hephaestion2014's blog

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.