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A clenched fist struck him right in the jaw, right at the edge of his well-groomed mutton chops and the spot blossomed in pain. He didn’t keep his guard up and paid for it dearly. The crowd that surrounded the make-shift ring roared. He staggered back at the sheer force of the blow, his eyes losing and regaining focus. The rage welled up inside him and he put up his dukes and the two opponents circled one another. A few hits were exchanged by the men and the bell rang, signaling the end of the round.

Each man went to his own corner, attended by a second and a bottle-holder. The man with the mutton chops sat, chest heaving, sweating heavily. “Max, what are you doing out there?! You left yourself wide open there!” said the second with a thick Irish brogue as he dabbed the fighter’s forehead with a sponge. Max’s ‘colors,’ a green handkerchief, waved in the breeze attached to the post behind him. If his adversary won, he’d get the piece of cloth as a trophy which only further fueled his fury. Max was angry with himself and wanted to just skip the break between rounds and go throttle the other gentleman.

Maximus “Roman” Bettencourt was the bastard son of a Frenchman and his Irish mother. She gave him his red hair and a life of struggle, despite such a rich and glorious name. He had grown up in rural Ireland but his mother moved him and his six younger brothers and sisters to London to live with family after the potato blight had ravaged yet another family crop. He worked in a mill until he was sixteen and joined the army, a messenger in the Crimean War. Once the war had ended he went back to the hard-scrabble life of Victorian working class.

He was a short nineteen-year-old man with broad shoulders and an athletic build from years of hard labor. His fiery red hair was cropped short, his dark green eyes piercing deeply into the heart of his opponent. He wore patched pants, his hairless chest exposed. He was given the nickname “Roman” for his audacious first name. The other men would make fun of him for it. His mother had intended to give him a name that would help him to rise up out of poverty and now it only served to mock his continued destitution. He took a sip of water from his bottle-holder and wiped the sweat that clung to his red facial hair. He was suddenly reminded of his aching jaw.

Sitting across from him, a look of smug satisfaction crept over the gentleman’s mustachioed face. Brixton Jones was twenty-seven and came from wealth and boxed for the thrill of it all. He had grown bored of the sport of fox hunting, tired of fencing so he would venture into the slums and take on fighters for sport. His hair was oiled, his handlebar mustache waxed and curled almost sinisterly. His chest was lightly covered with a sheen of sweat that glistened between curly, dark chest hairs, his legs clad in fine linen pants, leather shoes adorning his feet.

The bell sounded and green eyes darted to meet steel grey. The two men stood again and approached one another and Max’s fists flew, the lines on his face riddled with wrath. Max was about half a foot shorter than Brixton, making it more difficult to land the critical head blows. Max’s hand connected with Brixton’s chest plate in a sickening thud. Brixton staggered backwards, breathless. Max seized his opportunity and gave the gentleman another right hook to the chest. As he moved for a third, Brixton blocked his jab. The two circled as the crowd cheered and urged the men on.

There were a few men in nice jackets and polished leather shoes, but the crowd was generally lower class men who reeked of cheap whiskey and sweat from a hard day’s labour. They took their meager earnings and tried to multiply them with a gamble. There was a lot of money riding on these fights and it was constantly changing hands. Some bet on the final outcomes as judged by the referees. Odds were created by the book-makers and official wagers were paid out at the end of the fight, the two fighters getting only a pittance for their participation. But that didn’t stop men in the crowds from betting with one another. Some bet on how long the fight would last, how many rounds the opponents would last. Others bet on who would cause ‘first blood.’

The three minutes of the fourth round went by quickly and soon the men were glowering at one another from opposite corners again. Max was so irate he couldn’t even sit for the full minute of the break. He wanted to get back. He wanted his sore knuckles to connect with the rich man’s flesh again. He wanted to strike him. He wanted to make him hurt. His head wasn’t in it as the bell chimed and they met each other in the middle of the ring.

Max moved to make a left jab at his opposer and left himself open to a counter-punch. Brixton exploited the weakness and landed a straight hit right to Max’s mouth, splitting his lip wide open. The crowd went wild as Max spat the blood onto the bare ground beneath them. Money was exchanged among the fight-goers. Max flew into a rage at the sight of his own blood and hit the gentleman with a flurry of punches nilüfer escort to his chest and stomach. Brixton stumbled at the force behind the blows. He spun away from the Irishman and stepped backwards, his hands up to protect himself. Max stalked forward, intent on making the gentleman suffer.

