Breaking Point

I’ve known Kurt and Brad since high school. Both possessed strong, athletic physiques that most guys wish for themselves. Brad had a slight advantage in height and weight, but both guys excelled in sports, especially wrestling and boxing. They became natural rivals. Most of the guys preferred blond-haired Kurt as a buddy. Definitely the friendlier of the two, Kurt didn’t put down people as Brad did at every opportunity. Hunky, black-haired Brad used his handsome face and riveting blue eyes to seduce one girl after another. Each one only provided him with temporary fun; he broke lots of hearts. If a guy got into a disagreement with Brad, the hunk would flex his considerable muscles and threaten him physically. I saw him do it many times, almost always with guys smaller than him. Few would challenge him.

Kurt, Brad and I ended up at the same college and members of the wrestling team. During the first season, Brad easily won every match he had. Of course, the team valued him, but one day I saw him do something that really bothered me.

It took place after practice. The coach had left and a few of us hung around to continue practicing holds. As I sat on a mat taking a brief rest, I noticed Brad and Jeremy wrestling on the other side of the gym. It looked odd, because Jeremy fell in the 135-pound weight class, whereas Brad weighed 175. The two talked as they grappled, but I couldn’t distinguish all the words. Suddenly Brad became really pissed and started applying holds full force—submission holds not meant to win, but to hurt.

Jeremy cried out as Brad locked on a mean single-leg crab and wrenched the leg back farther than advisable. Then Brad used his free hand to slice a shot between Jeremy’s legs. The guy yelled in pain and struggled bravely to free himself. He couldn’t. Brad seemed to like watching the kid suffer. He smiled and struck Jeremy’s nuts a second time, and a third. When some of the guys turned to see what caused the yells, Brad quickly flipped Jeremy onto his back and mounted him.

Sitting commandingly on the defenseless lightweight, Brad grasped the kid’s neck with his right hand and pointed a scolding left finger at him. I thought that was the end of it, but I was wrong. I could see Jeremy’s face getting redder and redder. He couldn’t breathe. Then his body started to twitch.

Suddenly Brad jumped up and stormed away and out of the gym. Jeremy began to cough, holding his neck with one hand and his nuts with the other. It took him a while to get back to normal, but he wouldn’t tell any of us what set off Brad.

“He’d better watch it,” Kurt said to Jeremy afterward. “Shit like that could get him thrown off the team.”

“Then where would we be?” said one of our teammates.

“Somebody’s got to put Brad in his place,” said another.

“I would,” said Dave, “but he’s a son-of-a-bitch. He’d wreck my beautiful balls!”

We smiled, having seen Dave’s larger-than-life testicles many times in the locker room. We helped Jeremy get up and joked with him about his tough nuts. But as far as I know, nobody ever confronted Brad about the incident.

A few days later, a bunch of us on the team met at the local fairgrounds during a carnival event. We had fun visiting the beer tent, rides and the other amusements. Brad seemed to be in a pretty good mood, but I did think he had more than his fill of beers. As we walked to the far end of the fairgrounds toward the parking lot, Brad deliberately provoked Jeremy. He bumped his shoulder into the guy without warning, hard enough to almost knock Jeremy down.

“Sorry, squirt,” sneered Brad, putting his arm around Jeremy in phony concern.

“How’s your balls, boy?” taunted Brad. “I couldn’t have hurt ‘em much: they’re such tiny things!”

“Hey, cut it out,” interrupted Kurt. “What are ya messin’ with him for?”

“None of your business,” replied Brad.

Turning toward Jeremy, Brad continued. “Sometime you and I should wrestle naked so people could see if you’re a boy or a girl!”

Jeremy, now enraged, stopped and shouted back. “Fine with me! Anytime!” He took an unafraid step toward Brad.

But before any of us could react, Brad pulled the kid toward him and into a nasty choke hold—something called the cross collar choke, I later learned. Crossing his arms, Brad shoved his hands against either side of Jeremy’s neck. It looked kind of tame at first. But Brad widened his stance, signaling a serious hold. His hands became fists, and as they pressed into the arteries, a look of horror flashed across Jeremy’s face. Brad’s biceps flexed, boldly displayed in the muscle tee he wore. Jeremy raised his hands to fight back, but it was already too late. The kid’s eyes closed. His hands fell to his sides. Stunned, we watched him suddenly slump to the ground. In ten seconds it was all over. Brad had put him out cold.

