Ivan Bearhugs a Journalist

It's 1968, and Ivan Koloff is in a good mood when we meet up in the locker room of his personal gym. Though I know his real name is different, I refer to him as he was billed in the IWA ring. I respect the sport of professional wrestling enough to respect the characters in it—and, as a journalist, it would be foolish to lose access to these wrestlers through some haphazard attempt to expose the business. I also have no particular interest in pissing off a 290 pound monster, whether he's actually from Ukraine or from Montreal.

"My girlfriend's not here," he says, "which means she can't stop me from being myself."

He smiles as he wipes broad shoulders with a towel. He's just finished working out. I never saw him smile in the ring, so I find myself disarmed by his glow, his good nature. He's just finished a stint as champion of IWA and there's rumors that he might sign with Vince McMahon's WWWF in the coming year. When I introduced myself as a journalist backstage at the most recent IWA show, it was to follow up on those rumors. I didn't expect the invite to his personal gym, and now that I stood there in the shadow of the bear, I still don't quite believe this is real.

"But you know what?" Ivan continues, as we walk through the locker room together. I'm writing quickly, and trotting to keep pace with him. "I always do what I want, anyways. That's why I'm a champion everywhere I go, you know?"

We enter the gym—it has a lot of machines and free weights, and a large wrestling ring in the center. The walls are painted blue and there are posters on them that say things like: "Train hard!" "Fight like a bear!" "Stay on top!" Ivan tells me he wants to look good for the camera—he's got his shirt off now, exposing his chest full of black, curly hair. He flexes his arm, and muscles ripple under his skin. His triceps are like boulders, bundled with power. Ivan's so pumped up right now that I'm half-expecting him to try to tackle me.

As we talk, I notice that Ivan keeps glancing over at me. At first, I think it's just curiosity, but then I realize he's scanning me, sizing me up and down. "You know," he says, "you look pretty tough."

"T-thanks," I stop writing. I do work out, but I'm nothing compared to him. Such a compliment from such a man feels unearned. "But you're the toughest guy around."

Ivan laughs. "But I have to say, you look like you've taken some bumps."

I'm shocked. This is inner lingo—I know what a 'bump' is in wrestling context, but only from my investigations. It’s the term for taking a wrestling move, usually a slam. "Oh, no. Not me."

Ivan chuckles, beaming a smile that borders patronizing. "Don't tell me that you've never wrestled before!"

"I haven't," I say. "I mean, I just write about wrestling, and I try to stay fit. I wouldn't stand a chance against you."

"Well, why don't we spar a little bit? I'll give you a crash course in what it means to wrestle."

My chest swells in surprise. "Really?"

"Sure! You've got a nice physique. You won't say no to the great Koloff, would you?"

"Oh, I'd love to!" I'm somewhere between flattered and intimidated. "Thanks, Ivan!"

***

Ivan and I are sitting side-by-side in the ring. He's wearing a pair of blue shorts and nothing else. I remove my shirt, down to nothing but my own nylon shorts and sneakers. It's the first time I've ever been in a real wrestling ring, and my whole body comes alive with a tingling excitement.

"So," Ivan says, leaning back and stretching his arms wide. "What do you think so far?"

"This is great!" I exclaim. I've worked up a sweat from our opening drills. "I've got a bit of a rush now."

"Well, you should," he strokes his beard. "That's the whole point."

Ivan gives me a few pointers on how to hold my arms before locking up, and how to move in the ring. It takes me a while to figure out the rhythm of it all, but eventually I start to get the hang of it.

"Okay," Ivan says, "now let's try something else."

Ivan grabs me by the shoulders and spins me around. I feel dizzy for a moment, but then I'm able to catch my balance again. He leads me through a series of different holds, showing me how to use my legs and feet to escape certain moves. These positions are, to my surprise, more amateur than professional, more grounded than the theatrical, punch-kick affair of an IWA ring.

We rise. He grabs my shoulders again. We lock up.

"And here," he says with a gruff much deeper, much more in line with the villain he is in the ring, "let's see if you can get me to the ground and pin me."

I stand facing Ivan, who's still holding onto my shoulders. I try to push him away, but he just grins and shakes his head. I try to step back, but Ivan grabs me by the wrists and pulls me forward. He shoves me into the ropes, and I bounce off into his waiting arms. Ivan hooks his forearms under my pits and hip tosses me. I land on my side, and before I can even register the pain of his throw, he pins me there, his weight pressing down on my chest as he hooks my leg. I see lights behind the shadow of hairy flesh, and little else. "There you go," he says. "Now how do you like that?"

