hephaestion2014's blog

The Pro Wrestling match against Adam at the Wakefield Sports Hall was a comedy of errors and manufactured aggression. 

The air hung with the smell of cheap theatrical smoke—the perfume regional wrestling. Bryan was supposed to look like a "frustrated powerhouse," and Adam the wily "mid-card scrapper," but they both moved like two men who desperately needed a better agent.

During a designated five-minute Side Headlock that mostly conveyed "we're both trying to catch our breath," Bryan's inner monologue was focused on his growing financial pressure.

Then came the obligatory "referee distraction"— a randomly untied shoelace swallowing his whole attention—and the agonizingly slow sleeper hold that lasted precisely until the sound guy hit the wrong cue and Bryan's entrance theme played. 

The choreography moved into a designated "Finishing Sequence." They executed the 'Tower of Terror,' a move that was meant to be a spectacular mid-ring superplex but which, in reality, looked like two brothers arguing over who gets the top bunk. Adam sold the landing with a shriek that was one full octave too high, while Bryan staggered up, his grimace meant to convey agony but mostly just conveying the need for a chiropractor.

"Okay, now the near-fall!" Adam hissed, unnecessarily loudly, as Bryan draped a limp arm over him. The referee, bless his union card, counted one, two... and paused for a dramatic four seconds on 'two' while the crowd collectively blinked.

The whole spectacle was less a fight and more a unionized agreement to appear moderately upset for twelve minutes.
The match mercifully ended. Bryan's win drawing exactly three gasps from the audience.

Bryan was peeling off his sweaty kneepads in the grimy locker room when Adam, still catching his breath, leaned over.
"Man, you looked 'intense' tonight," Adam wheezed, splashing water on his face.
"It's called needing to pay the gas bill," Bryan muttered, checking his pocket for the promoter's envelope.
"Nah, seriously," Adam insisted, elbowing Bryan gently. "Did you see that guy? The tall, fancy one in the suit near the fire exit? He was watching our spot the whole time. Looked like a stockbroker on a gap year."
Bryan tensed. "What about him? I didn't see anyone."
"Just, damn," Adam whistled low. "He was way too hot to be here. Total academic vibe, but seriously built. I think he was scoping you out. You might have found yourself a very classy new fan, buddy."
Bryan stared at his own reflection.
The idea of Simon being there, he imagined him standing in the shadows, impeccably dressed, looking less like a wrestling fan and more like a professor who had accidentally stumbled into a puppet show. Simon's face—a mask of academic contempt—the ultimate, silent critic. He would not cheer, clap, or react.
"He was watching you intently. I felt a bit jealous." Adam patted his shoulder. "A bit of competition for me."

The vague thought of Simon finding him sexually attractive... A wave of self-disgust—at his body’s immediate, animal betrayal—crashed over him.

Bryan met Gaz at a pub off Canal Street. Tonight, it felt like the only place in the world where he wasn't pretending to be a polite guest.

"Well, look who emerged from the cave," Gaz observed, smiling warmly as he took a sip of his pint. "You've been keeping a low profile, how've you been? Fill me in. Who's been terrorizing your life lately?"
"Just the usual bills, mostly," Bryan confessed, swirling the foam in his glass. "But... you know, Malik sorted a fight for me."
Gaz raised an eyebrow. "Sounds like you didn't listen to me"
"I did but i needed to do this. And the guy I fought..."  he hesitated, the memory of the choke and the kick sharp. "His name is Simon. Turns out he's Mark's brother. Small world eh?"
"Mark's brother?" Gaz frowned, trying to place the name. "Ugh, family gatherings sounds fun. So, what's his deal?"
Bryan summarized, his voice flat. "He beat me, with this perfect triangle choke. Forced me to submit publicly, then he... added a little insult to the injury. It was total humiliation."
"Christ, Bryan," Gaz muttered, brow furrowing. "I'm sorry, mate. I did warn you."
Bryan paused, then remembered the peculiar sign-off. "Anyway, when I ran into him, he said to say to you..." Bryan paused, then delivered the message: "'Twitch says hello to you.'"
Gaz coughed, the pint catching. The easy, pub-drunk smile vanished. His hand shook, rattling the glass on the table. "Twitch? That Simon? Christ, Bryan. Okay." He rubbed a hand over his jaw, the movement tight and forced. "What's his game, Bryan? Why is he talking about me? You said you fought him—what exactly did he do to you?"
"He's obsessed with 'structural weakness,'" Bryan repeated, the technical term a shield against the memory of the defeat. "He said I need to come back when I learn how to kneel."
"Well, tell him he needs to leave the past in the past. And you should leave this alone. You tried it. Got it out of your system," he said, shaking his head, his focus entirely gone, staring into his beer, haunted. Conservation was pretty much over.