I wondered where Brad had learned a move like that. Maybe from youtube, but definitely not from our coach.

“Fuck!” shouted Kurt, the first guy to reach Jeremy. He knelt beside the motionless body and began lightly slapping Jeremy’s face. Getting no response, he slapped harder. “Wake up! Wake up!” Several frantic seconds passed. Derek came next and started shaking Jeremy as Kurt continued yelling.

A crowd began to assemble. Alarmed questions flew from the bystanders. “Was there a fight?” And “Is he hurt?” And even, “Is he dead?”

Then I saw Jeremy’s left arm twitch in a strange motion. His eyes opened, but for at least another minute, he only stared unresponsively.

“Are you OK?” exclaimed Kurt.

The kid’s whole body twitched uncontrollably several times before he finally spoke. “I… I… What….Where am I?”

It took another couple of minutes for Jeremy to regain his normal speech and movement. Kurt looked relieved, but then I could see his face begin to boil in anger as he looked around for Brad.

“That’s it!” roared Kurt, seeing Brad standing some distance away, grinning. He wasted no time confronting Brad. “I’ve had it with you!”

“Whatcha bitchin’ about? That little weenie shouldn’t even be on our team, and you know it!”

“You’re way out of line, buddy. Maybe it’s YOU who shouldn’t be on the team! If the coach knew what you’ve been doin’, your ass would be gone!” said Kurt.

“Don’t threaten me, hotshot! I think you need to learn a few things!”

Without warning, Brad plunged a fist deep into Kurt’s stomach. Unprepared for it, Kurt fell forward, holding onto Brad for support as he gasped for air. Brad backed away, letting Kurt sink to his hands and knees.

“Get up, so I can give you the same thing I gave the weenie!”

The onlookers moved in, hoping to get a good view of the fight. As Kurt slowly got to his feet, Brad’s fingers invited him to attack. When Kurt did, Brad pushed him to the side, then sent him to the ground again with a kick to his butt. Kurt’s attempt to get up met with another kick, this time to his gut. Once more on his hands and knees, Kurt struggled to rise, but Brad kicked the gut several more times—wicked ones.

“Get up loser—if you can!” yelled Brad.

Kurt started to crawl away. Brad followed him, occasionally thrusting a kick to his side or legs. The crawling and kicking went on until Kurt reached the side of a small storage shed. He put his hands on the wall to help pull himself up. He turned to face his enemy, but didn’t have the energy at the moment to mount much of an attack.

Brad seized Kurt’s tee shirt and tore it off. “Now it’s lights-out time!”

Going for a different kind of frontal choke than he used on Jeremy, Brad locked his arms tightly around Kurt’s neck—one in back and the other across his face, covering the mouth. It would take a little longer to put him out this way, but Brad greatly enjoyed doing it.

Kurt knew what the hold would do and tried to pry Brad’s arms apart.

“Yeah—fight it!” gloated Brad. “Use all your strength. Make it easier for me!”

Brad kept him trapped against the wall, so Kurt had nowhere to go. I could see him getting weaker by the second.

“Put him to sleep!” yelled a guy in the crowd.

Kurt’s face displayed his desperate situation. Yet, a rage still burned in his eyes. Brad tightened his hold with a sudden, terrible jerk. You could almost hear the bones crack in Kurt’s neck. His arms fell to his sides.

“C’mon Kurt!” I yelled. “Don’t let him do this to ya!”

“He’s finished, man,” countered Brad. “I’m gonna be THE power around here from now on!”

He let out an unexpected shout—not of victory, but of pain. I didn’t immediately see what had happened, but figured it out when Brad released his hold and clutched his balls with both hands. Kurt’s knee had found them with a decisive blow.

Brad collapsed to the ground on his back, cursing.

Kurt planted a foot on Brad’s chest. “Since we’re fightin’ anything-goes, this is next to go!” said Kurt. He opened Brad’s shorts, then pulled them completely off in one swift motion. That left the hunk wearing just a white jockstrap and sneakers. His face flushed with embarrassment; some of the onlookers laughed at him. “Take it all off!” shouted one dude.