I gasp for breath. I suppose in a normal match the pinned opponent should try and get out, but I'm just there, hooked and pinned by The Bear Himself. I’m panting, mesmerized by his strength and technique. "You're amazing!" I manage to gasp.

"Aw, don't get all excited," Ivan laughs. "I'm just doing what I do best."

"Yeah, and you’re great at it…" I say with a reflexive honesty that I perhaps should’ve reigned in a little.

Ivan nods and unhooks my leg. We're laying next to each other. On the mat, on our sides, facing each other—it feels strangely intimate. "Maybe so, but there's a world of tricks that are better than this. I still have a lot of ways to win that I haven't had the chance to try in the ring yet."

I'm excited—is this guy about to tell me an industry secret? "Like what?"

His face melts into a smirk.

Ivan reaches down and grabs my hips. He turns me over and pushes me down on my stomach. His bicep wraps around my throat and his hand strokes the back of my neck. Ivan leans down and presses his lips against my ear. "Can you guess what this is?" he asks.

I try to answer, but as his bicep coils close, my voice is strained, spittle filled.

"It's called a sleeper hold. It's one of the most powerful holds in wrestling, and it's not easy to break out of. This isn't locked in, of course. I wouldn't do that to you out of nowhere..." his breath flickers, ashy, "...unless you asked nicely, of course."

I shudder at his heavy breath at my nape.

"N-no thanks," I stammer.

"Probably wise," he laughs, lets me go, and pulls me up. The world blurs a little, but I regain my senses.

"There's probably easier holds to get out of, maybe we should start with them," Ivan says. "Things that a beginner like you can practice."

"What do you recommend, Ivan?" I ask.

Ivan's dark eyes turn upwards in thought. "Hmm... Well, first I'd suggest you work on your escapes. You need to learn to get out of those holds. And you'll also want to learn some basic take-downs, because if you ever end up in a match with me, you might find yourself pinned. Of course, I think you'll always be pinned by me, no matter how hard you work. But I'm sure you'll give it your best shot."

I'm unsure if he's starting to insult me now. He's a champion and clearly skilled regardless of the reality of the IWA, so I suppose he's allowed to do that. I take it in stride. "Okay, I'll work on my escapes."

Ivan looks at me for a moment, then bursts out laughing. "You think it's that easy?"

I hesitate. Did I say something wrong? "Why not?" I ask, then reconsider. "It's not easy, no, but I can work at it, like you said."

Ivan grins. "Well, we can test that right now. What hold of mine do you think you can escape?"

I remember that Ivan won his last match in the IWA with a bearhug. I never believed in the validity of this move—there's just too many ways to get out, I think. "How about I try to escape your bearhug?"

Ivan looks away for a bit, crossing his arms. "Well, I don't know if a little man like you could handle it."

Getting called a "little man" might've annoyed me if it were anyone else, but this is the Great Bear himself. I think Ivan Koloff can call me any names he wants.

He chuckles and takes a step closer to me. "But maybe you can. You'll have to show me, little man."

He steps in close and wraps an arm around my waist. He brings his other hand up and rests it on my shoulder. I look up at him. He's smiling down at me, and he has this mischievous glint in his eye.

"Ready?" Ivan asks.

My hand shakes anxiously as I plan my possible escapes. "Ready."

Ivan Koloff leans down and kisses me. His mouth opens wide, and his tongue thrusts into my mouth, and I feel myself falling deep and fast, as though I have been shot from a cannon. My head, my heart flutters as his kiss deepens. When he pulls off my face, it's with a loud, wet pop. I feel dizzy.

"Ivan..." I pant. "...that's not a bear hug."

"You're right," he chuckles. I feel the rumble of his voice between our bodies. "It's a kiss."

Ivan squats down. I feel his arms lock behind the small of my back. He squeezes tight around my waist and lifts me up. My feet dangle above the ground. I can barely breathe. I can't see anything but Ivan's dark eyes staring at me. I feel his hot breath on my cheek.

"But if you want a bear hug," Ivan growls, "I can give you that, too. I'm very good at that."

