Date: Mon, 4 Jun 2007 20:03:55 -0700 (PDT)
From: Roland Bearos <rolandbearos@yahoo.com>
Subject: An American in Paris

An American in Paris
  by Roland Bearos
  rolandbearos@yahoo.com

  This is my very first attempt at erotic fiction, but it's a fantasy I've
had for some time and nice to finally put it down in prose form.  There's
plenty of opportunity to build upon the story - let me know if you'd like for
me to.  This story is entirely fictitious, and is in no way intended to imply
anything about the true sexuality or the private lives of the characters
herein.  Enjoy...

  ----

  Robby Ginepri slumped wearily through the swinging locker room door, racket
bag slung over his shoulder.  He was immediately engulfed by two things - the
familiar and not unpleasant scent of sweaty young athletes and the exuberant
sounds of celebration.  He knew the Rolland Garros locker room pretty well -
this was his fifth appearance in the tournament.  The spacious locker room was
lined on opposite sides with impressive alcoves of mahogany finished lockers.
In the center of each was a cushioned U-shaped bench.  About halfway down the
center aisle, on the right, was the access to the wet area - showers, steam
room, sauna, Jacuzzi, lavatories - all those areas that make a horny
24-year-old glad to be a jock.

  Horniness, though, was the last thing Robby Ginepri felt at this moment.  His
defeat had left him utterly deflated - figuratively in his head, and literally
in, well, his other head.  He felt an even heightened sense of depression when,
from one of these clusters of lockers, came the loud, enthusiastic cheers and
congratulatory skin-slapping indicative of a recent victor at the 2007 French
Open.  Robby mustered up his bravest face and headed toward his locker, which
was at the far end of the locker room - the last alcove on the left.  On his
way, he passed the celebration - a group of Italians in support of their
compatriot who had just advanced to the second round.  He breathed a sigh of
relief that it was not the Argentinean who had just vanquished his own
opportunity to continue in the tournament.  That son of a bitch must still be
signing autographs.

  "Touch match, Rob," an Italian voice was heard over the cheers.

  "Grazie," he replied, continuing on his way.  "But congratulations to you
- good luck this week."

  Once in front of his locker, he dropped his bag to the floor and sat heavily
on the bench, replaying in his mind the worst of his many unforced errors.  The
reporters had been merciless in their questioning, and he could feel the rage
building inside of him.  He could tell he had let them down.  He had let
himself down.  Hell, he had let down an entire nation.  The only remaining
American in the first round of a Grand Slam tournament.  He had had the benefit
of a night's rest before completing his match, yet he still couldn't pull it
out.  The enormity of his loss really started to hit him and his fists clenched
in anger, frustration, disappointment, and self-loathing.  At this point the
anger was overpowering all else, and he bolted to his feet, rearing back to
punch the locker.

  Releasing a guttural cry as he swung, his mind flash forwarded to several
weeks of his hand encased in plaster, several more weeks of rehabilitation, and
the potential for a career-ending loss of grip.  He swung and, at the last
moment, redirected his fist just past the locker, feeling the abundant hair on
his arm bristle with the force of the blow, and fell to his knees, punching
instead the padding where he had just been sitting.

  His heart again racing, he collapsed against the bench and rested his head in
the crook of his arm.

  "Good choice," a voice descended upon him from a few feet away.  "That
would have been a hell of break."

  Robby looked up and offered a weak smile.  "Nah.  I'm sure they've got a
warehouse full of these locker doors somewhere.  Easy enough to replace."

  "But you've only got one serving hand.  I'd hate to see you fuck that
up."

  "Well," Robby sighed, "it looks like I get to use that hand for something
else for the next two weeks," lifting his fist and demonstrating the
internationally known genuflect to the masturbation gods.

  Andy Roddick, who had been ousted not 24 hours earlier, chuckled and said,
"I'm free to join you."

