open to me, baby. Open to me," Jared hissed as they groaned in harmony on the slow deep penetration, Jared slowly pulling Ryan's channel down on the jet-black staff.

He held there for a moment, buried to the root, as Ryan moaned, "Oh, shit, oh Jezus. It's so big. Oh fuck." Ryan's face was buried in the hollow of Jared's shoulder and he was gripping Jared's biceps with the nails of both hands.

"Let loose and slowly bend forward. Reach for the floor with your hands," Jared commanded. "Don't worry, I've got you. We're about to go downtown with this." As Ryan slowly jackknifed forward, reaching for the carpet and letting his head dangle as Jared bent his knees and went into a half crouch, taking the weight of the smaller man on his beefy thighs. His hands went to clutching Ryan's waist on each side. He started to pull Ryan, doubled over and suspended in front of him, on and off the cock, slowly, but with increasing depths of slide.

Throughout, although he was fucking Ryan with a mammoth cock, he took it slow and handled Ryan gently and tenderly.

Jared had been a perfect gentleman all evening. At the end of the game, Ryan had remained in his seat until an usher came to him and escorted him to a private dressing room, with a shower, where Jared appeared and let Ryan watch him shower and dress. When clothed, the basketball player looked more stylish and ready for an expensive restaurant than Ryan did.

He drove to the restaurant in a Jaguar roadster, advised Ryan on the menu as if he ate there regularly, which, as far as Ryan knew, he did, and expertly selected the wine, pronouncing French like he was a native. Ryan wouldn't know if he was doing it well, but the waiter seemed impressed, which impressed Ryan.

Jared was a smooth conversationalist, certainly more glib than Ryan was and able to cover a wide range of subject matter. This wasn't at all what Ryan had expected to find in a black basketball player—or in any guy he hooked up with to get a ticket to the game, for that matter. He was completely disarmed—at least until they got to Jared's apartment and where swaying against each other, half undressed, in the center of Jared's bedroom, and Ryan had gotten the measure of Jared's cock with his hand.

Even then Jared took it slow, taking charge of completing their undress, taking time to kiss and fondle, whispering encouragement and assurance. And then fucking Ryan slow and easy, standing, with Ryan doubled over and being held buttocks to groin.

Jared filled out the bulb of his condom before Ryan came a second time. Ryan had been so keyed up that he'd come with Jared kissing him and stroking him through the material of his trousers in the garage parking space even before coming upstairs to Jared's apartment.

After the standing fuck, Jared gently carried Ryan over to the bed and laid his back down on the edge. Leaning over to kiss Ryan on the lips, he then moved his mouth down Ryan's body to his groin and swallowed his cock, causing Ryan to shudder and groan—and eventually to come again. After that Jared stood, moved between Ryan's thighs, pressed his forehead to Ryan's, and kept Ryan's eyes captured by his as he entered Ryan's channel again and slow fucked him to another ejaculation.

It went on like that off and on all night, with Ryan expecting the hunky basketball player to get more physical, more demanding.

But he never did. He was gentle and tender with Ryan, doing everything he could to open Ryan to the size of him. And by the morning Jared had managed to ream Ryan to his specifications. "You'll thank me for this," we whispered to Ryan before they rose from the bed, which Ryan didn't think about at the time and only understood later. Jared fixed Ryan a big breakfast, and drove him back to his own apartment.

It was a date that totally exceeded Ryan's expectations. When he got up to his apartment he realized that nothing had been said about them meeting again. He regretted that. In addition to the sex—and the tender attention that went with it—Jared was in a position to comp game tickets to Ryan. The ticket for a ride concept had no downside when it was with Jared.

For the next couple of days, Ryan wondered if he'd try to contact Jared through the team office—which might just tick Jared off—or put another ad in the underground newspaper.

Tuesday's mail obviated his need to think further about that.

* * * *

Scrawled on the envelope Ryan pulled out of his post-office box at the underground newspaper was the phrase "Ticket to Ride." Enclosed was a ticket to the Stingray's basketball game the next Saturday afternoon. But there also was a piece of notepaper that merely said, "Six nine, 250, and nine by two."

