39: Dex (Houston)

Dex and the outline for this story were developed in collaboration with 'Boxtp' (Twitter: Boxtp1, Instagram: terryboxtp). The story itself was then written by me. This installment is a testament to the vibrant, hot creativity of Louche Lothario readers. I invite you to celebrate this art by diving into the narrative. If you’re interested in collaborating on your own story, please fill out this form with all your depraved details. Your ideas could inspire Leo’s next steamy adventure.

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The Houston humidity clung to my skin like a second shirt as I stepped out of the hotel, the day's client meetings already fading into the buzz of the night. Work wrapped early and I'd forced down a light dinner of grilled chicken and greens at some chain spot near the Galleria. It sat in my gut, not enough to satisfy the restlessness coiling under my ribs. Back in the Heights as a kid, nights like this meant sneaking into garages or empty lots, pounding makeshift heavy bags until my knuckles split. Now, in my thirties, it pulled me toward Kinsey Gym.

The current owner, Marc, was a friend of mine from a high school sparring camp.

"Driskill," he'd grunted over the phone last week, voice thin from years of coaching. "You still hit like a truck? Door's yours after hours. Lock up tight, and wipe the sweat off of everything."

The spare key sat in the cup holder as I drove the rental across town, streetlights blurring the strip malls as I glided further into the city center toward Montrose. 

The small parking lot was empty under the glow with gravel crunching under my sneakers. I grabbed my bag and crossed to the side door, the chain-link fence to my side rattling in the breeze. I pushed inside, the air stale with the scent of old leather, cooler than the night outside.

The door creaked shut behind me, echoing off the high ceilings. I was just about to flip the main switches, but a glow spilled from the far corner, where the heavy bags hung like meat in a butcher shop in the dim light that was already on. Shadows moved across the mats, and there he stood. His back was turned at first.

The man pivoted, eyes locking on mine before I could drop my bag. 

You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. Dex. Broader now, that same messy brunette hair cropped shorter, stubble shadowing his jaw. His insane abs shifted as he straightened, his gloves already discarded on the bench.

I froze mid-step, the air stagnate between us. He held my gaze, jaw tightening, but his mouth stayed shut. No smirk, no challenge. Just a stare, heavy as the humidity.

I nodded once, slung my bag toward the lockers, and let the silence settle.

I drifted toward the heavy bag in the corner, its worn leather scarred from years of fists. Dex's eyes tracked me but I ignored him, stepped up, and threw a straight right. The thud echoed, solid, seeming to pull air from the room.

High school flooded back with the rhythm. Dex had been different. Most kids left me alone. I was a well-built wrestler known for the way I could pin a guy on the mats. But Dex was an asshole with a crew. Once I started driving and was no longer protected by the crowds around the school buses after school, Dex and his buddies would corner me after practice in the empty parking lot where the students' cars were parked. Three or four of Dex's buddies (depending on the day) would pin my arms while he unloaded on my gut. Flurries, brutal and unrelenting, knuckles sinking into my guts once he broke past my abs. I’d grunt, double over, and the jeers of Dex and his ghouls would ring in my ears all the way home. It hurt like hell, the wind knocked out of me, nausea twisting my insides. There was no fetish thrill then; not in that context, anyway. This wasn't consensual. It was merely schoolyard bullying from this dork with muscles and his cronies.

Now, though, the bag took it all. Left hook. Thud. Right cross. Thud. Sweat beaded on my forehead, the impacts steadying the knot in my chest as I knew Dex was watching. He kept his distance, arms crossed over those carved abs, but the punches pulled me level. The past a mere echo in the swing of my fist.

Dex's shadow fell across the bag as he crossed the mats, sneakers silent on the rubber. I kept swinging, each thud echoing between us in the empty boxing gym. He stopped a few feet away, rubbing the back of his neck, eyes on me.

Sweat dripped from my brow. I paused, gloves clenched.

"Been a while, Leo," he started, voice low, like testing ice. "You look... good."

The words hung, flat as the air in here.

"How’s New York?"

I grabbed the bag, stilling its sway with one hand. Turned slow. Met his eyes, my own stare hard and unblinking.

"We don't have to be friends. I'm just here to work out."

His shoulders dropped a notch. He stepped back, palms up, fingers loose.