Before Brad could get up, Kurt pulled the hunk’s tee shirt up and hooked it over his face, blocking his vision. Next, he gripped Brad’s bent right leg at the knee and power-jerked it upward, hoisting the guy off the ground. He kept him suspended like that, at times shaking the leg up and down to intensify the hold. Brad yelled as pain stabbed into his knee. At the same time, he flailed about, trying to remove his shirt. He finally did so and threw it in Kurt’s face.

Kurt now switched gears. He started to twist the ankle, increasing the pain and forcing Brad to flip on his stomach. He pulled up and back on the leg, maneuvering the hunk into a half-crab. Kurt plopped down on Brad’s back and pulled the leg back further. Brad reacted with agonized shrieks. But Kurt didn’t stop there. He dropped his butt onto the hunk’s back again and again, torturing the spine beyond belief as he wrenched the leg backward.

“Break him! Break him!” came another yell.

Hearing the commotion, more people joined the crowd to watch. Brad couldn’t take any more pain and yelled, “Stop! I give! I submit!”

But Kurt kept crabbing him. As I watched the two guys, I realized that this fight no longer had to do with revenge for Brad’s treatment of Jeremy. It concerned the long-standing rivalry between Brad and Kurt. The winner would smash that rivalry for good. Only one guy would walk away. No rules applied. No pin or submissions would decide the end. The winner would end the fight when he felt like it.

Kurt had the leg forced back dangerously far. It gave those of us on the left side a good view of Brad’s open crotch and the jock’s fully exposed pouch. Kurt took advantage of that. He seized the balls with his left hand and squeezed. Brad screamed. Kurt’s squeeze didn’t stop, forcing repeated, anguished screams from the hunk.

“Yeah—scream like a baby!” yelled Kurt.

Our team members moved in closer. We had never witnessed a serious ball claw used in a fight. Sure, I’ve had my balls grabbed by lots of guy’s as we horsed around, but that was fun stuff. Here, Kurt did it for keeps.

“Pro wrestling should be like this!” shouted a spectator.

I got a good look at Kurt’s squeeze. He really gave it to that sack, putting it into an extreme, prolonged twist that paralyzed Brad. On top of that, Kurt also began to pull it lower and lower.

My buddy Derek, standing beside me, watched the hold in amazement. “Holy shit,” I heard him say to himself.

“He’ll have to join the boys' choir now!” said one guy, causing more laughter in the crowd.

As a finish to the hold, Kurt released the nuts but immediately gave them a hard punch. He then dropped the leg, leaving Brad groaning on the ground. Nevertheless, he started to get up.

“He doesn’t know when to admit defeat,” said a guy in the crowd.

It took the Brad a while to achieve a standing position. Swearing constantly at Kurt, he had to pause several times to hold the hurting balls. His muscles, wet with perspiration, glistened in the afternoon sun. He staggered toward Kurt with fire in his eyes. Kurt made a grab for Brad’s nuts, but he only intended it to fake out Brad. When the hunk shielded his sack with both hands, Kurt moved in and waist-locked him, trapping both arms in a big bear hug.

Brad cried out as Kurt lifted him off the ground and pressed his fists into the already weakened back.

“No! No!” shouted Brad.

“Yes!” said Kurt, crushing the body without mercy.

Brad’s muscles did him no good in this hold. As Kurt squeezed, Brad just had to take it. I watched Kurt widen his stance, preparing to ratchet up the pressure. When he re-clamped the hold, Brad cried out with a gut-scream that I never thought I’d hear from him. We also heard two loud farts explode from his asshole, demonstrating the hold’s power over the hunk’s body.

It was thrilling, even sexy, seeing that physique in trouble. I wanted his torture to continue. I loved it. I wanted to see Kurt squeeze the shit out of him.

Brad thrashed his legs in all directions, reacting more from the power of the bear hug than from attempts to escape it. The straps of his jockstrap perfectly framed the hunk’s nearly naked ass, held high for all to see.

“Hey—pretty butt!” yelled a spectator.