Ryan smiled. He thought Jared Jackson was bragging just a bit. Ryan was a pretty good at measurements and even the game program on the Stingrays that Ryan had looked at as the guy sitting next to him at the previous Saturday's game had logged Jared in at six eight and 240 pounds. The programs usually exaggerated on the big side. Monday's sports casts had said there was a trade in the offing that might send Jared to St. Louis, and that had bothered Ryan—he wanted to see Jared again—but that must have fallen through or was for sometime down the trail.

On Saturday afternoon, Ryan arrived at the basketball arena looking forward to a repeat evening with Jared. This time he'd dressed a bit more upscale for going to a ritzy restaurant after the game but sexier underneath—a gold lamé G-string pouch. He bought a game program, which he hadn't done the previous Saturday, because he thought he'd get Jared to sign it for him. Leafing through the program, though, he was unable to find the listing for Jared.

He mentioned the omission to the usher at the top of the section his ticket was for.

"Jared Jackson? He's history, man. He was traded and hauled ass out of here last Monday for St. Louis. Trading him was a mistake, if you asked me. He was a real stud."

You don't know the half of it, a surprised and confused Ryan thought. But he just thanked the guy and got directions to his seat, which was as good and as near to the playing floor as the one from the previous Saturday had been. He do his best to enjoy this game; the ticket conduit through Jared had been a good, albeit short lived, one.

Once again, it wasn't that long into the game when there was a lull in the play and Ryan was looking through the program again, willing Jared's photo and stats still to be in there, even though he wasn't among the players on the floor. The guy nudged him and pointed to the court when Ryan looked up.

The Stingray's star player, the power forward Shane Thompson, was standing and staring up at him from the edge to the court. He raised one of those arms of his that was famous for his wingspread, pointed directly at Ryan, and growled, "You."

At that moment Ryan understood what he meant—and also now understand the stats that were written on the notepaper that had come with the ticket for today's game. He just hoped to god that those around him didn't understand what Shane meant—what he wanted—what he obviously assumed that Ryan would give him.

* * * *

"Cute," Shane said, with laughter in his voice, as he unsnapped the side straps of Ryan's G-string, pulled it away, and tossed it on the floor of the same room in the locker room area where Jared had let Ryan watch him shower and dress the previous Saturday.

"Guess that means you're a pro and I don't have to go easy."

Ryan gulped. That hadn't been the meaning he'd intended—and he hoped Shane was joking about that.

It was obvious to Ryan that there was to be no dinner in a fancy restaurant and no erudite conversation with Shane as there had been with Jared. Also no romantic, gentle, and tender lovemaking in a plush apartment overlooking Tampa Bay.

As soon as Ryan had been escorted to the room and the usher had departed and shut the door behind him, Shane, coming naked out of the shower, pushed Ryan down on his knees and made the young man give his nine by two—which Ryan now readily believed he had—a blow job. Then it was Ryan's upscale clothes being stripped from him and tossed aside, and Ryan being hauled up and tossed, back down, on a massage table.

Off came the gold lamé G-string, and in, painfully, went the power forward's thick fingers in Ryan's channel. Then some tonguing, but in short order Shane giving Ryan all nine thick inches in the ass in a vigorous pistoning. It was now that Ryan understood—and appreciated—Jared's whispered comment that he'd be glad that Jared had reamed his passage to the needs of a big cock.

It wasn't all night. It was just that once, in the private locker room. But to Ryan it felt like a steamroller had driven over him, backed up, and driven over him again. It was nothing like Jared. The two of them had fucked repeatedly throughout the night, but Ryan had not been as exhausted, bruised, and totally fucked by Jared as he was with just the one taking by Shane.

Shane showered again afterward. Ryan was still lying, spread out on the top of the message table, panting and moaning, as Shane dressed. Before the basketball player left the room, having thrown a twenty-dollar bill on Ryan's shuddering chest and growling, "Jared said dinner was supposed to come with the lay. Get yourself something nice from McDonalds," Shane also dropped another envelope on Ryan's chest.

When Shane was gone and Ryan was able to sit up and look at the envelope, he saw that it had "Ticket to Ride" written on it in an elegant script. Inside was a season ticket to the skybox section.

Ryan was to learn the next Wednesday night when he appeared at the next Stingrays' home game to check out what this latest ticket was all about that his seat was in the club owner's skybox. When he entered the box, the faces of four middle-aged, not-fully-in-shape men in expensive clothes looked up at him with assessing eyes.

Ryan wondered which of them he would have to service to pursue his interest in watching Stingray home games. With his luck, it would have to be all of them.