The following is fiction. It contains themes that some might find disturbing. Please check the tags and read at your own discretion. All characters are over the age of 18.
Race to the Bottom
Would it surprise you to know, dear reader, that for all the time I'd been in the ring I never once really knew what they did with the physical ring in-between matches? Obviously with all the various fluids that get splattered all over it I knew that it had to be cleaned. If I ever thought about it I imagined guys in hazmat suits hosing it down with high pressure water to get the really crusty bits off in time for the next match. Obviously if that's what they did on the compound it wouldn't work here. Instead they literally pulled the canvas off and replaced it with a new one. Efficient! Also, not great entertainment unless you have a logistics fetish. Since phones were strictly verboten and Max did not in fact have such a fetish it fell to me to keep him entertained while the busy-work got done.
I asked him if he wanted another drink (that he would pay for), maybe to get some snacks (that he would pay for), and when that only took about a minute or less to get done and they were still busy cleaning the ring I fell back on the last thing I had to sell (and which he'd already paid for).
"So how're you feeling?" I asked. To my surprise I saw him starting to button back up his shirt. "You're having a good time, right?" I asked. Tommy had impressed upon me how important it was to make a good impression here. This kind of work was your only safety net to fall back on in the Ring if your fight earnings started to slip. Or in my case if Alpha God decided to fuck with my matches again.
Max didn't answer, just kept buttoning up his shirt like I didn't exist. I was flummoxed.
Please keep in mind, dear reader, that my own experiences as a closet case did little to nothing to prepare me for encountering another such sufferer. And in any case up to a few weeks ago I was what the Ring psychs would call a class-2 closet case meaning I grew up in a culture of mild-to-moderate homophobia and was actively denying to myself that I was gay. But my Middle American homophobia was like a candle to the bonfire Max was living in. He could rationalize watching men degrade themselves for his entertainment. Hell that's everywhere just look at UFC or TikTok. Even paying to get sucked off by a dude wasn't gay gay, he wasn't the one swallowing cum after all and that's what's really gay. Hey I'm not saying I think that way but plenty (and I mean plenty) of dudes out there do. They'll shove your teeth out your ass if you call them gay but pay you a pretty penny to lick their balls till they cum and then have an existential freakout every god damn time. Or so I've heard.
But I hadn't heard that yet, so I was confused when Max gave me a nervous, almost derisive look when I put a hand on his chest to stop him buttoning up his shirt and he brushed it away. See I hadn't learned yet the pivotal equation to understanding about half of life, H+M=D+S. Horny + Man = Desperate + Stupid. When Max was rock hard and wanting a release he was eager as a beaver for whatever gay shit I was offering. Now that he'd had his release his natural instincts were kicking back in, including his opinion of the manwhores he paid to pleasure him. But again, I knew none of this, and all I had to work off of was the advice Jen gave me that he, to paraphrase, wants the gay shit even if he acts like he doesn't and if he really doesn't he'll tell me no.
Where was I? Ah, yes, so there I was trying to elicit another boner out of him with a bit of nipple tweaking when he slaps away my hand and, intelligent man that I was, I ask "is something wrong?"
"Nothing," he said and murmured another word which I didn't understand but had the vibe of 'faggot' about it. Now I've grown accustomed to this type of foolishness with time but back then it was all new and fresh so I was a bit lost on what to do and a bit pissed off. It's not a great feeling to be hired to suck a man's dick and then get called a fag for it, if you can believe it. Luckily before I was able to do something really stupid (that'll come later) the drinks and food arrived with a knock at the door.
I went and got it. When I looked over my shoulder it was only with the light coming through the door that I noticed Max's cheeks were bright red. Now I was stupid, as you'll see, but not blind. I knew, or thought I knew, that feeling he was going through, the post nut shame after doing something gay for the first time. It took me a bit longer to go through considering my, ah, experiences. Right now he was probably realizing everything he'd just done, maybe feeling pathetic for hiring a rent boy, maybe hating himself. I should have, but didn't at the time, realized that all the hate he felt for himself he was going to push on to me. So, blind as I was, I sat back down next to him and poured out a finger of whiskey for him, thought for a second, and then another. Only one for myself since I had a match tonight. I'm responsible like that.