Clearly affected by the remark, Brad used all his strength to defeat the hold and end his humiliation. He finally managed to pull his left arm out of Kurt’s grasp. He pushed the hand against Kurt’s chin, forcing the head gradually backward. For the first time, a gap began to appear between the two guys’ chests. Every muscle in Kurt’s body strained as he tried to maintain the dominance of the bear hug. But the gap increased.

One of Kurt’s buddies shouted some encouragement. “Get him, Kurt!”

“Yeah—keep him there!” yelled another.

A devastating blow to Kurt’s jaw put a sudden end to the hold. A second big blow to Kurt’s chest—like a “heart punch”—sent his back to the ground.

“Get up Kurt,” whispered Derek, clenching his fists as if trying to transfer his strength to Kurt.

But Kurt stayed down, holding his chest with both hands. Brad acted quickly. He picked up Kurt’s ankles and maneuvered the legs into a tight figure-four hold. Kurt cried out in instant pain. He slammed the ground with his hands more than once. Then he tried to push himself up. Brad took hold of Kurt’s stretched-out leg at the ankle and viciously pushed it up, causing unbearable pain. You don’t see pro wrestlers do that when they apply a figure-four, because it can cause immense damage. Brad, however, didn’t care about an injury; in fact, he craved it. He grinned wickedly as he watched Kurt writhe and scream.

“You’re done,” announced Brad.

Kurt begged him to stop, and at one point sat up far enough to tap repeatedly on one of Brad’s thighs. When that got him no favors from Brad, he began stroking the steel-like thigh as if admiring it—at least, acknowledging its dominance over him.

“Oh shit,” I moaned.

Brad loved that moment. “That’s right—worship it!” said Brad, smiling in triumph.

Kurt fell back to the ground in agony, but he lifted himself once more and stroked the thigh again, almost lovingly.

“Kiss it and I’ll let you go,” demanded Brad.

With great effort, Kurt slowly moved his face forward to do that. But instead, he landed a fist squarely onto Brad’s face. Brad hit the ground and rolled onto his back, while Kurt unhooked his legs from the murderous hold.

I could see a drop of blood emerge from Brad’s nose. “Damn you! Damn you!” yelled the hunk.

As Brad pushed his stomach off the ground to launch a revenge attack, Kurt coiled his legs around Brad’s sides and squeezed. The scissors brought a loud and deep scream from Brad. That surprised me, because I once saw a dude put him in an abdominal scissors full force and it made no impact on him. But Kurt’s scissors put serious pressure on the kidneys and that was a different story.

Brad pounded frantically on Kurt’s legs, but the pain soon drained him of the will to keep pounding. He could only lie there and cry out as Kurt pressed his legs further into the hunk’s sides. When Brad finally didn’t have the energy to scream anymore, Kurt reapplied the hold with a jerk, restarting the screams. Watching it, and hearing it, sent shivers down my spine.

Sweat began to stream down Brad’s face. “No! Please, no more!” he cried. “I’m beggin' you, man!”

But Kurt was in assault mode. He—like everyone on the team—wanted to hear Brad continue to plead for an end to his agony. So Kurt kept working the hold, minute-after-minute, pushing Brad toward annihilation.

“I can’t go on!” screamed Brad. “Let go of me before I….”

Kurt had no desire to stop now. He put his arms to work and propped himself up, lifting Brad off the ground as he scissored him—a move that added a lot more pressure to the hold.

I loved the variation, and so did Derek. “That’s hot!” he said to me. “I wanna do that on you sometime!”

I grinned and put my arm around his shoulder. “I’d like to see you try, buddy-boy!”

Kurt let Brad fall to the ground, giving him a false sense of closure. But then he repeated the side lift, and repeated it again, and again, reducing Brad to a screaming, whimpering little boy. His beautiful physique could no longer withstand the hold’s frightful, demolishing power. I watched his muscles slowly break down and give up the fight. And then came something we all still talk about. Brad’s jock pouch started to change color.

“No! God no!” shouted the hunk as urine began to saturate the pouch. The thin, white fabric quickly turned to amber as piss flooded it. Brad now cried real tears: he had no way to stop the flow, just like he couldn’t stop Kurt’s ongoing, punishing scissors.

The crowd, mostly guys who knew Brad, laughed in delight as they watched piss continue to flow from the hunk’s dickhead—now visible through the worn, wet jock—and splash onto the ground below.