"One round. Just us."

My jaw clenched, muscle jumping under skin. I held the stare a second longer. Then nodded. Once.

We moved to the ring, ropes creaking as we ducked through. I took the far corner. He claimed the opposite, stancing up, abs carving shadows over his core in the overhead light.

I slipped the mouthguard between my teeth, the plastic settling against my molars. Dex mirrored me, his jaw working around it, eyes narrowing as he bounced on his toes. No words. No bullshit about fair play or tapping out. 

Bare knuckled, skin on skin, and one-on-one: the way it should've been 15 years ago.

We circled to the center, canvas creaking under our feet. Our fists bumped, knuckles grazing in a spark that shot up my arm as I realized I did want to do this. His skin was warm and callused, as if he'd tapped bare knuckles in the ring many times before.

Dex surged forward first, testing the waters. A jab snapped out, quick and probing. I deflected it with my left, palm slicing the air. Another jab chased it, sharper. I dodged again, felt the brush of his wrist, and fired back without pause. My right drove straight, a piston to the centerline of his body, slamming into those flexed abs just above the navel.

The impact thudded solid, his six-pack unyielding as stone under my knuckles. He grunted, absorbing it, but I saw the flicker in his stance — a micro-stagger, if such a thing exists. Those ridges held, proud and carved, but I aimed to shatter them, pound through the armor until I had his guts in my hands.

He recovered fast, twisting his hips. A hook whipped toward my left oblique, aiming to rip into my side. I twisted, caught it on the point of my elbow. Bone jarred bone with a dull smack. Pain flared, but I exploded upward, a short uppercut hooking under his right ribs. My fist buried shallow, compressing the muscle there, feeling the cage of his torso shift just enough.

He wheezed through the guard.

I pressed the advantage. A quick pop with my left to his jaw landed clean, snapping his head back. His guard shot up, elbows flaring to protect the face. Perfect. My eyes locked on his midsection, those abs still taut, sweat already gleaming in the shallow valleys. I wouldn't waste shots on his chin. His body would break first whether he liked it or not.

Footwork took over. I pivoted left, angling him clockwise, cutting the ring's wide space. He backpedaled, sneakers scraping, but I herded him toward the neutral corner. Ropes loomed behind him, trapping his options. One step, two. His shoulders brushed the turnbuckle.

Cornered.

His abs heaved with each breath, the flexed wall holding, but I circled tighter, my fists chambered low, ready to drill deeper and break him open.

I twisted my hips left, unleashing a hook that ripped into Dex's left oblique. My knuckles smacked against his armored side, a solid drumbeat echoing through his trunk. No give, just the ridge of his obliques flexing under the impact. He grunted again — this one hurt.

I pivoted right, mirroring the motion. My hook to his right flank drove in sharp, thudding against the taut wall of his abs. Again, no sink. His core held like iron, sweat running between the ridges of his abs. Another grunt rumbled from his chest, but he planted his feet, refusing to fold.

His abs hadn't softened at all.

The centerline of his core called to me next. I chambered my right and drove it straight into the pit of his gut, knuckles aligning with the deep line of his abs above his navel. The punch landed with a hollow thud, compressing that unyielding six-pack. His breath stuttered in a sharp exhale, but his torso stayed upright, his abs clenching tighter.

Dex's eyes narrowed, a clear sense of pride flashing in his sightline beneath the sweat on his brow. He exploded forward, crowding my space. The first punch in his next combo slammed into the center of my abs, a cross that slammed into my solid muscle. The second hooked my left oblique, and the third rammed the center of my abs again — this one an uppercut. I staggered back, sneakers scraping canvas as he shoved me toward the ropes, his bulk bullying mine.

But my well-trained abs held strong.

The ropes bit my back, but my counter came fast. A left to his ribs, short and compact, thudding into the lower edge. A right to the other ribs, same angle, compressing his side. An uppercut hooked under, drilling into the pit of his gut — my fist driving up, feeling his abs yield just a fraction this time. The final shot snapped to his jaw, a clean right cross that rocked his head, sweat flying in all directions.

He shook it off, spitting onto the canvas.

"That all you got?" Dex rasped, circling back, gloves up.

"Square up and find out."