Bryan left the pub. It wasn't out of his system. He wanted more. He'd thought Gaz would've understood but Simon had shook him. Simon wasn't just studying him, he was dismantling his life. His private world wasn't just closing in—it was compromised, 

A couole of days later, Bryan was seated at a high-end restaurant for Sarah’s birthday dinner. The evening was predictably strained by forced pleasantries and overpriced food designed to be looked at rather than actually eaten.
Down table from him was Simon, who was holding court. The conversation revolving around his academic pursuits, but felt like a steady stream of veiled, personal attacks.
"It’s fascinating," Simon said to another guest fascinated by his theories, "The common belief is that the larger organism possesses intrinsic superiority. But in any contest, whether physical or financial, the advantage always goes to the one who can achieve absolute, precise control over his own output. Raw power is so terribly inefficient, wouldn't you agree, Bryan? It's like using a sledgehammer to hang a painting."
"It’s only inefficient when the person using it is too clumsy to bang it properly, " Bryan countered, meeting his gaze. "A lot of people rely on overthinking to make up for a lack of genuine capability."
Sarah shifted uncomfortably. Mark, oblivious, nodded happily. "Simon's mind. Always seeking the weakness."
Simon’s smile was sharp. "Weakness. Precisely. Sometimes it's a flawed knee joint; sometimes it's an overwhelming need to demonstrate strength. The best part is watching them realize the battle was lost before it even began."

Ten minutes later, Bryan felt the urgent need to escape the table. As he got up, Simon rose simultaneously.
"Nature calls," Simon announced, giving Bryan a look that promised a confrontation far more interesting than Mark talking about his bifold doors.

They entered the chrome bathroom. The moment the door clicked shut, the polite facade dissolved. The air became thick with charged aggression.
"You look flushed," Simon purred, leaning against the sink. "Did my analysis hit a nerve? Or is it knowing you're wasting that powerful body on such empty theatrics?"
"I know exactly what you're doing, Twitch," Bryan growled, stepping closer, his entire focus narrowed. "You're trying to push me. You want to see me lose control."
"Oh, I want to see you lose control," his voice dropping to a gravelly, sexual whisper. He took a deliberate step forward closing the space between them. "I want to see you pinned beneath me, your body soaked with sweat, your muscles twitching as I force you to scream my name. I want to feel your massive cock strain as you try to fight off the humiliation, only to break and explode all over my hand."
Bryan’s breath hitched. He was hard, straining against his trousers. The terror of his body’s immediate, animal betrayal crashed over him. "You like the pain, don't you? You like forcing a man to surrender. But you forget that two can play that game. I’ll pin you and fuck that arse, and I’ll fuck your brains out. When I'm done, you'll have forgotten your own name."
Simon’s eyes were black fire, his chest rising rapidly. He pushed forward, their chests brushing. Simon lifted his hand, his fingers brushing the sweat on Bryan's temple, and began to lean in, their lips inches apart.