Brixton saw the look in the younger man’s face and knew his intentions. He looked like a ginger alley cat ready to pounce. He had wondered for a moment if he had gotten in too deep this time. If he would end up bruised and broken, carried off by his second and bottle-holder. He knew the only way to save himself was to give it his all. In one swift movement, the two men were mere inches away from each other and the punches fell like rain. The crowd watched as they beat one another mercilessly. Max struck Brixton in the chest, Brixton got another punch in the jaw. The outcome was uncertain.

Brixton looked for a way out and saw his opportunity. Max took a jab at Brixton’s jaw and landed solidly on the steely bone there. As he went to cross with his right fist, he left himself open. Brixton gave him a devastating upper-cut to the gut that sent him reeling. The force of it caused the Irishman to fall to his hands and knees and vomit. The rich man took a few steps back and caught his breath, keeping his fists up in defense. Max groaned and wiped his bloody mouth on the back of his hand and wearily got to his feet as the referee approached.

The referee was ready to call the fight, but Max wasn’t ready to concede defeat. He stood, sore, bloody and bruised. Brixton hesitated. He knew that ‘Roman’ was done. He knew the young man wouldn’t be able to take another punch. Yet he hesitated out of compassion for the redhead. He had lasted five rounds in the ring with a man who had professional boxing training. The boy from Ireland living in the East End of London had fought for everything he had ever had and now he stood, defiant yet defeated.

Brixton steeled himself and marched forward, his fists ready. Max put his up in defense, but he didn’t see the right hook coming. He took it hard to the side of the head and fell bodily on the dirty ground. Brixton, darker skinned and haired towered over Max’s pale lifeless body. The referee stepped in and pushed Brixton back with little resistance from the mustachioed man. Max’s second and bottle-holder were allowed to enter the ring and attend to their charge.

He was breathing. He groaned. He rolled from his side to his stomach, placing his hands and knees under his body, trying to get back up. The referee looked at his watch and counted the seconds, praying the Irish boy wouldn’t be able to get up in his thirty seconds alloted. He wanted this fight to be over. As did Brixton. He didn’t want to have to hit the boy again. He felt guilt and shame in the act. Max struggled to get up. His breathing was labored, his face bloodied.

“TIME!” the referee shouted, much to Brixton’s relief. He held the darker man’s hand aloft as the second and bottle-holder helped Max to his feet. Money exchanged hands in the crowd and the book-keepers divided the winnings. Max’s second offered the green handkerchief to the wealthy man, a prize for his victory. Max’s head hung in shame as Brixton offered his hand in a gentlemanly fashion. Max clasped it and shook it half-heartedly. He hated losing. He hated himself. He hated the man grasping his hand for causing these feelings.

The crowd dispersed and the referee came and gave them men their earnings, only a few bills for the younger man, a good bit more for the gentleman. Brixton’s second brought the man his coat and helped him put it on as Max turned to walk home.

“Roman, let me give you a ride in my cab,” he said, his voice filled with an eloquent timbre.

There were still a few on-lookers lingering. He didn’t want to be further humiliated, but he also did not want to make the long walk back home. “I don’t need your charity, guv,” the boy said and turned to walk away.

“I insist,” Brixton said, compassionately, placing a hand on his shoulder. He felt the younger man soften beneath him. Brixton took the man’s arm and draped it over his own shoulder, giving him support as they walked to the horse-drawn cab. The cab driver had been one of the well-dressed men in the crowd and he moved to open the door for his employer and guest. The two gents hoisted Max into the plush interior and he fell with a thud onto one of the padded seats. Brixton climbed in and the cab was off at a fast clip towards the north.

The streets grew wider, cleaner and more well-lit. The paving was smoother, the sidewalks were swept and fragrant flowers bloomed in private gardens. The cab pulled up to a portico and Brixton stepped out, offering his arm to Max who leaned against him in earnest. The two ambled into the opulent house and headed up the wide spiral staircase, Max using the banister and the man on his left for support. They reached the top of the stairs and the cab driver, having parked the cab and put the horse in görükle escort the stables for the night, approached Brixton with a large stack of bank notes.