“Yeah—force the piss outa him!” someone yelled.

That’s exactly what happened. As long as Kurt squeezed, the piss kept flowing—lots of it.

“Looks like you drank too many beers today!” joked another guy.

I never heard a guy scream and cry simultaneously, but Brad did that. When Kurt at last ended the scissors, Brad was left sprawled on his back, sobbing, with his jockstrap soaked.

But Kurt still wasn’t finished. “Get up!” he commanded.

Brad could hardly make it to his feet. When he eventually did, Kurt moved in for the kill.

Getting behind Brad, he wrapped his arms around the hunk’s neck. “You know what this is. It’ll put you to sleep. But I’m gonna do it real slow, so you can watch everybody staring at your wet jock.”

“Please—no!” cried Brad. “I’m sorry, man! I know I’ve been a bastard, but don’t do this in front of everybody!”

“Do it, Kurt!” shouted Derek.

Kurt tightened his grip. Brad gasped, now only able to whisper “no” again and again as the sleeper worked on him. He sank to his knees, with Kurt following him.

“Isn’t this your favorite hold?” asked Kurt. “I hope you enjoy it!”

As the hunk lost consciousness, Kurt broke the hold and gave his face a slap. In a daze, Brad fell back against Kurt’s chest. Kurt slapped him again. “Snap out of it. This is only the beginning.”

Kurt re-applied the cobra-like sleeper.

“Please, not again…” begged Brad.

Kurt smiled. “Maybe putting you out a few more times will make you give up more piss!”

“No…no…no!” whispered Brad as his eyelids closed.

“Hey, this is totally awesome,” Derek said to me.

Another slap from Kurt made Brad’s body twitch before the guy regained his wakefulness. But he was still disoriented. Brad suddenly pushed back against Kurt’s chest, as if afraid of something in front of him.

“It’s OK, buddy,” said Kurt, grinning. “I’ll protect you.” He patted and rubbed Brad’s chest to calm him down. “I think you need more rest.”

Kurt locked him in the sleeper again. As Brad faded away, this time Kurt beckoned to my buddy. “Hey Derek, let’s have some fun. Pull his jock down.”

Derek was glad to comply with the request. “When he wakes up, let’s see if he notices!”

The onlookers laughed as Derek jerked the jock down to Brad’s knees, putting the hunk’s balls and dick in full view.

“I always wished someone would do that to him at one of our wrestling meets!” admitted Derek with a smile.

Kurt slapped Brad’s face, bringing him to life.

“Hey, Brad, did ya lose something?” asked a guy in the crowd.

It took several seconds for Brad to realize that all his equipment was now on display. “Fuck!” he cried, grabbing for his jock. But Kurt restrained his arms before the guy could pull it up. Brad turned his head aside to avoid looking at the happy expressions of the onlookers.

“He’s hung pretty well,” said one of them.

“Yeah, now you don’t have to wrestle naked for us—we all know what you've got!”

“I’m through with you, man,” said Kurt. “Just one more thing to do: put you asleep one more time!”

“No, please, please, please!” exclaimed Brad.

“No?” asked Kurt. He moved in front of the hunk and made a fist. Would you like this instead?”

Brad gripped the fist to prevent it from striking. “Don’t do it! Please! I’m your teammate!”

“Sorry,” said Kurt, apologizing ahead of time, and then drove the fist decisively into Brad’s jaw.

The hunk fell to the ground and didn’t move. The well-pleased crowd clapped and then gradually dispersed, having witnessed an unscheduled fairground event they would never forget. Kurt slipped his tee shirt on again. He, along with Derek, Jeremy and I, sat down near Brad, talking. Jeremy dumped the contents of his water bottle over Brad’s face to rouse the loser.

More groggy than ever, Brad looked up to see Jeremy, thinking the little guy had knocked him out.

“You better treat Jeremy better, man,” Derek advised Brad. “He has quite a punch.”

I don’t think Brad ever figured out what really had occurred, and none of us ever explained it to him. Brad looked up at Jeremy with an expression of awe. He cautiously and humbly extended his hand for a hopeful handshake. And Jeremy took it.

(end)