The bathroom door opened, and Mark walked in, humming softly. He stopped at the urinal, completely oblivious.
Simon snatched his hand back, stepping instantly away from Bryan and adjusting his jacket, his breathing still ragged. Bryan stared at his reflection, attempting to suppress the raw, terrifying urgency that had been boiling on the surface.
"Everything alright, you two?" Mark asked cheerfully, zipping up. "You guys looked intense, talking about wrestling or something."
"Yes, of course, Mark," Simon replied, his tone perfectly controlled, his gaze flicking to Bryan. "Just wrapping up. Some fascinating hypotheticals, weren't they, Bryan?"
"Fascinating," Bryan choked out, trying to steady himself. They walked out of the bathroom, the raw, sexual exchange locked between them, utterly invisible to the world.


The phone rang late, the number blocked. Bryan answered.
"Bryan!" Malik began, warm and friendly. "I've got a fantastic offer for you, as promised —a spectacular fight that will pay well."
"What are the rules?"
"The opponent is called Leo. The audience is highly exclusive. Two patrons. You are their proxy. Some disagreement between them that they aren't man enough to settle between themselves. You'll represent one patron. Fight to  verbal submission or tap-out."
Malik continued, detailing the crucible, "The venue is a grand old house in Cheshire. No referees. The terms are non-negotiable: you and Leo in oil, and anything goes, including punches and slams. In fact, punches are welcomed."

Bryan swallowed hard. He imagined the looming red notice on his gas bill and the sickening cold of his flat; that financial terror was the immediate pressure. He could pretend to himself that was the only reason. He was offered a chance to prove himself. Redemption, but deep down, he just wanted to throw hands.

A private car collected Bryan, and drove through the unlit country roads of Cheshire to a fairly impressive house that had been built by old money, and now harbored new. Tudor elegance with a modernist carbuncle extensions.

The fight would take place in the ballroom, its high ceiling and the dim, dusty light of the massive, antique chandelier created an atmosphere of faded grandeur and decadence. 

A solitary wrestling mat lay on the polished parquet floor. The two financiers—the patrons—sat in massive velvet chairs, their faces strained with barely contained, voyeuristic excitement.

Bryan stood opposite Leo, who looked less like a fighter and more like a captured beast. He was a colossal figure, his muscle granite-hard topped by a wild, flowing mane of red hair. His mouth was encased in a thick leather muzzle,—a cage for the animal inside—and he was nude. The only sound from him was a low, animalistic growl deep in his chest.
Two separate bottles of oil were placed on the mat. Bryan and Leo each retrieved their bottle.
Leo’s movements were agonizingly slow and meticulous as he coated his own colossal body. He poured a line of warm oil down the center of his torso, his eyes never leaving Bryan’s, the muzzle a terrifying, silent threat. The only sound was the slapping of the oil being applied and Leo's growl.

Bryan mirrored the act, focusing on a cold, clinical application. He methodically coated his own limbs and torso, treating his body like a machine being prepped for war. He used the oil for pure functional coverage, ensuring every powerful muscle group was coated for the coming friction.

The bell rang—the signal to fight.

The confrontation was immediate, a savage, roaring collision of oiled flesh. They slammed into each other. Leo erupting in a soundless, horrifying display of power, smashing his enormous fists into Bryan’s unprotected ribs, the impact loud and sickening.
The oil made grips tricky, and punches were clearly the best tactical choice.
Bryan drove a dense counter-punch into the side of Leo's torso. They rose, locked together, and began trading fierce, ugly body blows in a tight clinch, the sound of flesh connecting echoing across the ballroom. 

Bryan landed a brutal shot to Leo's liver, causing the huge man to grunt and momentarily drop. Leo retaliated, driving the base of his palm repeatedly into Bryan's chest and sternum with piston-like force, trying to drive the breath out of him.
Bryan struck back with a desperate flurry of wild punches but Leo, ignoring the pain and roaring into his muzzle, drove a shoulder into Bryan's gut, forcing the wind out of him.
Bryan’s body was slammed, the back of his head connecting with the mat.

This fight was pure survival, a brutal exchange of pain.

Bryan took a breath, and thought.

