A 24-year-old colossus, six-foot-four and 238 pounds of sculpted muscle, handsome in a way that only sharpens the menace underneath, Roger Parker. He moves with the unshakable confidence of a man operating beyond all rules, dominating through sheer physical force and the darker thrill of psychological terror, which he savors equally. He sees young, attractive opponents as playthings—victims in the ring, and sexual conquests after. Arrogant and utterly lacking in human feelings, he feeds off young men suffering and the adoration of the fans.
An eighteen-year-old Irish rookie, five-eleven and 172 pounds of lean blond muscle and a boyish face that turns every head in the room, Raymond O’Rourke. He deflects ceaseless attention with a guarded distance, all ambition and restless confidence, long legs carrying him toward the fight. Youth and stubbornness are his twin engines; he burns to prove himself in a strange country, and with only determination to sharpen his resolve. He walks headlong into danger; certain his nerve will hold. Raymond is a fighter whose unblinking green eyes—clear, fixed, strangely calm—suggest he always sees something just beyond the lights, a man of stubborn grit rather than spectacle. There is no cruelty in him; his expression is open, almost vulnerable, the look of someone who endured far more than he ever dominated. He faces the ring and its demands quietly, without cunning, carrying that winsome smile as his only ornament, a visual expression that lingers long after he is gone.
The lights cut. A single white-hot spotlight stabbed the entrance ramp, and Raymond O'Rourke stepped out in his Irish tights — green, white, and orange stretched tight over lean thighs — and the arena detonated. Young women shrieked his name. Gay men in the front row leaned over the barricade, camera phones raised, mouths open. Raymond walked toward the ring with his chin up, his eighteen-year-old face boyish and handsome under the glare. He did not look at them. He could feel the heat of the lights on his bare shoulders, the give of the canvas when he climbed through the ropes, the roar pressing against his ears like water. He bounced on his heels and tried to remember that he was fast. That speed could beat size. That he belonged here.
The house lights died. Red strobes slashed the darkness, and a low, grinding bass shook the floorboards. Roger Parker emerged from the curtain and the crowd rose as one body, a wall of noise that swallowed every other sound. Six-foot-four and two hundred thirty-eight pounds of carved muscle, he walked with his chest spread wide, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides, and he wore blood-red tights with an image printed bold over his groin — a thick, veined penis, erect and unmistakable, pointing upward. The emblem rode the heavy bulge beneath it. Roger climbed the ropes, one massive thigh at a time, and stood on the top rope with his arms raised, and the crowd screaming for what he was going to do.
He snatched a microphone from the announcer. The music cut. The crowd hushed to a hungry murmur. Roger turned toward Raymond, chest still heaving from his entrance, and fixed his eyes on his opponent. "This pretty little boy," he said, his voice booming through the speakers, slow and savoring, "came all the way from Ireland to play wrestler." He walked toward Raymond, and Raymond took one step back before he could stop himself. "I'm going to beat him bloody in front of all of you. And then I'm going to take him home and show him how a real man uses his whore."
The arena erupted. Raymond stood frozen under the spotlight, the green, white, and orange of his trunks suddenly felt like a target painted on his skin. His lips caught between his teeth. Roger pointed one thick finger directly at him and grinned, and the crowd roared its approval.
Raymond took the microphone. “I am no one’s whore.” (laughter) “I will prove to you and all the people here that I am a wrestler who will show that you are not invincible.” (more laughter) “You will never forget what I will do to you. (boos) The battle lines were drawn. The battle begins.
The bell rang and Raymond charged.
He drove his shoulder into Roger’s midsection, arms wrapped around the massive trunk of the man’s waist, legs pumping hard as he tried to bulldoze the bigger wrestler backward. The crowd roared. Roger didn’t budge. He looked down at the blond head buried against his sternum and laughed, a deep, rumbling sound that Raymond felt through his chest before he heard it.
“That’s it, pretty boy? That’s your big move?”
Roger’s arms closed around Raymond’s ribcage and squeezed.
The bearhug lifted Raymond onto his toes. His boots scraped the mat as Roger’s forearms locked behind his back and compressed. Air left Raymond’s lungs in a choked rush. His hands pushed uselessly against Roger’s shoulders, fingers slipping on sweat-slicked muscle. Roger pulled him tighter, crushing Raymond’s chest against the swollen shelf of his pecs, grinding the smaller man’s body upward until Raymond’s face was buried in the crook of Roger’s neck. Raymond’s ribs creaked. His mouth opened but no sound came out, just a wet, strangled gasp that the crowd ate up.