We broke clean, dropping our guards. He nodded toward the bench, where the bag waited. I grabbed the 16-ounces from my duffel. I pulled them on tight, the padding snug against my knuckles. Dex did the same across the ring, eyes locked on mine.

We ducked back under the ropes, canvas creaking beneath our steps again. The air in the ring was thick, still laced with our sweat. Dex bounced on his toes as he geared up for the next moment, his abs still frustratingly solid… for now. I squared up opposite him, fists low, the burn in my own core fueling the coil in my shoulders.

I lunged first, twisting into a hook that dug into his left flank. My glove hammered the oblique, a thick thud booming through his side. He grunted through his mouthguard, his body rocking just enough. I whipped the right hook across, slamming the other oblique with the same force. Echoes rippled off the walls. Then the straight: my right drove dead center, pistoning into the midline of his abs, just above the navel. The impact thrummed solid, no give, but his breath broke sharply, leaving his chest heaving.

Dex surged back, desperation sharpening his stance. His left jab snapped toward my guard; I slapped it wide with my forearm. The cross followed, heavy and straight; my glove met it mid-air, deflecting the path. Third shot, a hook curving up from down low, was blocked clean, my elbow absorbing the impact. He pressed closer, but I was already moving.

Three counts to his sides. Left hook first, burying into the oblique with a resonant thud that made his torso shudder. My right matched it, pounding the opposite flank. The final left slammed into his solar plexus. He staggered, sneakers scraping, until I'd backed him into the corner post again. The ropes groaned under the weight of his lats as he draped his arms over the top strand, his body splayed open. His abs flexed rigid, a wall of ridges inviting the next wave, but his jaw set. No tap, no yield. Just opened up for me.

I'll take that invite.

Anger simmered hot in my chest, memories of parking lot ambushes flashing in my mind: his fists in my gut, buddies pinning me down. I channeled it, precise and unrelenting, my fists chambered for his core.

My rhythm shifted. Three hooks first — left, right, left — alternating flanks, each thud echoing like a drum in his trunk. His grunts punched out of him, his teeth grinding. Two straights followed, both to the upper abs, edging his solar plexus again. His breath exploded on the second, followed by a broad I don’t think he intended to let out. One uppercut to finish, driving into the navel. The ropes creaked louder, his legs jittering from the building ache, but those abs stayed armored and uncracked.

He pushed off, eyes blazing, coiling for a lunge. I faked him out by swinging high, drawing his arms up from the ropes to shield his face.

Big dumb fucker.

My real shot hammered straight to the body, a cross burying into the pit of his gut. Still no sink, just a percussive wave of pressure to his gut as he grunted, his abs absorbing the blow. Despite the strength of his core, this one nearly doubled him over.

Dex slumped back, arms flinging over the ropes once more. His lats strained the cables, a groan escaping the turnbuckle. I circled tight, varying my moves again. A single jab to his obliques — thud. Single straight to the navel — thud — his teeth clenched on the forced exhale. Then two hooks, ripping into both sides in quick succession. Echoes layered, his body jolting with each. A sharp hook clipped his jaw as he twitched forward, snapping his head sideways. He reeled, falling back into the corner, arms draping the ropes anew.

Dex was still standing, which was simultaneously frustrating and thrilling — as much as I wanted to put this asshole down, I was stoked to keep working him over. He may be built, but I'm a better boxer and I could do this all fucking night. His abs remained solid, slick with sweat, but his legs trembled now, his knees buckling slightly under the cumulative burn of his ever-tight core. Only pride was keeping him upright.

I telegraphed another head shot. Dex's arms jerked up, blocking the phantom punch, but I'd tricked him again. My fist plunged low instead, a brutal cross to the center of his abs. Out drummed the sound of a hammering thud, the pressure surging through his navel. He grunted, the sound raw, his guts compressed from the force.

I eased off, stepping back two paces. Dropped my gloves by a fraction. Our breaths heaved in sync, our scent filling the ring. His eyes met mine, dark and unguarded in the shadow of his forehead under the overhead light. No words. Just his submission, silent and total, the fight draining from his stance.

Dex's chest rose and fell, ragged pulls echoing mine. Sweat dripped from his pecs down the ridges of his abs, still carved but trembling now. I stepped closer, voice low, barely cutting the hum of the gym's fans.