He managed to slide around to Leo's back, avoiding Leo's backwards headbutts, clamping on a tight, Rear Naked Choke around Leo's throat. 

Bryan used his free hand to brutally gouge Leo's sides, twisting and pressing on pressure points with savage desperation .

The lack of oxygen, the pain, and the utter helplessness against the imposing hold was too much. Leo was going out, his strength leaving as he became limp. Leo’s muffled growls turned into a desperate "Stop!" He  pounded his fist—a final, furious, audible 'tap'—against the mat.

The fight was over. 

Leo lay defeated, his chest heaving, his powerful roar silenced by that single, shameful word.
The losing patron, a small, grey-haired man, stood up first, his face a mask of defeat. His bitter rivalry with the winning patron had spanned years—from competing for the same promotions and lucrative contracts to the final, destructive argument over a shared mistress. The loser’s defeat tonight was more than financial; it was the final, brutal settlement of their entire history, culminating in this act of total, public submission.
He began to slowly strip off his clothes, until he stood completely naked. He walked across the ballroom floor to the winning patron. He knelt between the winner's legs and performed silent, prolonged oral sex on him, completing the humiliating, sexual settlement of their rivalry.
The loser rose, cum covering his lips and gathered his discarded clothes, and walked silently out of the ballroom. Leo, still heaving and defeated on the mat, slowly pushed himself up. His movements were stiff, his shame palpable. Without a word or a glance at Bryan, he gathered his own discarded clothes and followed the losing patron out the door, the heavy mahogany doors swinging shut behind them.
The winner, adjusting his silk tie, his eyes still glittering from the transaction. He retrieved the heavy silver bell. The sharp, clear sound echoed powerfully through the vast ballroom.
The heavy mahogany doors swung silently inward.
Simon entered the ballroom.

The day after meeting Malik, he was enduring the crush of the crowded Arndale Centre. A contrast to the thrilling terror he'd felt yesterday talking to Malik. Looking around, he was reminded of Dawn of the Dead. He was near the food court—that great cathedral of soulless fast-casual dining, reeking of onions and salmonella—when a familiar, warm voice called his name.

"Bryan! Wow, look who it is!"

He turned to see his ex-wife, Sarah, smiling, her arm linked with her husband, Mark. They looked terribly well-adjusted, the kind of couple that reminded him that stable relationships weren't destined for him.

"Hello, Sarah, Mark," Bryan replied, managing a smile that was genuine. "You two good? Slumming it in town?"

"We're great, thanks!" Sarah said, touching his arm. "We hardly ever bump into you in town. We were just saying how much we miss your... dramatic flair."

Mark clapped Bryan on the shoulder with unnecessary force. "Yeah, mate, always good to see you. How’s the work? Still doing the odd bit of wrestling, I hear? It’s funny, my brother, Simon, has just moved up from London and got a flat in the Northern Quarter, and he's absolutely fixated on it lately."

Mark leaned in conspiratorially, as if discussing international espionage. "Says he wants to train, maybe even become a pro wrestler. You should meet Simon. He's just been writing an article about Sun Tzu and applying it to MMA matches. We are having a garden party soon. You have to come. You're the expert. He needs to meet a real-life pro wrestler."

Bryan gave a polite nod. The idea of a genius applying military strategy to what he knew was pure aggression felt intriguing. Maybe he'd learn something. The garden party was a necessary but welcome obligation. They'd both been good to him when, at times, he'd deserved no such kindness.

Sarah, however, allowed the polite conversation to drop. She gently touched his arm, her expression genuinely searching.

"You look different, Bryan," she said softly. "More focused, but... Are you okay?" She met his gaze with profound earnestness. "Have you found yourself yet, Bryan?"

Bryan stared back. He hadn't yet, but he finally had the address where he could be found.

"I think," Bryan replied, his words thick with conviction, "I think I'm on the path."

He accepted the invitation and left quickly. The answer to Sarah’s question lay on the cold, canvas mat in the Under Andercoats warehouse.