He drained his glass before I could even cheers him and then set it down indicating he wanted another. I, being dumb, obliged. Being even dumber I sipped my own glass and said, "y'know it's ok if this is your first time doing something gay."
"I am not gay!" Max snapped, draining his glass again like it was a shot.
"Ok," I said, still sipping my first glass, "bi then."
"Bye? You are leaving?"
I couldn't help laughing, he was too cute, though in retrospect I definitely should have held it in. "Bisexual," I clarified, "but if you're not that either then maybe I should leave."
I made like I was going to get up as a joke but he grabbed me by the arm and yanked be roughly back down. That ended whatever levity I was feeling. "I did not say leave, and I am not paying you to be psychologist."
No you're paying me to suck your dick straight boy, I thought, quietly, being smart for the first time in my life. "Sorry, just-"
"Next match is starting, be quiet," Max said with finality and I was too mentally whiplashed to argue. So I just sat back and watched as the announcer laid out what was coming next.
"Coming up is a triple tag team elimination match! Octagon, C-Suite, and Beach Bum will be going up against the Boys Next Door, Chip & Dale along with Grunt!" The announcer crooned as the first team made their way to the ring. "The match isn't over until one team is entirely eliminated by completion!"
"The dregs fighting the dregs," Alpha God said, "how did we get here?"
"Well the initial plan was going to be a three way tag team match between the three lowest performing teams in the ongoing tournament to kick-off the double elimination bracket before Grunt and Beach Bum had a falling out. So rather than bore our fans with a regular tag team we, thought we'd spice things up! Now Chip & Dale and Octagon & C-Suite are still fighting for their place in the tag team tournament while Grunt and Beach Bum are fighting to qualify in the upcoming Rising Star bracket for singles starting next week!"
C-Suite and Octagon took up positions on either side of their corner while Beach Bum awkwardly tried to find a place to stand. It was clear even from here he wanted to be anywhere else.
"Should call this a third wheel match," Alpha laughed.
Their opponents entered with a much bigger pop from the crowd. The Boys Next Door were more established and so probably had a few loyal fans in the crowd. They made their way hooting and hollering, high fiving fans or taking pictures with them while Grunt stomped a determined warpath down the middle of the ramp, his eyes fixed on Beach Bum. Among the six wrestlers Grunt definitely stood out the most. Octagon, C-suite, Beach Bum, and Chip were all varying levels of lean, all the bulking in the world couldn't make Octagon more than wiry. Dale was a bit more built with broad pecs, respectable biceps, and a well defined eight pack. He was also sporting a black strip across his nose from when Gym had broken it a few weeks ago. But even that wasn't enough to make him stand out next to Grunt.
6' 4" of mean, muscular, pasty ginger with a shaved head and a scraggle of ginger hair across his jaw. One of those guys who could only burn in the sun, not tan, but if anything that made him stand out even more. When he took off his camo jacket and revealed his mountainous pecs and bulging biceps he got a roar from the crowd all for himself. Chip & Dale didn't seem to mind.
The teams definitely made for a lopsided look on each side. Octagon and C-Suite had matching black and yellow square-cut trunks while Beach Bum followed behind in his usual teal swim trunks. Across the ring Chip & Dale had their red and white shorts while Grunt was wearing full length camo pants and light brown military boots. It was just clothes but it did make you wonder how well these teams were going to work together.
C-Suite and Dale were chosen by their teams to start out the match. Of all the rookies, C-Suite may have had the biggest glow up. It may not be saying much but he was definitely the bulkiest of his team and he was definitely taking advantage of that fact. His dark brown skin had been sprayed before his entry so that his muscles seemed to glow under the lights. Even at a distance you could see the shifting of his muscles as he took up a stance opposite Dale.
It was an interesting match-up to start out the fight. Dale had prior experience with Greco-Roman wrestling like me while C-Suite had trained at an MMA gym before an unfortunate embezzling scandal got him sent to the Ring to avoid prison so unlike the prior match this didn't start out as a squash. Dale got into a low stance, lunging this way and that to try and get in close while C-Suite warded him off with kicks to try and keep a distance. Eventually one of C-Suite's kicks went out too far and Dale managed to get a hold of his leg. Dale then twisted and dropped down, pulling C-Suite to the mat with a dragon screw.