"You had enough?"

He panted, shaking his head slow, spit flecking the canvas from his mouthguard. "No."

The word hung there a moment. I waited, fists loose at my sides. His eyes searched mine, something within him cracking through his pride.

"Boxing... it turns me on," he rasped, breath trembling. "Always has. Turns me on, the way it feels."

He drew in a deep inhale, body shuddering, every muscle screaming from the accumulated hits. Pain filled his core, but he held my gaze.

"I was a jerk back then," he continued, breaths punching out between words. "High school. Me and those idiots cornering you after practice. Pinning you down while I… while I hit you. I'm sorry, Leo. Sorry."

Another pull of air, his shoulders slumping. "Truth is, I've had a crush on you since middle school. Always. Treated you like shit because my high school brain was too stupid to handle it."

My mouth tugged at one corner, a half-smirk that carried no warmth but no ice either. The knot in my chest unclenched, anger bleeding out like sweat down my back. Gone.

Dex's abs softened then, the rigid wall melting as he stared, waiting, his core going slack under the low lights as his eyes held mine, awaiting my reply.

I stepped in, close enough to feel his heat, mouth parting like words were coming.

His exhale started — natural, comfortable… unguarded. .

My right fist coiled and fired, a straight shot slamming dead center into his gut. My glove plunged through his newly-loose abs, no armor to blunt it, burying my glove to the velcro into his relaxed belly. The thud muffled, his intestines compressing into his body in one devastating slosh.

His eyes slammed shut. He doubled over, air whooshing out in a forceful HUHH!, his body folding hard at the waist. His arms whipped free of the ropes, hands coming together to clutch his midsection.

I caught his shoulders, palms firm on his sweat-slick skin, hauling him upright against the collapse. His body spasmed, gut clenching in waves, but I held steady until the first quake eased as he rested his face on my pecs. 

A deep moan vibrated into my chest from his own, his forehead rubbing against my chest as he rode the ache, his breaths shallow and broken.

I guided him up straight, then shoved him — decisively, not viciously — sending him sprawling to the mat. He landed on his back with a grunt, knees drawing up instinctively.

I stood over him, my chest heaving, watching his gut rise and fall, marked red in the center. Dex's gut rose and fell in sharp pulls. Each exhale flexed those abs tighter, a ripple of muscle straining against the red marks across his belly. His eyes were wide with shock, lips parted on a ragged breath, but the flush creeping across his chest and neck screamed arousal.

I loomed above him, chest still heaving. Heat throbbed in my own core, the fight's edge sharpening into something hungrier with Dex's admission.

I dropped to one knee beside him, the mat dipping under my weight. My right glove came up, the padded knuckles brushing his jaw. I lifted his chin, forcing his gaze to lock with mine.

"You were always a fucking liar, Dex."

His stubble was rough against the leather.

"All that 'just messing around' in high school? Bullshit. You liked putting hands on me. Admit it."

"Fuck off."

His voice scraped out, defiant, but his eyes dropped, snagging on the bulge straining my shorts. My cock twitched under the scrutiny, hardening fast against the fabric.

"No. Fuck you."

I held his stare a beat longer, the moment buzzing between us. Dex shifted, his hips bucking slightly as he fumbled at his waistband. His gloved hands pawed clumsy at the drawstring, fingers too bulky to grip right while flat on his back. He grunted, twisting, the effort pulling his abs taut again.

I moved quick, my left glove slamming his hands down, pinning them solid to the mat above his head. He bucked once, testing, but I leaned in, weight driving him flat as the scent of his armpits wafted up to me. My right glove hooked the waistband of his shorts, yanking hard. Fabric tore with a sharp rip, his shorts dragging down his thighs in one pull. His hard cock sprang free, thick and veined, the head already slick with precum.

I ripped my own shorts off and spat into the palm of my right glove, the glob warm and viscous against the glove's lining. I reached down, wrapping the moistened leather around my shaft.

Dex's breath quickened, his pinned wrists flexing against my hold. I shifted over him, knees bracketing his hips, and aligned my head with his entrance. Slow pressure built as I pushed in, inch by inch, the glove's residue easing the way. His hole tightened at first, then yielded, clenching hot around me as he whispered faintly for me to fuck him.