“From your bets, Sir,” as the cabbie handed the dark-haired man the tidy sum. Brixton took a fifth of the bills and gave them back to the driver and he gave his employer a nod and took his leave for the night. Brixton then split the still sizable amount of money in half and tucked one half into his trouser pocket and the other into Max’s shirt pocket.

“You did well tonight, chap,” Brixton commented, opening the bedroom door and helping the boy gingerly onto the soft four-poster bed. Max eased himself sorely onto the downy blanket with a groan.

“You didn’t have to make it so realistic,” Max grunted, touching the tender flesh of his gut, thinking that it was going to be a horrible bruise come morning. “But I’m glad we put extra money on my blood and the fight lasting five rounds,” he said as he patted the large wad of bills in his breast pocket. His head throbbed. As if reading Max’s mind, Brixton handed the boy two white pills and a glass of water. Max swallowed them graciously, grateful for the cool water as it splashed down his throat, taking the chalky pills with it. He brought his hand up to his bloody lip. The rosy skin was sore and the blood had dried.

Brixton looked down at the vulnerable redhead sitting on the edge of his bed. His heart hurt seeing him take such a beating at his own hands. “My mum is going to be grateful for the extra money,” Max said, looking down-trodden, still unconsciously tracing the split of his lip with his rough fingertip. Brixton melted. His hand seized the younger man’s chin, and pulled it upwards. Their eyes locked. Max’s lips trembled. Brixton let out a small moan and bent down, their lips making contact. The kiss deepened and Brixton’s tongue snaked out, licking softly at the painful cut. He tasted the blood that he had spilled and the coppery tang only fueled his lust.

Grabbing a fistful of his thick red hair, Brixton pulled the boy’s head back and began eagerly kissing the taut skin on his neck. He could feel the blood course through Max’s veins, both their hearts racing. Brixton suckled softly on Max’s Adam’s apple and caused the younger man to shudder and moan. The coarse hairs of his mustache tickled the Irishman’s pale skin.

“Sir, please,” Max groaned. Brixton was unsure whether he was pleading to stop or asking for more. The darker man fumbled with the buttons on Max’s thin shirt, undressing his young lover. He slid the well-worn material from Max’s strong shoulders and it fell to his elbows, the young man transfixed, unable to move. Brixton took a step back to admire Max. His face and chest were covered in a sheen of sweat, his chest heaving with every labored breath. His bottom lip jutted out in a sensual pout, the usual rosy hue accentuated by the injury. Max’s muscular stomach already showed the tell-tale signs of bruising. Brixton touched the large purple mark his fist had left and Max inhaled sharply in pain.

“You’re such a good boy,” Brixton whispered, staring at his battered body. He helped the redhead get out of his clothes, tossing the sweaty pants and bloody shirt in a heap on the floor. Max wore no underwear, his cock visible, half-hard in the tangle of red hair he had down below. It wasn’t very long, not much more than the tip peeked out when he held it in his fist, but it was thick, the same fist barely able wrap around it fully. Brixton licked his lips ferally and pulled his own shirt off over his head and undid the buttons on his trousers, sliding them from his round ass. Like a gentleman, he wore flannel drawers that strained with his raging erection. He kissed the boy on the lips and eased him gently onto his back on the soft mattress. Brixton straddled Max, the soft flannel caressing them both intimately.

Max groaned and panted, his cock growing harder with each pulse of blood that flowed through his body. The two men were so contrary; rich and poor, rugged and refined, light and dark. Opposites. Yet here they sat, only a thin piece of fabric separating their hard-ons. This had become their ritual. Fix the fight, place the bets and come home to make love.

Brixton had fallen for Max after their first meeting in the ring. Max was a tough young man and Brixton admired his tenacity. He had invited the boy over for a scotch after the fight and decided to make his move, leaning in for a kiss. He was going to to blame the alcohol, but Max hadn’t resisted. After a few months of secret rendezvous and battles in the ring, Brixton invited the Irishman to live with him in his opulent manor. Max kept up the facade of being a poor boy, fighting in the slums for money, but Brixton kept him living a life of luxury.