Dale tried to pounce on his downed opponent but C-Suite managed to catch him around the waist with his legs and roll so that he was in control. He rained down a medley of punches on Dale who was able to get his guard up in time to dull the blows. Dale caught C-Suite by the wrist after a missed strike and rolled him into an armbar, using his leverage to crank on C-Suite's right arm. C-Suite found himself trapped in Dale's hold. He tried to roll out of it but Dale quickly countered and rolled with him, keeping a grip on C-Suite's arm. This went on for a while as C-Suite maneuvered and Dale counter-maneuvered. I looked over at Max, trying to gauge where he was at. Unfortunately for me he was stone faced, whatever he might have been feeling concealed by layer after layer of Slavic stoicism.
"So who'd you like to see win?" I asked awkwardly. I wasn't even trying to get him to spend more on requests, the vibe in the room was just killing me. Max didn't even shrug or bother to look at me.
"I do not care," was all he said.
"Cool..." I murmured. You'd never have guessed that a few minutes ago I was throat deep on this dude's cock and he was one lick of his dick away from professing his undying love. Now he seemed like he was one wrong look away from an attempted hate crime. Ah the closet, great for short term fun and long term suffering.
Back in the ring Dale had gained control, lifting C-Suite up by the waist and charging him into his team's corner. Chip immediately grabbed one of C-Suite's arms and Grunt belatedly grabbed another once he saw what was going on. With C-Suite trapped Dale used him like a training dummy, nailing him in the gut, chopping him across the chest, and hitting him in the head with forearms and elbows. The attendant eventually reached the count of five and Grunt and Chip let C-Suite go. Poor C-Suite was so rocked he stumbled forward into Dale completely out of it. In the other corner Octagon was outraged and Beach Bum looked sick to his stomach.
Dale tagged his brother in and used the grace period to lay C-Suite across his outstretched knee holding him up as if he was presenting him to the crowd. Chip climbed up to the top turnbuckle and leaped off, landing a double stomp on C-Suite's exposed chest and driving him into the mat. He immediately dropped down on C-Suite's shoulders and rolled him up in a school-boy pin. Yanking down the front of his shorts his hard dick eagerly popped out. Chip rammed it right down C-Suite's throat and started humping his face like a horny dog. There was some excitement in the crowd now that there was a dick out but when I looked over at Max he was just as stony as before. And unfortunately I'm only talking about his face.
C-Suite looked like he was in a pretty bad position, obviously, but he wasn't out yet. Rather than try to force Chip's shoulders down with his legs to escape C-Suite did the opposite, he rolled back using Chip's own strength against him. As Chip stumbled forward on his hands and knees C-Suite scrambled to his feet. He grabbed Chip's left leg and stomped down on his right, twisting Chip's foot in a standing ankle lock. Chip shouted in frustration and pain, pounding the mat as he tried to turn so that he was facing his team. He was close enough that if he could get in the right position and really extend himself he might be able to reach his team.
Aware of this, C-Suite did his own maneuvering to drag Chip further into the center of the ring. When he was finally close enough he wrapped his legs around Chip's one leg and dropped down to the mat, cranking on the torque of his lock. Chip was in real trouble now but C-Suite wasn't looking so great either. He was drenched in sweat now, Dale had really put him through the wringer and for as much pain as Chip was in he had a lot more in the tank at this moment. Octagon was leaning so far over the ropes with his hand out that the ref had to warn him to keep in position if he wanted a tag to be legal. C-Suite saw and leaned back, stretching his hand out far enough for Octagon to tag in.
This got a mixed reaction from the crowd. Octagon was a great fighter, probably would have been the best of his crop of rookies if it weren't for the tiny detail of his limp dick. So Octagon's wiry frame stepped through the ropes, mounted Chip, and started laying into him with palm strikes while he was still trapped in C-Suite's ankle lock the crowd knew they were in for an A-class blue balls beatdown. The ref forced C-Suite out of the ring after the five count while Octagon continued to display his dominance over Chip in the middle of the mat. It was embarrassing to watch really, for everyone involved.