Bryan met Adam, a close friend and fellow professional wrestler, at their flat, his mind already consumed by the warehouse. Bryan shrugged off his shirt, his focus intense.

Adam, looking troubled, spoke immediately. "Look, Bryan, before we start. Daz is losing it. He's been badmouthing you all over Tameside since you walked out."

"Good. Let him talk." Bryan stepped closer. "I found the place. Sunday night. They call them cockfights. No rules. Total submission."

Adam nodded, the confirmation heavy in the air. "I heard the whispers. That sounds insane." As a pro wrestler, Adam respected the danger; as a friend, he worried.

They began grappling, the session instantly escalating into the intimate, necessary violence Bryan craved.

Bryan secured a crushing waist lock from behind. He could feel the radiating heat of Adam’s body as he leaned back into him, his low, strained groan vibrating through his forearms. The physical domination was instant and sexual. Bryan tightened the lock, demanding his full surrender.

He released the lock only to spin Adam around and drive him violently against the nearest wall. In Adam's eyes, he saw the wide, vulnerable expectation—the desire to be fully mastered. 

Bryan delivered a stinging, open-handed slap to Adam's chest. The sharp, dull sound was a satisfying punctuation of the silence. He tasted the salty tang of sweat stinging the corner of his mouth.

Bryan drove him down to the mat, He secured a mounted position, straddling Adam's chest using his full, oppressive weight.

Bryan lowered his head, not to kiss, but to claim total control. He clamped his open palm against Adam's mouth, and his nose - a rough, suffocating smother. He felt the frantic energy of Adam's struggle beneath him, his lungs grasping for air. When Adam's body started to go limp, Bryan released his hand, allowing him to gasp for air.

He didn't need a bell, or a crowd, or a rulebook. The silence, the sweat, the absolute surrender beneath him—this was the true climax. There was only one way to complete the circuit of total control. 

The physical dominance transitioned to the sexual. 

Bryan stripped Adam quickly, then seized Adam's cock, his grip punishing, demanding a response. He saw the mixture of pain and desperate pleasure in Adam's eyes.

Adam, however, refused to be merely passive. He bucked and seizing Bryan's trunks, pulling his cock out, and returned the aggression tenfold, using a rough, demanding grip that mirrored Bryan's intensity. Bryan felt the urgency of Adam's hand.

They maintained their fierce, aggressive rhythm—the pain of the holds, the intensity of the smothering —all culminating in a simultaneous, shattering release.

Bryan knew then he understood the rules. To dominate truly, he had to use every tool at his disposal until the victim's surrender was absolute and complete. He was ready for the sexual truth of the underground and the total control it demanded.

Sunday night at the warehouse was electric. The air was thick with the heavy scent of smoke, sweat, and sex. Bryan stood to one side of the mat, his muscles pumped with pent-up aggression.

Malik stepped onto the mat, his presence instantly commanding the frenzied crowd. He looked directly at Bryan, his expression calm but intense. "Welcome, Bryan. The rules are simple, as you know. Naked. Anything goes. Submission only. The fight ends when one body completely yields. You consent to these terms."

Bryan met his gaze. "I consent," he affirmed, his voice thick with resolve.

His opponent, the lean, charismatic man known as Twitch, approached the mats from the opposite side. Bryan’s stomach turned; he instantly recognized the coiled, unsettling aggression—this was the winner in the last match he had seen here the night he met Malik. Twitch’s lips curled into a predatory, unsettling grin.

"Look at the big, brave hero," Twitch taunted, his voice carrying over the crowd's noise. "Left his little costume at home, ready for the grown-up fight. Are you going to slam me through a table? Because listen: That pretend shit won't save you here."

Bryan's rage was a simmering heat. Bryan growled. "You're a skinny little cunt, and I'm going to fucking squash you and I'm going to rip your arms off."

"Oh, the threats are so big," Twitch purred, placing one foot on the mat. "But the submission will be small. Absolute. And you will weep when you realize you lost to a skinny little cunt who knows how to control your body, inside and out."

