Billy Glenn was the neighborhood punching bag. He was short, scrawny and easy to push around.  His big eyes, long lashes and curly hair did not help his predicament.  I was tall, scrawny and easy to push around but I was left alone largely because Billy was there at the bottom of the pecking order.  Thank God for Billy Glenn.  When we were sixteen, a bunch of were us hanging out at a barren old ball field.  To make points with the gang I gave Billy a playful shove and said, "What's up, Weasel?"

Weasel was what everyone was calling him at the time.  Shocking everyone, he came after me.  When we hit the ground he quickly trapped my head between his thighs, locked his ankles and began squeezing for all he was worth.  I could not move and he was hurting me.  When I moaned he said, "Who's the weasel now?"  

I didn't know what to do.  It got tighter and tighter until I had no choice.  I told him I was the weasel.  But it wasn't good enough for him.  He made me say please, twice.  Afterward my friends were incredulous.  They wanted me to kick his scrawny ass.  But I was afraid of him now.  The muscles in his legs were like bricks.  Besides, what was to stop him from doing it to me again?  Or something worse?  I was already on the verge of tears and was in no hurry to start blubbering in front of everyone.  So without a word I left, a chicken.  I walked off the field alone.

Humiliation at the hands of Billy Glenn was a tough pill to swallow.  But the weirdest part was my dick--I got hard whenever I thought about it.  Afraid to show my face, I hid out in my basement, a cool space with a carpet and TV.  Twice, three times a day I masturbated thinking of Billy punishing me.  Confusing as it was to me, the orgasms were the best ever.

After a few days I answered a knock on the basement door to see Billy standing there.  He walked in like he owned the place.  There was something different about him.  His shirt was sleeveless and there was something odd about his arms.  They weren't thick and lumpy like those of a body builder.  They were thin, defined and ropey with prominent blue veins.  I'd known him my entire life and he'd never had muscles.  He was just Billy Glenn. I could not take my eyes off those arms, not only because they were dramatic looking but because they were making me hard.  I wondered if there was something wrong with me. 

He said, "I wanted to be fair and give you a rematch."

Before I knew it we were grappling in the center of the room.  When we hit the floor he was suddenly behind me.  He put me in a fierce full nelson, forcing my head roughly to the floor, mashing my face into the carpet.  Once again, without breaking a sweat, he had rendered me helpless.  The pressure was intense.  When I moaned he said, "Already? I'm just gettin' started on you."

Once again he released me when I begged. Afterward, we stood beside one another awkwardly as he said, "Let's face it.  I'm just too strong for you."  He flexed a tight ball of bicep and said, "Feel how hard that is."

It felt like polished wood and as I stroked it my cock pounded in my pants.  Seeing the bulge in my crotch, he smiled and put a hand up on my shoulder to guide me down.

When I got to my knees I was looking at a long thick hard-on. It looked angry, with a pencil-thick vein running along the center of the shaft to a fat red head gleaming like a ripe apple. I thought, Oh well, he beat me fair and square.  I guess this will be the spoils of his victory.

He gave me explicit instructions which I followed to the letter.  I was grateful for the instructions because I didn't know what I was doing.  But I didn't really mind it.  It was very smooth and warm in my mouth.  But I was puzzled as to how he knew about all of it, telling me what to do with my fingers, lips, tongue.  

Eventually my mouth filled with warm syrup, which I swallowed as per instructions.  As he re-holstered the monster he said, I learned a lot of fun stuff from someone we both know.  I can't tell you his name but he was at the field that day."

"What day?"

"You know, the day I scissored you."  He looked very pleased as he said this.  

After he left I lay on the couch stroking myself, thinking of him, of his hard bicep beneath my fingertips, of his words, the day I scissored you.  The words were delivered just as easily and casually as he had put me on the ground to be punished--the day I scissored you.  With those words in my brain, I came.  It was spectacular! 

I thought of Billy for the rest of the day, into the night.  I slept poorly, thinking of nothing but him.  In the morning, in the basement I hoped he would show up, that he would put me on the floor and squeeze me. I think everyone wants to be held.  But I guess I wanted to be held tighter than most, much, much tighter.

I was thrilled when, without knocking, he walked through the door.  He looked great.  His big eyes shone.  He again wore a sleeveless shirt.  His round shoulders looked hard as baseballs.  The veined cables in his arms looked almost angry.  I had no doubt that he'd pumped himself up before the visit.  But he did not want to wrestle.  He wanted to do tests of strength.

We locked fingers and he promptly bent my hands back so hard that I whined as he forced me to my knees.  I was kneeling on the floor, ogling his muscles when he said, "You know, I could keep you down there all day."  After that we arm wrestled on the floor.  My skinny arm was no match for him. When he slammed my hand onto the floor I rolled over on my back, hoping he'd notice the bulge in my pants.  He did.  And that's when the fun began.

No one had ever touched my cock before, beside myself of course. Billy touched me gently, as if his fingers were feathers.  I could not stop whimpering.  I had never been gentle with myself.  I was a meat pounder--get the job done, get it over with.  This was new and lovely.  I moaned when I came.  It was an orgasm like I'd never had.  

"So these fun things you learned.  The same guy you mentioned?"

"Yeah."

"From the field?"

"Yeah," he said.  "He was there the day--"

"I know," I said, "the day you scissored me."  And we burst out laughing.