I am held fast in Ivan's grip and it's the first time I realize that he smells faintly of sour beer. His breath is hot against my ear and his balled hands press down on my back. I am pressed up against Ivan's chest—his flesh and chest hair are damp with sweat. My face feels hot and flushed. I want to cry out, but the pressure around me makes this impossible. I have never been held so tightly in all my life. The pain is unreal, and sudden. I scream. Ivan laughs. He squats and lowers me to the mat, letting my body melt to the floor. I lie there gasping for air.

"Ivan, please..."

"Mmm, you're so cute when you beg, little man," Ivan says. He lets go of the hug, and my hips drop with a thud. "And you're going to be begging a lot more before this night is through."

Ivan grabs my chin and tilts my head up. His dark eyes stare into mine. "How long do you think you can handle my hug, little man?"

He grips my wrists and pins them against the mat and nibbles at my neck. His beard scratches at me, and sends electricity across my body. He growls and sucks and kisses along my neck, and when satisfied, scoops me back into his arms. He squeezes, and I whimper in pain.

"Oh, you'll like this, little man," Ivan whispers in my ear. "This how a bear shows his love."

He lifts me high, and is crushing my pelvis in-between his pecs. It hurts so much, but, with my nylon shorts pressed tightly against his hairy chest, I discover there's another feeling besides pain that you can get from the friction of a bear hug.

"Ivan..." I gasp.

"What?" Ivan's brow crimps. "Do you want this to stop?"

I swallow hard. "No, I just..."

Ivan's voice drops to a low, pleased growl. "Ah, so you do want more. Good."

And he starts squeezing me again, and bouncing me up and down, and I start humping the valley of his hairy chest. I'm moaning and whimpering and groaning, but I can't help myself.

Ivan laughs. "You are such a little slut, little man," he says. "A real bear cub. You'll learn your place."

Ivan throws me onto the mat. I hit it with a thud, and fall to the side.

"You thought you could just escape my finisher so easily, but look at you, humping in it like a bitch in heat," Ivan scolds me, pacing around my crumpled body. "Now, what should we do to teach you some proper respect, little man?"

I look up at him, my words slurred. "I'm sorry, Ivan... I didn't mean anything..."

Ivan grabs me by the hair and yanks me up to my feed. He stands up straight and reaches down. He touches my groin and I become aware of the sensation of heat rising between my legs. I moan. I can't believe I'm actually getting excited from this! I never thought I would enjoy being humiliated and used, but Ivan is doing things to me that no one ever has.

I whimper incomprehensibly, which just seems to make Ivan grope me harder.

His thick fingers rub up and down my bare thigh. He grabs the front of my shorts and rips them down, revealing my gray jockstrap.

"Please, Ivan," I plead.

Ivan growls. "Please, what? You hump my pecs when the great Koloff applies his finisher. I should show you what a real bear does to disobedient cubs."

He slaps his hands around the small of my back and pulls me towards his front. Our bulges smash into each other. I'm panting, and he's staring me down like a piece of meat. His heavy breathing is hot on my face

"Oh God..." I whisper.

My voice cracks. He silences me with a squeeze. He presses his body against mine, grinding his hips into my jockstrap as he crushes my lower back. He's so strong! I feel the force that's ended so many matches compress around me. He lifts me up and jerks my body around, grunting with each swing.

"Ow, ow, ow, ohhh, owww!" I scream.

"Now, you're going to beg for mercy, little man," Ivan snarls. "Beg for it like a good little bitch until you can't take it anymore."

I whimper and shake my head. I push my hands into his hairy chest in some feeble attempt to power out of the hold, but Ivan just keeps tightening his grip.

I pant and grunt. I thrash about, but Ivan just squeezes tighter. My jockstrap bulge gets squashed and smeared into Ivan's stomach, and I fear what he might do to me if I were to cum on him. Between the pain and pleasure, I don't know which more is closer to its limit.

"Ivan, please, I'm sorry," I sob. "I didn't mean to disrespect you."

"Mmm, that's right," Ivan says. "That's right. You're a good little bitch, aren't you?"

"Yes, Sir!" I say quickly. I need release. Release from his hold, release for my hardening cock. "I'm a good little bitch!"