The crowd began to chant for the fight to begin.

Bryan ripped off his clothes quickly, eager for the fight to start. His body was pure, immense power—thick shoulders, a barrel chest, and heavy legs built for impact and stability.

Twitch took his time. He peeled off his shirt slowly, deliberately, giving the crowd and Bryan a full view of his lean, unnervingly defined physique. His body was all sharp angles and sinew—the antithesis of Bryan's brute force—a body built for precision, leverage, and endurance. His skin was pale with the odd faded bruise.

When he finally dropped his trousers and jockstrap, he revealed himself completely. His lean hips and muscular thighs contrasted with a thick, aggressively hard cock, pointing outward as a weapon. It was a visible taunt of dominance before the first blow was even struck.

Bryan felt a rush of heat and adrenaline—a furious, desperate mix of anger and arousal at this blatant, sexual challenge.

The bell rang. Bryan responded with the raw, visceral rage he had practiced, charging across the ring. He seized Twitch in a flash, lifting him high and driving him down onto the mat in a terrifying, Powerbomb-style slam.

Bryan, by unthinking habit,  sought the pin—a quick, wrestling ending—but Twitch was faster.

Twitch reversed the momentum, twisting his body and trapping Bryan's torso in a desperate clinch. The scramble immediately became a raw, sexual dance of dominance. Bryan felt the shock of sweat, musk, and expensive cologne, assaulting his senses. They rolled, their hardened cocks slid with a wet friction against each other's thighs.

Twitch used their closeness to seize control. His hand shot out, grasping Bryan's balls and cock in a sudden, excruciatingly painful squeeze. Bryan roared, a sound of pure agony and immediately retaliated, securing his own vice-like grip around Twitch's straining cock and scrotum.

The pain fueled their struggle. After what felt like hours of mutual ball crushing, Twitch started a chaotic sprawl. He leveraged his legs, forcing Bryan into an inverted position, and suddenly, they were locked in a mutual 69 headscissors.

The pressure on their necks was crushing. Bryan's vision was instantly restricted, filled with Twitch's hard cock, now glistening with precum. Bryan could smell Twitch's sharp, musky arousal and the faint, salty taste of his own breath trapped in the humid air of the hold. The vulnerability was absolute.

The sheer, unsustainable pain of the hold finally gave way. Twitch broke the hold, using the momentary release to move with lightning speed.

Before Bryan could recover his breath, Twitch had secured him in a tight, technically perfect triangle choke. Bryan fought the hold with pure, desperate strength, but it was wasted against the precise technique.

Bryan slumped, his body going limp—a total submission via technical choke.

Twitch released the hold, standing over Bryan, laughing maniacally. The crowd surged forward, their faces shining with excitement and predatory lust; they were openly cheering the final punishment.

Twitch delivered his final, spoken command.

"Cum for me."

Humiliated and desperate, Bryan reached down to his own erection and began to stroke. 

He was thick and hard, slick with the sweat and precum. His strokes grew faster, desperate and ragged, the shame equaling the pleasure, his gaze locked on the ceiling as the audience cheered his abasement.

Bryan felt the final, irreversible wave of climax building in his abdomen.

 It was a humiliating surge of physical release dictated by his defeat.

It was precisely as he was about to cum that Twitch delivered a sudden, vicious kick directly to Bryan's testicles, cutting the release short and replacing pleasure with blinding, searing agony.

Twitch grabbed his discarded clothes, not bothering to cover himself, and leaned over Bryan. "Enjoy the rest of the show. You came here looking for submission. You got it from a  skinny litke cunt who knows his stuff. Don't come back until you learn how to kneel."

Malik walked onto the mat. "That was a hell of a show, Bryan," he said calmly. "You can't win them all." Bryan lay there, his shame and agony—the white-hot pain of the kick and the total sexual control—turning into a terrifying, singular focus: revenge. 

He hadn't learned to kneel, but he'd learn precisely how to rise.