  That brought a genuine smile to Robby's thin lips, revealing his perfectly
straight, white teeth.  Lifting himself up off the floor and plopping back down
on the bench, he patted the empty space next to him.  "Come on in and make
yourself comfortable."

  Smiling sympathetically, Andy joined his buddy on the bench where they sat
side-by-side, mirror images of each other.  Legs spread wide, hunched over with
elbows on their knees, each with his hands clasped together before him.  Their
upper arms were close to touching, but neither was quite at ease enough to take
that bold step toward physical intimacy.  The only touching that had gone on
between them was the occasional, but in each player's mind not frequent
enough, handshake at the end of a match.  Though Roddick was clearly leading in
their career matches, each of them respected the other and relished every
opportunity to stand on opposite sides of the net.

  Andy admired Robby's determination and ability to make shots with the same
force and precision as Andy himself.  He had started noticing recently that he
also found himself admiring Robby's physique.  If he wasn't playing a match
of his own, Andy would head to whichever court Robby was playing on and sit in
the stands watching his muscular frame: his thick quads and bulging calves and
thighs; his defined but not obscenely large biceps; and, every so often, if he
was at just the right angle when Robby's shirt rode up -he usually chose his
seat to maximize this opportunity - tight abs, covered with a light dusting of
dark brown hair.  It was Robby's musculature that had inspired Andy to start a
workout regimen of his own to try and transform what he had always perceived to
be a scrawny frame.

  As if reading his mind, Robby said, "Nice cover on Men's Fitness this
month, by the way.  I hadn't noticed before, but you've got some serious guns
there."

  Andy blushed and kept his gaze toward the floor so as not to meet Robby's
eye.  "Aw, thanks.  It's taken a lot of work, but I like the results.  I
don't know if I'm ready to show them off like yours, though."  At that point
Andy made a quick glance in Robby's direction, acknowledging the arms that
Robby so proudly displays with his sleeveless shirts.

  "You think I'm showing off my arms?"  Robby chuckled.  "I'm just trying
to stay cool, man.  Nothing distracts me more than sweat running down my sides.
And these things leak like a sieve," he said, lifting his arm, exposing a wet,
hairy, and rather pungent armpit.  "The more air I can get to them the
better."  Robby left his arm raised, reaching back between his shoulder blades
to scratch an itch.

  Andy couldn't resist turning fully toward Robby, finding his face inches
from Robby's ripe pit.  An audible gasp escaped Andy's lips as the odor
attacked his nose and, inexplicably, his crotch.

  "Yeah, I know," Robby admitted, bashfully lowering his arm.  "But imagine
how rank I'd be if I wore t-shirts like yours."  He reached over and grabbed
the sleeve of Andy's t-shirt, lifting it up toward his shoulder, exposing
Andy's upper arm.  "Damn, that's nice," Robby admired.

  "Thanks." Andy shifted uncomfortably on the bench.  "Don't be too
impressed - I just finished working out down at the gym.  They're pretty
pumped up right now."

  "I'll say," Robby said.  With this, he wrapped his hand around the bulge
above Andy's elbow, and whistled.  "I figured you'd either been lifting or
out on the practice court.  Seems you're pretty sweaty yourself."  While
Robby's fingers were now nearly caressing Andy's bicep, his thumb crept into
the cleft under Andy's arm, finding Andy's moist and furry pit.

  Normally quite susceptible to tickling, Andy felt nothing close to ticklish
with Robby's thumb now wedged under his arm.  The only thing he felt was a
further swelling in his jockstrap.  He looked into Robby's eyes and found
himself completely speechless.

  Robby sensed the direction this exchange was heading, and, while it was
something he had fantasized about for months, he wasn't sure if Andy would at
all be receptive to his awkward advances.  So he gave Andy's arm one last
squeeze and released it, allowing his fingers to caress the smooth skin and
protruding veins.  "You probably did the right thing staying in the gym rather
than coming to the court and watching me fuck over the entire delegation,"
Robby mumbled, breaking Andy's gaze and leaning over his knees again, staring
at the floor in shame.