A deep groan tore from his throat as my cock entered him, his abs contracting sharply under my gaze. I bottomed out, paused there, buried deep, our sweat mingling on the canvas. Then I started moving with deliberate thrusts, pulling back just to drive in again, the rhythm steady and unhurried.

Dex's hole clenched around me, hot and insistent, as I kept his wrists pinned to the canvas with my gloved left hand. Our sweat slicked the mat beneath us, his body arching into each thrust. I chambered my right glove and drove it straight into his abs, the padding thudding against those carved ridges just above his navel. His core compressed, solid as ever.

His eyes locked on mine, jaw hanging slack in pure euphoria. A low rumble escaped his throat, his hips bucking up to meet me.

I didn't slow the rhythm of my cock plunging deep. My right fist coiled again, slamming another punch into the center of his abs. The thud echoed off the walls, his muscles absorbing the force, but his breath became ragged.

The third punch sank deeper. His abs weren't fully slack, but they gave enough. My glove buried to the velcro again, compressing his soft guts flat against his spine as he lay on his back. Air forced from his lungs in a pained grunt.

"Fuck yeah," he groaned, voice hoarse and broken.

"There it is," I muttered, thrusting harder, feeling his body yield around me.

Dex exhaled hard, his belly softening under my gaze, the ridges melting into a loose swell. I aimed lower, fist driving into his gut just beneath the navel. The blow mashed his bowels, a deep slosh moving inside him. Combined with my cock grinding against his prostate, it hit him like a wave. His eyes squeezed shut, thighs trembling, a desperate whine tearing from his chest.

I held his stare as he blinked back.

"You can take it," I said, my voice steady.

He nodded frantic, head jerking once, twice. Moans spilled from him now, raw and starved, his body devouring every thrust and the promise of more. He took my cock like it owned him, his hips rolling to chase the feeling.

I sat up, releasing his wrists. My thrusts didn't falter, pounding deep as his hands shot forward, his fingers exploring my sweaty abs. He traced the slick planes, palms pressing into the heat, worshipping the solid muscle beneath my skin.

I flexed both biceps, the globes of muscle bulging for him. Dex's gaze devoured them, his touch turning reverent, his fingertips rubbing lightly over my core as his eyes worshipped my arms that were out of his reach. 

"Worship me," I commanded, cool edge in my tone. "See what you've been missing all these years."

His fingers pressed harder, his breath increasing with each roll of my hips.

I swung my right glove light across his jaw while my cock buried inside him. The smack snapped his head sideways.

He turned back, eyes gleaming. "Again."

I smirked. The next punch landed firmer on the other side, rocking him. A moan vibrated through his chest, deep and filthy.

"Sick son of a bitch," I said.

Laughter bubbled soft from us both, shared and ragged, cutting the tension.

"Harder," Dex begged, voice cracking. "Please."

I obliged, slamming my hips forward, cock driving brutally into his ass. Three punches followed, each deep into his navel. First a straight cross that caved his belly in, forcing a pained OOF! as his guts redistributed through his core. The second hooked up, mashing his intestines into his diaphragm, earning a sharp grunt. The third buried into him, his guts molding around the glove, wrenching a choked HUH! from his throat.

I looked down at the beautiful jackass beneath me.

I pulled out without warning, my grip firm on his hips. I flipped him face down, ass up on the mat. He braced on elbows, but I thrust back in, pinning his head to the canvas with my gloved left hand. My right gloved fist took his hands and locked them behind his back. I began fucking him hard, relentlessly, the slap of skin and the jock's deep moans filling the empty gym.

"Is this what you want?" I growled. "Me owning your tight ass after all these years?"

A long and deep moan muffled into the mat as his body shuddered, before he finally shouted, "Yeah!"

I came hard, pulsing inside him, the heat of my cum flooding his ass. Dex whimpered beneath me, his cock leaking onto the canvas as his body quaked.

I withdrew and wiped my shaft across his ass cheek. I stood, then kicked him in the hip, just enough to sprawl him onto his back. He panted there, eyes locked on mine, chest and belly heaving.

I grabbed my shorts and bag, heading for the door without a word.

Left him sprawled, to chew on that for another fifteen years.