He gives me what I need. Ivan releases his bear hug. I fall backwards into the mat, covered in sweat, grabbing my lower back in excruciating pain. He grins down at me, and then he grabs me by the hair again. This time, he doesn't let go. He drags me across the mat and out of the ring. I'm crawling on my hands and knees just to keep up with him. I have no idea what he's planning, and have no thoughts of inquiring or suggesting.

Ivan drags me over to a steel chair. It's a simple fold-able chair, the kind you see at any small wrestling show. Ivan sits down in it and pulls me across his lap. I'm facing away from him, so I can't even look him in the eye, can't see the expression or intent of his face. I try to wriggle free, but Ivan holds me tight. He starts spanking me with his big, calloused hands.

I wail in surprise.

"Shut up, you little bitch!" Ivan snaps as he attacks my rear.

"Ow! Ow!" I cry out reflexively. My legs kick and jerk with each swat.

Ivan snarls. "You're not allowed to speak unless I tell you to. Now, I'm going to punish you until you understand your place in my ring. Is that clear?"

I tremble and quietly say, "Yes, Sir."

I'm completely naked except for my jockstrap, and laid bare across the lap of one of the greatest beasts wrestling would ever know. I've never felt so exposed in my life. Ivan steadies me and keeps my upper body held down with one strong, commanding arm. His other rubs across each of my cheeks, feeling out how much surface area he has to play with.

I'm shivering. I'm shaking all over. I'm crying. I'm terrified.

"Shhh," Ivan whispers. "Don't make a sound or you'll be punished even harder."

I bite my bottom lip to muffle my fear.

"Good girl," Ivan murmurs. "You're learning."

He starts slapping my bare butt again with his palm. He does it hard enough to sting, but not hard enough to leave a mark. He's testing my flesh, trying to find the tender spots. I hold still as much as I can, partly out of obedience, partly out of survival instinct.

"Are you going to behave?" Ivan asks.

I nod. "Yes, sir."

He slaps my bare bottom with a measured strike. It makes a loud snap that echoes in the gym, then he does it again, and again, keeping pace until my skin turns red, hot and tender. The feeling spreads down between my legs, making them clench together tightly. He occasionally tugs on one of the straps across my rear, pulling it to its maximum strength, then lets it snap back to my flesh.

"No more of that 'sir' business," Ivan says. "Call me Master. Understand?"

"Yes, Master," I say.

Ivan slaps my ass again. I swallow my cry.

"Now, you listen to me," Ivan says. "You may be a weakling sissy boy, but I want the best for you. You will obey me, and I'll make you strong. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Master," I say.

Ivan stops his assault on my ass, eventually. He spends a moment to push my cheeks up, let them fall, and then push them again. He's bouncing my cheeks now with light strokes, and just watching the flesh jiggle in his touch.

"How do you feel?" Ivan asks.

"It stings, Master," I moan. It's true—he's struck me so hard that even his light touch stings.

Ivan grabs a cheek hard. "Do you want to be punished again?"

I wince. There is a part of me that almost wants to say yes. I've become an inferno of need, spreading out of control.

Ivan slaps my butt again. This time, he smacks it harder than before. My hips jerk reflexively.

"I see..." he chuckles.

"I'm sorry, Master."

Ivan rubs his hands across my reddened rump and makes a contemplative noise.

"Tell me why you're sorry."

"I was being disrespectful, Master. I'm sorry."

"Hmm. It is true that you apologized to the great Ivan Koloff for your disrespect. However," he smacks my rear again, "is there not something else you need to apologize for?"

My eyes dart around. I don't know what I've done—I'm terrified to answer incorrectly, but I'm even more scared to say nothing at all.

"If you don't tell me, you'll be punished again," Ivan says. "And if you keep doing things you shouldn't, you'll be punished again. And if you keep on apologizing, you'll be punished again. And again. And again. Until you get the point."

"I don't know what I did wrong, Master!" I'm confused, and horny, and tired, and at my wits end with dizziness and pain.

Ivan lifts his hand slowly, but high enough that I can feel his weight shift in the chair. He strikes my cheek after a long delay with his hardest force yet, and I buck against his quads and cry out in pain. There was no way I could silence myself.

"Did that give you any clues?" Ivan asks.

Tears stream down my cheek. Ivan sighs, and flips me over. My jockstrap is working overtime to keep my hard-on contained, and is failing miserably.