For Chip because he was just getting absolutely destroyed. His attempts to block Octagon's blows quickly devolved into him curling as much into the fetal position as he could get while trapped under Octagon's legs. Any attempt he made to stop Octagon's fists were easily batted aside or countered. His face was turning red not from embarrassment but from a cut in his forehead that was starting to bleed. If this kept up the brothers would end the match with matching broken noses. Max seemed to start to perk up again as he watched Chip devolve into helplessness as he cried for help from his brother who was just too far away to save him.
But this wasn't just a humiliation for Chip. If this were an MMA fight it'd be over by now, Chip's coach would be throwing in the towel now because all Chip could do at this point is cry. But that's not what this crowd was here to see. Hell, that's not what you're reading this story for. We all want to see a good fucking and that was something Octagon just couldn't provide. He'd managed to make things work a few times back on the compound. Basically once he'd beaten down an opponent enough that he had no way of fighting back he'd take a minute or two to jack himself hard before trying to quickly finish in whatever hole was most available. Not as great a strategy as it might sound like for a couple reasons. First, it didn't always work, he'd lost more than a few times from going soft in a guy's asshole right as he got a second wind. Second, it did not make a lot of friends. A well done end of match fucking can sometimes have a bit of a softening effect (haha) on the brutality of the preceding match. It's like with those gay monkeys, y'know, the ones that fuck instead of fighting, what're they called...?
Bonobos.
Anyways Octagon couldn't do that kind of shit. Either he'd lose, which he hated, or he'd beat a dude to the brink of death and then give him a half-hearted fuck which everyone else hated. He was trying to do the latter here. Trying being the operative word as, after trapping Chip's arms under his legs, he pulled out a very flaccid cock and tried to fuck Chip's face with it. Went about as well as you'd expect. There'd been a lot of theorizing about what exactly Octagon's problem was but as the crowd's cheers and boos turned to laughter and someone started up a 'limp dick' chant I became certain that Octagon's trouble was performance anxiety. Hey, not everyone likes being seen in the act, what'cha gonna do? I mean, not join a sex fighting promotion is an obvious one but we don't all have the luxury of choice.
Octagon's attempt to finish in Chip's mouth went on for way too long. After about a minute of fruitless humping Octagon pulled his still limp dick out and tried jerking it hard for another minute with no success. The crowd had gone sour on the 'limp dick' chant now and picked up an even worse one. "Boring! Boring!" And that was surely going to help poor Oc get hard. I did feel bad for the guy. In retrospect I shouldn't have but hey, I couldn't see the future.
Max certainly wasn't happy with the show so far. He'd started to drink again. I'd lost count how much whiskey he'd drunk but I knew it was getting to a dangerous level even for a Slav. He said something again in his language with that word with the 'fag' vibes which finally got me to speak up.
"That's probably enough of that," I said, moving the whiskey bottle out of reach. "How about some water?"
"How about you either shut up or suck my dick?" Max said after finishing off his glass.
"If it's not too gay for you," I couldn't help but say. Clearly not the right thing to do as Max glared at me and waved away my hand that was about to undo his fly.
"Never mind," he said, "match is boring anyway." Instead of getting a blowjob he just poured himself another drink. Probably hoping the whiskey dick would prove he wasn't gay when he didn't get hard watching the next match.
Octagon eventually gave up his attempts to finish off Chip with some urging from his teammates. C-Suite was waving Octagon over while Beach Bum had his hands down his trunks jerking himself off. Octagon dragged the barely conscious Chip over to his team's corner and propped him up against the middle turnbuckle. Beach Bum pulled out his cock but before he could shove it in Chip's mouth the ref stepped in.
"Gotta be the legal fighter for it to count!"
Beach Bum groaned as Octagon immediately slapped his shoulder and stepped through the ropes. Before Chip had a chance to respond C-Suite & Octagon had dropped down and secured his arms while Beach Bum shoved his dick into Chip's mouth. He'd been jacking himself for awhile before being tagged in so he soon emptied his balls down Chip's throat.