  "Aw, don't do that, man," Andy said.  "You can't take on the fuck ups of
eight other guys.  I sure as hell am only accepting my own failure, and I know
the other guys are doing the same.  You just had the shitty luck of being the
last one out there."  With that, Andy reached behind Robby and placed his hand
on his friend's back.  Andy couldn't have explained it if asked, but he had
the sense that Robby was starved for physical contact and was looking to Andy
to make him feel better.  They sat like that for several seconds.

  Suddenly, Robby sat up straight and reached behind his head trying to swat at
his back.  Andy quickly removed his hand, worried that he had misread Robby's
emotional state and now concerned that he had crossed a line he'd never be
invited back to.  And he realized then that he was tired of kidding himself -
he wanted to be invited back to Robby's touch.  But now he was berating
himself for descending upon a wounded Robby Ginepri, who was certainly in no
place to give Andy the response he had dreamed of for so long.

  Rather than brushing Andy's hand away - the last thing Robby wanted to do -
he tried to get at the same itch that had been plaguing him since the fall
he'd taken on the court.  "That damn clay," he said, squirming beneath his
shirt.  "That's one bad thing about having no sleeves - the clay has better
access to your chest and back.  You know how it itches."

  "I sure do," Andy agreed.  Again he was hypnotically close to the dense,
fragrant forest under Robby's arm.  He was close enough to notice the telltale
red coloration of Rolland Garros clay scattered through the dark brown hair.
Before he could stop himself, he reached out and combed his fingers through the
thick bush of armpit hair.  Robby, showing a similar lack of restraint,
immediately cooed, "Aaaah."  His eyes closed and seemed to roll back in his
head as Andy continued to scratch at Robby's pit, releasing a fresh onslaught
of man scent.  They both purred as Andy slipped his other hand under the back
of Robby's shirt trying to scratch at the itch between his shoulder blades.
Robby slumped toward his buddy, leaning back into Andy's hard chest.  This
placed Robby's head on Andy's shoulder with Andy's lips mere centimeters
from Robby's ear.  Andy's breath, which had been steadily increasing over the
past few minutes, was now rushing across Robby's ear and neck.

  "Oh, God," sighed Robby.

  "Feel good?" Andy foolishly asked, as his hand crept from Robby's pit into
the opening of the muscle shirt, brushing against a hard nipple and scratching
at the pelt across Robby's chest.  Andy, slow in developing his own chest
hair, always envied the likes of Pete Sampras and Roger Federer for their
plentiful chest hair.  But no envy - or lust - was greater than that for Robby.
He never dreamed he'd have the chance to run his fingers through the thick,
shortish straight hair that completely covered his pecs and descended into a
dark straight line separating his abs, then fanning out across them in brunette
feathers.  But here he was with Robby Ginepri leaning back into him, obviously
enjoying his ministrations on his hirsute muscles - obvious because the front
of Robby's shorts was growing an unmistakable bulge - another fantasy of
Andy's that he dared not rush toward, lest he fuck up this incredible moment.

  "Feels so fucking good," Robby murmured, nuzzling the back of his head into
the crook of Andy's shoulder.

  Andy was disappointed - and confused - when Robby lowered his arm, forcing
him to remove his hand from inside Robby's shirt.  But his disappointment was
immediately erased when Robby's arm came down and rested on Andy's thigh,
placing his elbow squarely against his throbbing dick.  Andy could tell Robby
was trying to be aggressive, but hesitant enough to appear innocent.  So Andy
helped him along by grabbing that glorious bicep and pulling it toward his own
abdominals, grinding his crotch into Robby's elbow.