“Feel that?” Roger’s voice was hot against Raymond’s ear. “That’s what two hundred thirty-eight pounds does to a skinny little rookie. Feel the tool that I will use to screw you.”
He released the hold by throwing Raymond across the ring.
Raymond circled, fists up, but Roger didn’t circle. He walked straight through the space between them and swung a forearm like a steel girder. It caught Raymond across the chest and lifted him off his feet. He hit the mat flat on his back, air punched out of him, and before he could roll Roger was on top of him. The massive forearm came down across his throat. Raymond’s windpipe flattened. He gagged, hands clawing at the arm, legs kicking uselessly against the canvas. Roger leaned his weight in and the crowd howled.
Roger shifted his grip, flipped Raymond onto his stomach like he weighed nothing. A knee drove into Raymond’s spine, grinding vertebrae, forcing his chest flat. His pretty nipples scraped the rough canvas and he cried out. Roger’s hand found the waistband of the Irish trunks, green and white and orange stretched tight over Raymond’s hips. He hooked his fingers in and tore. The fabric split with a wet ripping sound, peeling away from Raymond’s bare ass. The crowd gasped, then cheered. Raymond bucked, trying to cover himself, but Roger’s knee stayed planted in his spine.
A boot came down on Raymond’s inner thigh, stomping hard, spreading his legs wide. The spotlight burned white on his exposed skin. Roger pressed his full weight into the pin, chest to back, mouth at Raymond’s ear. “Mine now,” he said. Roger grabbed Raymond by the hair. He tossed him into the ropes and landed a boot to the face.
Raymond hit the mat on his side and rolled, momentum carrying him into the bottom rope. The crowd on the VIP side, only a few feet from the ring, reached for him, some patting his shoulders, others jeering. He grabbed the rope and pulled himself up, chest heaving, blond hair plastered to his forehead. Roger was already stalking toward him, slow and deliberate, blood-red tights straining over his thighs, the obscene bulge at his groin prominent and unmistakable.
Raymond threw a wild right hand. Roger caught his wrist, twisted it behind his back, and hoisted him off the mat.
The backbreaker came fast. Roger dropped to one knee and draped Raymond’s spine across his thigh. One hundred seventy pounds of lean English muscle bent backward in a single brutal motion. Raymond’s arms flew out, his mouth opened in a silent scream, and then the sound caught up, a raw, animal groan that tore from his throat as his vertebrae ground against Roger’s knee. His lean stomach stretched taut, the ridges of his abdominals visible in the light. His chest arched downward, pretty pink nipples pointing at the blazing arena lights, every rib outlined against his skin. Roger held him there, bouncing his knee once to make Raymond’s body jerk and shudder for the crowd.
“Look at you,” Roger said, loud enough for the front rows. “Spread out like a fucking offering.” A slap on the exposed penis caused Raymond to yell in pain.
He dropped Raymond chest-first onto the mat.
The impact knocked a wet gasp from Raymond’s lips. Before he could move, Roger’s hand fisted his blond hair and yanked his head back, craning his neck at a painful angle. Raymond’s hands clawed at the mat. Roger pressed his hips forward, grinding the thick ridge of his cock against the seat of Raymond’s ass, the heat of it unmistakable.
Raymond threw a wild right hand. Roger caught his wrist, twisted it behind his back, and locked in a chicken wing, wrenching Raymond’s shoulder until the teenager screamed. Then he hoisted him off the mat and dropped him into a body slam, Raymond’s back cracking against the canvas.
Before Raymond could breathe, Roger grabbed his ankles and pulled him into the tree of woe position, hooking his legs over the top rope so Raymond hung upside down, arms dangling. Roger climbed the turnbuckle, slowly, letting the crowd see his massive size there. He launched off the top rope, footballing down onto Raymond’s chest with a sickening crunch that shook the ring.
The crowd exploded. Raymond’s body convulsed, then went limp, hanging upside down in the ropes. Two dropkicks landed on his head.
