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own combat gear. The morning isn’t warm, and goosepimples rise on my skin as I toss my shirt to the ground. The pants follow, leaving me standing in nothing but my heavy black boots, the leather scuffed and worn from two days of running and hiding. But it’s not my boots the audience will be interested in. I pause for a moment, giving so many unseen eyes the chance to absorb the sight of me, and compare me to Darien. I may stand a head shorter than him, but in the department where – for the viewers at least – it really matters, I know I’m his equal. Already beginning to stiffen, stirred by my victory and the thrilling prospect of giving Darien the hard, masterful fuck we both know he needs, my cock is, I’m sure, what prompted the doctor’s excited scribbling and my subsequent call-up to this year’s game. In the end, it’s not bravery that matters, or skill in combat, or even the easy good looks that the likes of Wade possess: it all comes down to how well hung you are.
    Darien’s tongue flickers out, wetting his lips, and I’m certain he’s eyeing me with the same greedy speculation as the audience at home. Only they’ll have to imagine how it feels to have my cock sliding into whichever orifice I choose, to touch and taste it; Darien will have that pleasure first-hand.
    I hunt in the concealed pocket of my pants, and fish out the lubricant we’re all given as part of our supplies. The first couple of years they broadcast the games, they gave the contestants condoms too, until they started getting complaints that they were spoiling the experience for the viewers. So now we’re all subjected to tests beforehand, letting us fuck each other bareback without fear of any consequences.
    But sexual diseases aren’t the most immediate of my problems. There’s the small matter of a significant height difference to overcome if I’m to fuck Darien in the standing position that will give everyone watching the best view of the action. The solution is to haul over a heavy, flat-topped chunk of rock and place it behind him. When I clamber up on it, my groin is pretty much level with his luscious arse. It might not be dignified, but it’s practical – which has been my strategy throughout the game, when I think about it.
    I spend a long while lubing myself up, wondering if the cameras are lingering on the sight of my fingers as they spread the slippery goo along my shaft. If not then, they certainly do when I turn my attentions to Darien’s arsehole, repeating the process there.
    â€˜You want this, don’t you?’ I murmur into his ear, not caring whether I’ve pitched my voice at a level the microphones will pick up.
    Darien barely hesitates before replying, ‘Yes.’
    My finger pushes at his pucker, meeting only a token resistance. ‘Yes what?’
    â€˜Yes, sir.’
    Those words do deserve a wider hearing. ‘I can’t hear you.’
    â€˜Yes, sir,’ he repeats, louder this time. That’s the moment I know I’m the champion. Darien has acquiesced to me; the most successful contestant in the history of the games finally conceding that he’s been mastered.
    I drop my voice to a whisper, ensuring only he can hear. ‘Then let the real game begin.’
    My finger probes deeper, exploring his tight, dark passage. As I feel him begin to relax, slowly opening up, I add a second finger. This isn’t what the audience might have been expecting; Darien’s tactics have never involved this kind of slow, almost loving build-up. Hard and rough, that’s the way he’s played it till now. But I want both of us to enjoy this, and forcing myself into a hole that’s not ready, even with the aid of lube, doesn’t get me off. Maybe they’ve cut to commercials, planning to come back when the serious fucking begins; I don’t care. All I know is that when I grasp Darien’s cock