"Chip has been eliminated!" The announcer called as Chip hacked and coughed, dribbling Beach Bum's semen out of his mouth as he realized what had happened. The crowd wasn't as excited as Beach Bum as his team were as they watched him and his teammates whoop and cheer. They became much more animated as Beach Bum turned and took Grunt's boot directly into the chest. Grunt stomped down, driving Beach Bum into the mat before continuing his charge, shoulder checking Octagon off the apron before grabbing C-Suite by the hair and clocking him square in the jaw, also knocking him to the floor below. Dale was also picking himself back up off the floor as he had tried to be the one to step in after his brother's elimination. Grunt had yanked him back and taken his place instead. Beach Bum, apparently, was his.
Speaking of Beach Bum, he had rolled over and tried to crawl to his corner in the vain attempt at making a tag. Even if his teammates had been in position he wouldn't have made at as Grunt grabbed him by his long blond hair and yanked so hard Beach Bum went flying across the ring and almost rolling under the ropes. As he got to his hands and knees Grunt ran up on him and kicked him square in the gut, launching him off the mat and landing on his back. There was no reprieve as Grunt stomped on him again and again and again. He got Beach Bum in the gut, on the chest, the head, arms, legs and capped off by lifting Beach Bum's legs and stomping down on his balls. Beach Bum's dick was still out and getting ground into his gut under Grunt's boot as he screamed for mercy.
"What did Beach Bum do to Grunt?" Max asked. I sure as hell didn't know.
"Guess he's mad they lost their first match," I said. Grunt's unleashing on Beach Bum was the first major excitement of the match.
"A shame," Max said, rubbing a hand over his crotch, "I thought they were friends."
Grunt must have thought so too at some point because he looked seriously pissed. His pale ginger skin was turning red and it wasn't from embarrassment. He had mounted Beach Bum's supine body and laid into him punch after punch, grabbing him by the hair and slamming his head into the mat, shouting something in his face as he gripped Beach Bum's cheeks so tightly I thought he was going rip his face off. Whatever he was shouting it was clear he was mad.
He gripped Beach Bum by the throat, choking him with both hands while Beach Bum struggled and kicked helpless to stop his assault. Beach Bum was no beanpole, he was a well built man. If he walked into your gym he'd definitely put all of you to shame. But for all his muscle he was a helpless toy in Grunt's hands. It was only the intervention of the ref that saved Beach Bum from dying right there. But Grunt wasn't done. He kept a grip on Beach Bum's throat with one hand and hauled him up, not to his feet but even higher, holding him up before slamming him back down to the mat with a chokeslam. He repeated the move again. The third time he hauled Beach Bum up he gripped the back of his trunks and paraded him around the ring for everyone to see before slamming Beach Bum's back down over his outstretched knee. Beach Bum writhed on the mat in agony while Grunt stepped up on the rope and flexed for the crowd as he roared.
The crowd was loving it and so was Max. His hand was rubbing harder over his crotch but he still batted my hand away when I went to unbutton his pants. Fine, have it your way, I thought.
Grunt had hauled Beach Bum up again and dragged him over to the ropes. He draped Beach Bum's neck over the top and pressed down, choking him again. He stepped up on the bottom rope so his whole weight was pressing down on Beach Bum while the audience cheered. The ref had to intervene again to stop Beach Bum from, y'know, dying. Grunt only relented after he'd reached three, grabbing the rope and giving it a tug to launch Beach Bum back into the center of the ring. Grunt's whole body was turning red from the exertion and shining with sweat but he wasn't done just yet.
He hauled Beach Bum up to his feet one more time. Gripping him by the throat again he lifted him high over his head in, appropriately enough, a military press. He held him up there as he stomped around the ring showing off his strength and shouting, "I'm the man! He's the faggot!" Before dropping him into a bearhug and slamming him into the mat. Beach Bum was out, anything after this was just beating a dead horse. To really prove how much of a man Grunt was and how much of a faggot Beach Bum was Grunt ripped down Beach Bum's trunks, rolled Beach Bum up until his knees were pressing into his shoulders, pulled out his dick, and fucked him in the ass. I could do a PhD on just Grunt's psychosis. Still, however ridiculous I thought it was Grunt's performance was clearly working on Max. As Grunt pounded Beach Bum into the mat, Max stroked his dick with more and more ferocity.