They fixed the fights. Max had won their first fight together by a narrow margin. The odds-makers had him favored to lose and he had placed a bet on himself, landing a handsome sum for his troubles. Brixton had made the suggestion bursa escort that Max take a fall and increase his odds, then they could place a large wager on the young man and both walk away with plenty of money when the long-shot won. This week was the last time Max was going to have to take the beating, not that he didn’t get in a few good blows himself. The odds were fifty-to-one for next week’s fight…

“What do you want Max?” Brixton queried. Max could only respond with a blush. He loved the feeling of Brixton’s hot mouth wrapped around his shaft or a well-oiled finger slipping between his cheeks. “Max, I want to go further,” Brixton said, pulling Max out of his reverie. Max’s green eyes flashed and a look of fear crept over his face. “I’ll be gentle,” Brixton reassured, rubbing his flannel-clad privates against the younger boy’s groin as he had him pinned.

Max struggled beneath the taller man. He was conflicted both physically and mentally. He had grown up in a world of men being men, never showing weakness, never showing emotion. Sex between men was wrong, an abomination. He had taken part in plenty of gang beatings of outwardly gay men, hiding his own true feelings as he guiltily delivered punches. He did masculine things like boxing and wrestling to get closer to the men he fancied. Brixton however had grown up in a world of boarding school trysts and a much looser social code. As long as it happened behind closed doors and was handled discreetly, it was perfectly acceptable. Brixton had paid for the services of many a telegraph-boy. The young men would come to his house with the intent of delivering news or private messages regarding business and he would give the boys a nice sum of money for their company. It was an aristocratic thing. Max had his fair share of offers as a messenger in the war. Officers would pay him handsomely for the use of his pretty mouth.

Max had also never has his arse penetrated by anything other than a finger. He didn’t know if he could take it. He attempted to change the subject. “Sir, please let me pleasure you with my mouth. You know I love that!” he whispered hotly, still pinned.

“No,” Brixton growled, grinding his burgeoning erection against the younger man’s. He wasn’t angry, just insistent. Max grew worried and tried to push his lover off of him to no avail. The redhead felt vulnerable and scared and Brixton saw the weakness flicker in his eyes. Brixton kissed him passionately on the lips, his perfectly waxed handlebar mustache tickling the younger man. “Max, trust me,” he said simply.

“I can’t Sir! My arse is as virgin as a young lass!” Max panicked.

Brixton remained calm and collected. “I won’t ever hurt you, Max,” he said even as he looked down at the redhead’s bruised and battered body. He kissed the man below him again, tasting his lips, his tongue dancing in his lover’s mouth. Brixton understood his charge’s apprehension. Once the threshold had been crossed, there was no turning back. Max had difficulty dealing with his own sexuality from years of shame. Brixton wanted to free the boy.

Brixton kissed down Max’s neck to his chest. He lingered, giving attention to both of the hard little nubs that peaked his well-defined pectoral muscles. Max moaned and writhed as his nipples were teased; such a weakness for him. Brixton kissed down to his navel and dipped his tongue into it, another spot that drove Max wild. Following the trail of soft red hairs that led from his stomach to his crotch, Brixton was greeted by Max’s erection. It bobbed with every beat of his heart, a tiny drop of pre-cum clinging tenaciously to the tip.

“Beg for my mouth,” Brixton teased, trying to break down the walls that Max had erected to protect himself. He could see the turmoil play across the boy’s face as he struggled with the notion of asking another man to suck his cock. Brixton sought to further arouse the man beneath him. He took the tip of his tongue and licked from the base to the tip, lapping up the drop of salty seed. Max arched his back and let out a sonorous moan, grabbing a fistful of sheets.

“You know how good it feels when I suck you. Just say it,” Brixton said simply. Max whimpered. He was beaten and broken, physically and mentally.

“Please… please Sir, suck my cock,” Max said, piteously. Brixton obliged the young lad and wrapped his soft lips around the head, sucking and licking feverishly. Max felt as though he would explode right then and there, his balls tensing, on the precipice of release when Brixton stopped as abruptly as he had started. Max groaned, his hips bucking of their own accord as he sought his climax.

“Do you want me to help you, Max?” Brixton queried, torturing the young boy. Max looked down at his lover, seeing Brixton’s darker hair peeking up over his own hips. Max’s eyes were misted over with lust and he bit his bottom lip, suckling at his own bruised flesh. Brixton helped the redhead scoot back further onto the bed and placed the man’s feet onto the mattress, spreading his legs and exposing his whole manhood, balls and tight hole to his wanton stare. Lowering his head, Brixton continued to tease Max. His wide tongue lapped at the man’s scrotum, enjoying the squirming that ensued. He built the younger man’s tension until he knew that Max would let him to anything if it meant he would be able to cum.

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