Roger pulled him down, hooked one leg and turned him over. He dropped a knee into Raymond’s spine, then hauled him upright and bent him backward. The torture rack came next: Roger lifted Raymond vertically, hooked one arm over his own neck and powered the boy's body across his massive shoulders, pulling Raymond’s chin back, bending his spine into a full backward arch in a brutal, beautiful curve. Raymond’s mouth stretched open, a raw, guttural cry ripping free as his vertebrae ground against each other. Bouncing his victim, Roger brought the crowd to its feet. “Break him.” The crowd shouted.
“Look at you,” Roger said, loud enough for the front rows, “spread out like a fucking girl being presented as a gift to a king.”
Roger lifted Raymond off his shoulders and power lifted him over his head. He heaved Raymond across the ring causing him to crash onto the mat.
The impact knocked a wet gasp from Raymond’s lips. Before he could move, Roger’s hand fisted his blond hair and yanked his head back, craning his neck at a painful angle. Raymond’s hands clawed at the mat. A full nelson followed, Roger’s arms threading under Raymond’s armpits and locking behind his neck, the bigger man’s chest flush against Raymond’s back, squeezing until the teenager’s eyes rolled. Then Roger’s hand slid lower, finding Raymond's manly parts. Roger gripped the exposed flesh and squeezed until Raymond screamed with an ear spitting sound.
The groin claw was a shock to the whole building. Raymond screamed, a high, desperate sound, thighs clamping shut. Roger’s fingers dug in hard, grinding against the soft flesh in a tight grip.
“Later,” Roger whispered, lips brushing Raymond’s ear, “I’m going to fuck you until you forget your own name.”
Raymond shuddered. The crowd heard him whimper. They howled.
Roger released the claw, pulled Raymond up by the throat, and slammed him to the mat. He hoisted the rookie upside down, locked his hips, cradled Raymond’s head with both massive hands, and jumped. The pile driver drove the top of Raymond’s skull into the mat with a sickening crack.
Raymond’s body hit the canvas flat and lay still, legs splayed, chest barely moving. A thin string of saliva trailed from the corner of his mouth. Roger lay down on top of Raymond. “Here’s a taste of tonight.”
Raymond shuddered. The crowd couldn’t hear the words, but they saw the grind, saw Roger’s hips roll, pushing against the naked penis and they howled.
Roger stood, dragging Raymond up by the exposed penis. Raymond screamed from the pain. Roger hoisted him overhead, one hand on the back of the neck, one between the legs, and held him there, Raymond’s body horizontal against the lights, arms dangling, face twisted in exhausted dread. Roger swung the boy around two times. He then delivered a powerbomb that shook every part of the boy’s body. Roger picked up his toy and set him up for a pile driver that drove him spine-first into the mat with a crack that echoed through the arena. Raymond’s body bounced once and lay still, legs splayed, chest barely moving.
Roger dropped to his knees beside him, pressed his full weight across Raymond’s chest, and hooked one long leg high in the air, Raymond’s ankle was gripped in Roger’s fist, boy’s exposed anus obscenely wide. The referee slid in. His palm slapped the mat.
One.
Two.
Three.
The bell rang. The crowd reaction told everything. Roger didn’t move. He stayed on top of Raymond, breathing hard, sweat dripping from his jaw onto Raymond’s upturned face. Then he pushed himself up, clamped one thick hand around the back of Raymond’s neck, and hauled the rookie upright. Raymond’s legs buckled. Roger held him steady, mouth pressed to his ear.
“Time to go home, pretty boy.”
The bedroom was dark except for a single lamp burning amber on the nightstand. Roger kicked the door shut and threw Raymond onto the bed. The mattress bounced under the boy’s weight, springs groaning. Raymond scrambled backward on his elbows, his bare ass sliding over the sheets. Roger stood at the foot of the bed and hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his blood red tights. He peeled them down slowly, letting Raymond watch. The penis emblem stretched and distorted as the fabric slid over the thick bulge beneath it, then the tights dropped to his ankles and his cock sprang free — heavy, uncut, already hard and slick at the tip. Raymond’s eyes went wide.