  Robby felt Andy press his hard dick against his arm and immediately knew that
this day, while being one of the worst in his professional career, would end up
being one of the best in his post-pubescent sexual development.  He kept his
arm exactly where it was, pressing his elbow into Andy's swelling crotch and
running his hand all over Andy's knee and quad, even reaching under him to
massage his beefy thigh.  Then Robby, sensing that Andy liked his scent, raised
his other arm and reached behind him to run his fingers through Andy's blonde
hair.  Andy, appreciative of the maneuver, immediately reached up and grabbed a
handful of Robby's armpit hair, tugging on it gently, then digging his
fingernails through to the skin.

  "God damn that's nice," Andy exhaled into Robby's ear.  "I gotta get me
some of that on my face."

  "First things first," Robby replied, turning toward Andy and pulling his
face down to his.  Andy didn't even see it coming, but couldn't have been
happier when Robby's mouth locked onto his and began furiously sucking his
tongue practically out of his head.  Andy leaned his body back along the bench,
pulling Robby's with him.  In a miracle of physics, considering the narrow
width of the bench, they both remained on the bench, Robby now planted firmly
atop Andy, grinding his crotch into Andy's and supporting himself with his
arms up over Andy's head.  After exploring each other's mouth with their
tongues, Robby forcefully broke the kiss and proceeded to give Andy exactly
what he wanted - some of his scent right in his face.

  Andy immediately missed Robby's hot tongue as soon as he withdrew it from
his mouth.  But he soon felt nourished again when Robby's ripe pit came
crashing down on his face.  As best he could, Andy took a deep whiff of Robby
and nearly passed out from intoxication.  The smell was incredible and Andy's
head started swimming.  He opened his lips wide and was rewarded with a
mouthful of thick, matted, sweaty fur, tastier than he could ever have
imagined.  He ran his lips and tongue up and down the crevice of Robby's pit,
savoring every last bit of stench on each individual hair.

  With the assault on his nose and tongue, and the forceful grinding of
Robby's hard dick against his own, Andy couldn't stop the orgasm that was
building inside his heavy cum-filled balls.  He had been training for this
tournament for so long and had refrained from sex of any kind - including his
usual twice-a-day jack off session - that the cum was boiling over inside his
sac.  With one hand, he pulled Robby's shoulder down and licked and sucked
like he was eating his first meal in days.  With his other, he grabbed Robby's
ass and pulled him down against him as hard as he could, fucking his
jock-encased cock against the rock hard pressure of Robby's cock which Andy
could only surmise, based on current evidence, was enormous.  Andy could feel
on his fingers the dampness of Robby's ass sweat soaked through his shorts,
and he dug his fingers into the crack of his ass, feeling the muscular mounds
squeeze tight around his hand.  This sent Andy over the edge and he screamed
 into Robby's pit as his cock filled his jock with shot after shot of thick,
creamy boycum.  He fucked and fucked against Robby until his balls were empty
and their bellies were soaked.

  Robby luxuriated in the feel of Andy's mouth covering every hair in his pit,
and his hard, thick, eight-and-a-half inch cock was feeling doubly good as it
pressed harder and harder against Andy's body trapped beneath him.  Robby, who
never wore a jock, only tight briefs, could make out the rough cotton material
of Robby's jock as it rubbed against his own like a ribbed condom.  Andy's
muffled cry in his pit alerted Robby to the wave of cum that he soon felt
leaking from Andy's shorts, making a hot, sticky mess of his treasure trail.
He had to feel that cum on his cock.  He had to lube up his own pole with that
juice and shoot a load in answer to the sweet jizz now dribbling out of Andy's
hard prick.  Robby reached down between them and yanked down the front of his
shorts and briefs, freeing his huge dick, which was already slick with its own
precum and the bit of Andy's cum that soaked through the two layers of
material.  Andy looked down to see his new lover's meat and
 his heavy breathing stopped as he took in the sight of Robby's perfectly
shaped cut cock, surrounded at the base by a huge mound of that beautiful dark
hair.  Robby laid back down on top of Andy's stomach, sliding his cock up and
down along Andy's blonde treasure trail, using the cum, precum, and copious
sweat as the best lube imaginable.  Andy reached inside the back of Robby's
shorts, under his briefs, and was rewarded with the furriest ass he had ever
felt.  The ass cheek he felt was just as hairy and just as wet as Robby's
armpit, and Andy and Robby both groaned at Andy's touch.  Andy reached his
other hand inside the other side of Robby's shorts and grabbed the other furry
cheek, squeezed them both hard, and pulled the jock down on top of him in
perfect rhythm with Robby's strokes.