I didn't move to intervene since I'd gotten the message more than enough times at this point. I was more worried about not jizzing my pants just from watching the fucking below. I had a match coming up after all. So I just sat there like a freak and watched a, let's be honest, almost complete stranger jack himself off while an ex-marine ass fucked a folded up surfer boy. This was my life now, I realized.
Grunt eventually orgasmed, filling up Beach Bum's ass. Before pulling out he slapped Beach Bum across the face and spat on him for good measure. I needed to find Tommy after this and find out what the fuck happened between them. Max was still struggling with his own dick, made even worse when he saw I was watching him. Even worse, as soon as Beach Bum's elimination had been announced Octagon hopped over the rope and nailed a still kneeling Grunt in the jaw with a vicious kick. Max let out an annoyed groan and leaned back against the couch.
"Anyway I can make you feel better?"
Max gave me an annoyed look. "You can be quiet."
"Do you want me to leave?" I asked, hoping he'd say yes.
"I pay you to be here you be here, you want to go give me my money back first."
"Dude what is your problem?" I asked. God I wish I could go back in time and yell at myself. 'He's gay and he hates himself for it you dipshit!' I'd say to myself. 'Just do what Jen told you and get him off without him asking for it so he doesn't feel responsible!' But time travel isn't real and I was an oblivious hot young fool at the time. I like to think I'm still at least some of those things. For awhile Max didn't answer and just silently watched the fight below.
I'd tell you what happened in detail but it would get repetitive. Grunt had gassed himself getting revenge on Beach Bum, meanwhile Octagon and C-Suite had clearly been strategizing while their erstwhile teammate was getting torn limb from limb. It didn't take much for Octagon to keep Grunt at a distance with kicks to his legs, hopping around the ring while Grunt stumbled after him. Meanwhile C-Suite was jacking himself the same as Beach Bum had been earlier. When Grunt finally stumbled all Octagon had to do was drag Grunt to their corner and tag his partner in to finish him off. Tactically it was a sound strategy, visually it was boring as fuck. Particularly when it looked like they were about to do a repeat with Dale. Boring enough that Max finally spoke up.
"I pay you to do a job I expect you to know what the fuck you're doing."
"I do know what I'm doing, I'm trying to show you a good time but I guess you don't want to have one."
"How am I supposed to have good time while you just sit there watching Armenian faggot dance around ring like fairy princess?"
"Hey," I said with misplaced protectiveness of Octagon (we'll get there), "he's doing a lot better in there than you would. You wouldn't last a minute in there."
Max scoffed. "Against sissy little faggot?"
"You keep saying faggot like you weren't moaning when I kissed you a few minutes ago."
"What did you say?"
I should have stopped, I really should have stopped. The fact that anything that followed worked out in the end was down to sheer luck and nothing else. "I said don't go throwing stones at fags when you are one." Yeah, not the right move.
Max's face contorted in rage as he lunged at me, pinning me to the couch. I was scared for like, a good few seconds as I felt his strength pushing me down. But then I felt his grip, saw the way he had oriented himself over me, and realized that for as well sculpted as he was, his muscle was mostly for looks and he had barely any training in grappling. When I clearly wasn't intimidated by his display of overwhelming manhood a look of frustration mixed in with fear came across his face.
"Are you still sure I am faggot?" Max asked, the smell of whiskey heavy on his breath. He had moved so rapidly and forcefully that some of the buttons of his shirt popped open again. Meanwhile in his anger and eagerness to prove how much of a faggot he wasn't he had forgotten to zip his pants back up so his half hard dick was flopping out as his body loomed over me. "How about you be a good little boy and do what I pay you for?"
He was drunk and not as strong or skilled as me so it took me very little effort to twist in his grip and haul him up off the couch onto the upper section of the box. For those that need a reminder there were two tiers to the room, an entry area with a table and fridge that was flush with the back of the couch which sat in the lower tier a few steps down. I had Max on his back on the carpet of the upper tier while I kneeled on the couch looking down on him.