"It's this thing," Ivan has the voice of an exasperated professor. He nonchalantly grabs my dick through the jockstrap and starts to rudely tug it up and down. There's no subtlety or tease—he just grips me by the base and starts pumping me through the rough fabric. "The only reason you're getting hard is because you're a weak little sissy boy. You need to learn how to control your body better around real men like me."

His hand glides over my chest slowly, but then reaches my throat and clamps down. I can feel his grip on my windpipe is controlled. He knows that it is this power over me that has brought me to meet him, and to now lust over him. "I never gave you permission to get hard in my bear hug," he said. "And if you do so again, well, I'll have to punish you again, won't I? I think you and I should spend a lot of time together, exploring all the ways you need to be punished."

His leg is starting to bounce. My balls ache as his hand slaps and strokes my dick with reckless abandon. He pumps me, and I feel like he knows the burn that the tight, rough jockstrap fabric is causing me. I think he likes the cocktail of confused expressions on my face. I'm losing control of my body, and of myself. 

"What are you thinking about, sissy boy?" Ivan asks.

"I'm... I'm gonna cum, Master Koloff..." I whimper, "I'm gonna cum in my jockstrap."

"Oh? Well, good," He pulls his hand away from my throat and releases my crotch. "But I can't have you cumming in your jockstrap. So I'll have to punish you."

It is clear to me now that everything I do deserves punishment from Ivan Koloff. It is not a fear or crime, but just a fact.

He grabs me under the armpits and lifts me up into the air. My dick aches and burns and leaks. Ivan sets me back down in his lap, my bare cheeks at his crotch, my jockstrap-bulge firm against his stomach. He brings his hands slowly behind my back, and locks his eyes with mine. I know what's about to happen, and this time, and only this time, am I ready.

"We will learn so much together," he says, his lips mere centimeters from mine, hovering, but never quite touching, "about how good my bearhug is."

He starts pulsing his grip around my back, bringing us chest to chest repeatedly. The force of his grip, even when seated, is almost too much for me, and I'm certain he knows it. His hold is unbreakable. I'm helpless, and I'm trapped.

Ivan's nods knowingly. I can't move my hips—I'm pinned to his waist. "You're weak. So weak for me, aren't you, sissy boy?"

He keeps crushing me into his torso. I can't breathe. I can't fight. All I can do is groan in agony as my ever-dampening jockstrap gets ground against Ivan's abs.

"Yes, Master!" I cry out, letting my hips buck with what little room the pulse of his squeezes give.

Ivan laughs. "You've given in to your weakness. You've lost control of yourself. That's why you're crying now, isn't it?"

I can't answer. I can't speak. Tears just gush out of me.

"Yes, you're crying. It's okay to cry, sissy boy. Cry for me. Just like it's okay to cum in your jockstrap. Master gives you permission."

My tear-filled eyes roll back into my head. He pulses his arms into my back over, and over, and over again. One more jerk into his body, one more squeeze of his forearms against my ribs, and it's over. I start shooting and staining my jockstrap. My head collapses against his heaving, hairy chest. Ivan laughs at me. I'd feel more shame if I wasn't in the throes of one of the most insane orgasms I've ever had.

Ivan picks me up, gently cradling me against his body. His hands slip under the band of my jockstrap, and he orders me to take them off and hand them to him. I comply, my head swiveling, unsure of what he has in mind.

Ivan smacks my ass, sending a jolt through my body. It wakes me, briefly, from my stupor.

He holds up my jockstrap, and shoves the darkened stain my orgasm made into my face. "Your jockstrap is ruined. Do you understand? These don't just grow on trees."

"I'm... I'm sorry..."

He caresses my cheek with a big hand. "You'll have to train with me until we can keep you from making a mess." He balls up the fabric and shoves it into my willing, obedient mouth. My eyes glaze over as the taste of my salty submission and rough cotton forces my jaws wide.

"No spitting this out," he warns. "Go walk to your car like this and leave."

I nod silently. I can't speak through the gag, but he knows I agree without needing words. I stumble in a daze, trembling, my dripping, spent cock staining the floor with dots of shame.

"Next week, same time," Ivan commands. "Make sure you bring a fresh strap, sissy boy."

Ivan steps back and walks away. I push through the exit doors, and feel the cool air caress my naked, spanked, crushed, abused flesh. The parking lot is long, longer than it was before, but the cover of night gives me at least some slight sanity. I am not sure how many pairs of jockstraps I have at home, but I'm already thinking about their future.