  Again, Robby bent down and sucked hard on Andy's mouth, savoring the taste.
Andy kissed back with fiery enthusiasm, still pulling Robby to him with a firm
hold of his ass.  Robby wanted nothing more than to strip off his muscle shirt
and offer his hair-covered chest to Andy - he knew now that's what Andy
wanted.  But there was no stopping the orgasm that was now building inside his
own balls.  The friction of his rock hard cock against Andy's solid abs was
sending him to that place.  That glorious place where -

  And suddenly, he felt Andy's fingers dig deep inside the crack of his ass.
Andy pulled Robby's cheeks apart, exposing his hairy pink rosebud, just
begging to be explored.  There was ample sweat clinging to the hair surrounding
Robby's tight, furry asshole, and that was all the lube Andy needed as he
shoved a finger deep inside Robby's ass lips, sending him into orbit.  He
cried out uncontrollably.

  "Gaaawwdddd yyyeessss fuuucck!"

  Robby's cock had managed to slip underneath the front of Andy's t-shirt,
and it proceeded to shoot wad after wad of cum across Andy's belly and up to
his chest, where it pooled between Andy's hard pecs.  He kept on pumping his
hips against Andy, relishing the feel of Andy's abs massaging his cock and
Andy's finger, which was now past the second knuckle, massaging the inside of
his asshole.  It was the most intense orgasm he had ever experienced, and he
didn't want it to ever end.  The front of Andy's t-shirt soaked up the cum
that was still flying furiously from Robby's cock, and the two of them were
now bathed in the intoxicating smell of cum and sweat.  They both grunted and
groaned as their mouths once again found each other and, as Robby's orgasm
subsided, they embraced in a long spit-swapping kiss.

  Robby collapsed on top of Andy, his hips finally ceasing their rocking
motion.  His cock had stopped its spasming, and his asshole was starting to
tighten around the finger now impaled inside it, urging Andy to slip out of
his, until now, virgin hole.  Andy took the hint and let Robby's ass muscles
push his finger out, creating an emptiness that Robby had never felt.  Robby's
head lay against Andy's shoulder and they both heaved mightily trying to catch
their breath.

  "Holy fuck," panted Robby.

  "Uh-huh," Andy offered, barely able to utter any intelligible sound.

  They lay like that for just a few minutes, until they were both suddenly
aware of their surroundings - and the company that had formed outside their
locker area.  Four stark naked, hairy Italian tennis jocks simply stood there,
mouths gaping open.  Each of them kept his eyes focused on the sight before
him, mesmerized by the cum-covered Americans.  And each of them had a fist
around his thick, engorged, uncut cock standing at attention, slowly stroking.

  Nonchalantly, Andy, who was beginning to feel weak under the weight of
Robby's bulk, whispered into Robby's ear, "So when are you leaving Paris?"

  "Probably tomorrow."

  "Maybe we can meet up back at the hotel and see if there's any reason we
might want to stay here a few more days."

  "That's true," Robby agreed.  "There is lots of tennis to watch."

  The two grinned at each other, collected themselves off of the bench, and
sauntered toward the shower area to wash off the cum that was now starting to
crystallize on their six-pack abs.  Silently they passed the Italians, who were
still standing dumbfounded.  As he walked past, Andy quickly surveyed the
foursome, and then gave a sly wink to the one with the thickest pelt on his
chest.