Down in the ring, not that I was paying attention, Octagon and Dale were facing off. More accurately, Octagon was playing with his food. Unlike C-Suite, Octagon had no trouble keeping Dale at bay. Any attempt at a lunge got warded off with a jab, any step forward was met with a kick rather than a step back. The fight was over except for the fucking and everyone knew it. Dale knew it as he kept trying to find some unreachable path to victory, Octagon knew it as he batted away any attack with ease, and C-Suite knew it as he frantically jerked himself in the corner.
C-Suite eventually shouted out a signal to Octagon who was finally let off the leash. The next time Dale tried to go low Octagon didn't bat him away, he hit him in the side of the head with a knee that knocked Dale on his ass. Octagon leapt on him with blows and punches that got Dale on his back without even the ability to defend himself. In a normal fight the ref would have stepped in and put an end to the beatdown but since this was the Ring the ref just stood by and watched Octagon mercilessly slaughter his opponent. Luckily for Dale, or at least for his already broken nose, Octagon wasn't planning for a knockout blow. Instead he pulled Dale into a guillotine choke, flipping him over and wrapping his legs around him, cranking on his neck until the struggling finally stopped.
Seizing the moment, he reached back and tagged in C-Suite who was ready and raring to go. It said something about how management thought this fight was going to go that C-Suite's square-cuts were already tearing just from the pressure of his hard dick. As soon as the tag was made he was already pulling his dick all the way out. He immediately mounted Dale, grabbed him by the hair, and pulled his mouth all the way down his cock. He didn't even last thirty seconds before emptying his second load down Dale's throat. It was smart, quick, efficient. The audience hated it.
Max and I didn't care about that right now though. Max was looking up at me with his ratty little face with wide eyes like I'd caught him with his hand in the cookie jar. He had finally remembered I wasn't one of those whores he could push around however he liked. Looking back on it I expect that's what he was used to. Desperate guys who needed the money and would put up with any amount of bullshit to keep him happy. That wasn't me though. No, I was a different kind of whore.
"I- I am sorry I did no-"
"Shut up," I said with a smile and no malice. Don't get me wrong I was pissed, but I also wasn't scared of him at this point. "Now I'm going to remind you that you paid for the boyfriend experience and I am happy to give that to you, sweetheart." I said that last word with more than a little irony. "But this? You didn't pay for that. So let's make a deal. Sounds like they're booing down there so I'm guessing the match is done which means I need to go get ready. You should take that time to think about what you really want to happen in here. I don't mind a little roughhousing, hell, if anything I like it. Probably more than you can handle. So while I'm gone why don't you think about if you're really up for scrapping with me. If you are I'll be happy to oblige."
His eyes had gone as wide as his dick was hard and I knew I was finally on the right track. "And just something to consider," I said, leaning into him, "no one can see through that glass, no one can hear through that door. Whatever goes on in here stays between you and me."
Almost perfectly on cue there was a buzz on the screen in the couch's arm letting me know it was time to get ready for my match. Whatever anxiety blossomed in my stomach at that I did my best to keep from coming to my face. "Well, looks like it's time to go. Kiss for luck?" I didn't bother waiting for him to answer as I put my lips on his. I forced his lips open and tasted the dregs of whisky on his tongue. He moaned and closed his eyes but I didn't, I saw his hand go to his now rock hard cock and start to stroke. I held him in the kiss for a few more seconds so he could build up a load in his dick before pulling away.
"You-" Max gasped.
"Oh, one more thing," I cut him off as I stood up and buttoned my letter jacket and headed to the door. "If you do want to rough house when I get back, make sure to choose a safe word."
I gave him one last wink as I exited the box. As soon as the door shut my stomach did a flip, cold chills running through my blood as all of the suppressed fear and anxiety came rushing back in. Jen was waiting for me just around the corner.
"You ready V-Man?" She asked.
"Fuck if I know," I said, my guts twisting into knots as I realized what I was marching towards.
"Hey," Jen said, putting a reassuring hand on my arm, "whatever happens in there, I'm sure it's gonna make great content."
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