We became best friends. We went everywhere together.  Along the sidewalk Billy would stride confidently beside me.  Clearly he was the top dog, I the lowly sidekick.  Onlookers would have perceived the dynamic of our relationship right away.  We did whatever Billy wanted to do. We went to movies that Billy wanted to see.  When we were bored we went into my basement to hang around and wrestle.  I was proud to last ten seconds or so before I tired and he took control.  Then he would twist me like a pretzel into creative contortions, wrestling holds designed always for the big squeeze.  I was a fly in his web, helpless, wriggling. If a gasp of discomfort escaped from me he would say, "Good, I knew you'd like it. Here, have some more." And he would crank the pressure up to a crushing degree while I accelerated my frantic worm-squirming.

Why bother struggling with zero hope of escape? I guess because I liked it.  Being held down by someone stronger is exciting enough.  But it's the mad hopeless struggle that sends wave after wave of pleasure through the loins.  That I was the helpless prisoner of a guy smaller than me only sweetened the deal.  For some reason it was a perfect erection trigger.

It became an effective kind of foreplay because after these encounters we were both primed for pleasure.  He liked it with me on my knees because, after all, that's where I belonged.  I liked it on my back on the couch so my eager fingertips could explore the hard ropes and nuggets of his arms and shoulders.

As it turns out, after years of being pushed around, Billy had begun lifting weights.  His brother taught him wrestling holds and his father taught him how to throw a punch.  Days after humiliating me at the field he bloodied a boy's nose and nobody ever messed with him again.

One afternoon, after he'd scissored me yet again, I was rubbing my sore neck when I said, "When we were younger I used to kick your ass all the time."

"Things change," he said, giving me the royal bicep flex.

My ten fingers flew to that ball of stone, caressing it for much too long.  He looked at my crotch and said, "Another muscle boner eh?"  I did not respond but felt myself redden.  He took my arm, led me to the couch and said, "It's kinda weird.  Ever think you might be the only guy who gets them?"

"Gets what?"

"Muscle boners."

I blushed again and said nothing.  He said, "Drop trow, lie down and close your eyes.  Billy can fix what ails you."

He proceeded to fix what ailed me with his feathery touching.  My orgasm was beginning to build when he said, "I have a solution for your muscle boner.  We'll fight fire with fire."  He spat into the crook of his arm and wrapped the arm tightly around my cock.  It was slippery and lovely inside his elbow as I began to thrust.

I said, "Oh my God, Billy, is this what a pussy feels like?"

"Fucked if I know," he said.  He flexed his hard bicep muscle again and again against the head of my dick. He was taking me into the clouds. I cried out when I came.  I floated down from the clouds, my heart pounding.  So intense was the ordeal that I felt a tear escaping from the corner of my eye and prayed he would not notice.

Of course he noticed.  He flicked the tear away with a finger and said rather sweetly, "Aw, I made my girlfriend cry."  Suddenly I was in the clouds again, floating above the couch.  Did I say something earlier about being confused?  Coming down to earth, I noticed those eyes, the lashes, the button nose and dirty blonde curls and thought, Oh my God, Billy Green is really pretty.

Billy was not humble with his dominance.  He loved controlling me.   And for some reason I was happy about it.  Of course the orgasms had something to do with it. I guess you don't choose what you desire. Desire chooses you.

One day I was on my knees on the basement carpet.  Billy was on his knees behind me with both arms snaked tightly around my throat.  I was gasping for breath, my arms limp at my sides when he put his lips against my ear and whispered, "I can do anything I want to you and you can't do nuthin' about it."  He released me and stood up while I remained on my knees.  I remember that his cock was especially thick and hard that day.  I could even see that thick blue vein pulsating.  I had become good at servicing him by then with my feathery hole stroking, my gentle nut nibbling, not to mention my acrobatic tongue-work.  But he was always silent in his pleasures, never a moan, never so much as a whimper.  It frustrated me because I was always free with my love-moans.

That day, for some reason, I started off by kissing his cock, kissing it with a kind of reverence.  Up and down that shaft went my lips and suddenly he said, "Oh."

Had I cracked him finally?  I lifted his dick in order to get underneath.  Man, it was big that day!  I planted a soft kiss at the base of the underside of his dick. I kissed gently all the way up to the top behind the swollen head.  There, beneath the skin, resides the magic gland, the mother of all glands.  I kissed that spot softly and he said, "Oh yeah."  I kissed that spot again a little harder, pushed the tip of my tongue firmly into that magic gland, and he went, "Mmm."

Bingo!  Finally a victory for me.  Billy was mine!  But it was more than that for him.  The cock-kissing made sense.  Having taken shit his entire life, the pushover pussy was getting respect.  It was a coronation of sorts.  Someone was on his knees before him kissing his cock like he meant it.  And I meant it.  His dominance over me was complete and he was as thrilled to receive the tribute as I was to bestow it.  I had no doubt that when we got to the main event, when I took that hot red head into my mouth, my tantalizing tongue would make that Prince moan.  And that was good enough for me.

Near the end of the summer Billy's father accepted a job in Texas. His family moved away and I never saw him again.

I'm married with kids now and have very fond memories of those basement sessions.  It should come as no surprise that my wife is an amateur body builder.

I know some things now that I did not know then.  I know that it was more than just a youthful homoerotic experiment.  I know we were more than friends, more than best friends.  The truth is, I loved him.