“You stared at that picture all night in the ring,” Roger said. “Now you get the real thing.” Roger pulled Raymond up and planted him over his nipple. "Suck this boy and make me get hard." Raymond sucked the big nipple sending waves of pleasure over Roger fondling the penis at the same time. "Now the other one." Raymond did as commanded. Roger reacted to this with a stiffness growing in his cock. This was the prelim to the main event. "Very good, little boy. Not bad for a beginner"
He grabbed a fistful of Raymond’s blond hair and yanked him forward. Raymond’s hands flew up, pushing Roger’s thighs, but Roger’s grip was iron. He forced Raymond’s mouth onto his cock. The head pushed past Raymond’s lips, stretching them wide, and Raymond gagged instantly — a wet, choking sound deep in his throat. Roger didn’t stop. He shoved deeper, feeling the boy’s throat spasm and clench around him. Drool ran from the corners of Raymond’s mouth, slicking his chin, dripping onto his chest. Roger thrust again and Raymond retched, his hands slapping weakly at Roger’s hips. Tears streamed down his handsome boyish face, catching the lamplight. Roger held him there, buried to the root, watching the tears fall.
“That’s it. Cry for me, pretty boy.”
He pulled out just long enough for Raymond to gasp a wet, ragged breath, then shoved back in. "Take it boy." Three more thrusts, each one gagging deeper. Then an explosion of manhood filled Raymond's mouth and throat. He had never felt anything like this. The cum pushed into his stomach and into his digestive track. It had become part of him. Roger had marked his property with more than a sign. He put his own DNA into the boy as his claim marker. Roger kept his penis inside until every squirt had shot into Raymond’s mouth. Then Roger moved to a new position pulling Raymond’s hair and flipping him onto his stomach. Raymond landed face-down, coughing. Roger’s hands gripped his lean hips and yanked them up. Raymond’s long legs splayed wide, knees sliding apart on the mattress. His hole was pink and tight, exposed under the lamp’s glow. Roger leaned down and spat — a thick glob of saliva that landed dead center and dripped slowly. He pressed his cockhead against the spit-slick opening and shoved.
Raymond screamed. The sound was muffled by the mattress, but it filled the room. Roger’s cock pushed past the tight ring of muscle in one brutal thrust, burying halfway before the resistance clamped down. Roger grunted and shoved again, sinking deeper, until his hips pressed flat against Raymond’s bare ass cheeks. The boy’s body shook, his fingers clawing at the sheets. Roger didn’t wait. He pulled back and slammed in again, setting a vicious pace — driving with unconcerned power into the victim, filling the room with moans and groans as his hips pounded against Raymond’s ass. The bed frame knocked against the wall.
“You feel that?” Roger growled, his voice low and thick. “That’s what you are good for now. My whore. Say it.”
Raymond sobbed, his face pressed sideways into the mattress, blond hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. Roger’s hand snaked around his ribs and found one of those pretty nipples. He pinched it hard, twisting until Raymond cried out — a broken, breathy wail.
“Say it.”
“I’m — I’m your whore,” Raymond choked, his voice halting and wet with tears.
Roger’s cock slammed deep and held. His hips locked against Raymond’s ass, buried to the hilt, and he groaned — a low, guttural sound that vibrated through his chest. Hot semen pumped into Raymond’s stretched hole in thick pulses. Roger stayed there, grinding slowly, feeling the boy’s body receiving his semen. When he finally pulled out, a thread of white leaked from Raymond’s reddened hole in a slow, warm trickle, sliding down the inside of his thigh. Roger collapsed forward, his massive chest pressing Raymond into the mattress, his softening cock still lodged against the boy’s ass. He put his mouth to Raymond’s ear, breath hot and damp.
“You belong to the Man of Steel now.”
Raymond lay face-down on the tangled sheets, his long legs splayed and trembling. His breath came in shallow, halting gasps, his boyish face half-buried in the pillow.
The crowd’s roar still echoed in Raymond’s mind, but it meant nothing now. His speed, his pride, his desperate hope — all of it had shattered under the weight of the Man of Steel. He was no longer a wrestler with a future. He was a hole that had been filled and emptied.
Roger’s hand came down heavy on the back of Raymond’s neck, pressing him into the mattress. The penis emblem on Roger’s discarded trunks caught the lamplight from the floor. Roger’s promise of the real thing had come to pass. Raymond lay silent as Roger kept his body on top of the boy. Waiting for his sex drive to be rejuvenated he wanted to experience again the mouth and anus of the boy. A handsome, beautiful, physically attractive and sex stimulating young man he could enjoy to his heart’s content.
To get in touch with the author, send them an email.
