In a thrilling crossover event at "Indie Elite Clash"—a joint showcase between the Texas Wrestling Society and various independent promotions drawing talent from NAW's roster—two contrasting wrestlers collided in a singles bout that blended raw potential with seasoned expertise. Val Driver, the 23-year-old "Perfect" sensation from North Carolina, had burst onto the scene in late 2024. Trained by WWE legend Ric Drasar, Driver (born 2002) brought a polished, technical style infused with athletic precision, often incorporating chain wrestling, sharp strikes, and flawless execution that earned him his moniker. Competing primarily in Texas-based promotions, Driver was known for his high-energy matches against foes like David Child and Cal Cutter, showcasing a blend of brawling resilience and agile counters that marked him as a rising star.
Opposing him was Evan Bevens, the 34-year-old from Camden, New Jersey. He was a powerful, dark ebony toned African-American with muscle to spare at 6’3” 225. A former rugby standout who transitioned to wrestling in 2013 after training at Be a Pro Wrestling Academy under Joe Beck and Don Mallin, Bevens had carved out a storied career across indies before signing with a major promotion in 2020. As an all-rounder, his style mixed technical submissions, powerful slams, and opportunistic strikes, with signature moves like the Crossface and his finisher, The Departure (a devastating uranage slam). Openly gay and a trailblazer in the industry, Bevens had achieved acclaim through his no limit style and was celebrated for his charisma and resilience.
The match kicked off with a tense lockup, Bevens using his experience to muscle Driver into the corner with a clean break, drawing polite applause. Driver, in his sleek black trunks with "Fearless” emblazoned in gold, fired back with quick arm drags and a dropkick that sent Bevens reeling. The veteran, clad in his signature pink-and-black gear nodding to his "Scissor King" persona, shook it off and transitioned into a series of chain wrestling exchanges, grounding Driver with a hammerlock and transitioning to a side headlock takeover. As the action heated up, Bevens targeted Driver's arm with elbow drops and a crossface attempt, but the young prodigy slipped free and retaliated with a flurry of chops and a standing moonsault for a near fall. The crowd roared as Driver climbed the ropes for a high-risk dive, only for Bevens to cut him off with a superplex that shook the ring. Undeterred, Driver kipped up and unleashed a barrage of kicks, echoing his trainer's influence with gritty brawling. Bevens countered with a vicious clothesline and locked in the Crossface mid-ring, forcing Driver to claw to the ropes. The climax built as both men traded heavy blows—Driver landing a German suplex bridge for two, Bevens answering with a spinning heel kick. In a desperate bid, Driver attempted a top-rope splash, but Bevens rolled away and capitalized with The departure, slamming Driver down hard for the pinfall victory after 15 minutes of non-stop action. The audience gave a standing ovation as Bevens helped Driver to his feet, the two sharing a respectful nod before Bevens' music hit.
Aftermath: Unexpected Connection Backstage
In the steamy confines of the locker room post-show, with the echoes of the crowd still fading, Evan Bevens approached Val Driver as he iced his shoulder on a bench. Both men glistened with sweat, their gear accentuating hard-earned physiques—Driver's muscular, chiseled frame from years of disciplined training, Bevens' athletic build a testament to his rugby roots and wrestling grind. "Damn, kid, you brought the fire tonight," Bevens said, his New Jersey accent warm and genuine as he sat beside Driver. His eyes traced Driver's form appreciatively, the admiration shifting into something more electric. "That moonsault? Perfect, just like they say. You've got serious potential—reminds me of my early days." Driver looked up, a shy grin breaking through his exhaustion. At 23, he carried a youthful confidence, but Bevens' presence—charismatic and commanding—stirred something new. "Thanks, man. Coming from you means a lot. You're a beast in there; that slam nearly ended me." He shifted closer, their knees brushing, the air humming with tension. Bevens leaned in, his hand resting lightly on Driver's thigh, a bold yet inviting gesture. "Listen, Val... after a war like that, how about we grab some late-night grub? Or, if you're feeling it, we could head back to my hotel. No pressure, just... see what happens." His voice dropped, laced with sincere interest, his gaze locking onto the youngster. Driver's cheeks warmed, but he didn't hesitate, placing his hand over Bevens'. "Yeah, Evan. I'd like that—a lot. Let's make it the hotel. Been admiring more than your moves tonight." They shared a lingering smile, rising together as Bevens draped an arm around Driver's shoulders. After showering and changing they headed out into the night with promises of more than just recovery.
Unwinding in Private: Val and Evan's Night
The drive from the arena to Bevens' rented apartment in the heart of the city was a blur of city lights and charged silence, broken only by the low hum of the radio playing some forgotten indie rock track. Evan Bevens gripped the steering wheel of his sleek black SUV, stealing glances at Val Driver in the passenger seat. Driver, under a loose hoodie, leaned back with a relaxed posture, his fingers drumming idly on his thigh—a subtle rhythm that mirrored the building anticipation between them. The air in the car felt thick, electric, like the moments before a big spot in the ring. "Almost there," Bevens murmured, his voice a smooth baritone that cut through the tension. He reached over, his hand finding Driver's knee in a casual yet deliberate touch. "Hope you don't mind a bit of a mess—been on the road too long. "Driver chuckled, covering Bevens' hand with his own, the warmth of the contact sending a spark up his arm. "Mess? After that match, I'm just glad to be off my feet. With you." His eyes met Bevens', holding the gaze with a mix of youthful boldness and genuine curiosity, the flirtation from the locker room now blooming into something tangible. They pulled into the underground garage of the modern high-rise, the engine's purr fading as Bevens killed the ignition. The walk to the elevator was quick, their shoulders brushing in the confined space, the ding of each floor ascent amplifying the unspoken promises. Bevens' keycard swiped them into the eighth-floor hallway, and as they approached apartment 812, he paused at the door, turning to Driver with a playful smirk. "Welcome to my temporary kingdom," he said, unlocking it with a soft click. The door swung open to reveal a cozy, lived-in space: dim lighting from a single lamp casting warm shadows over a plush sectional sofa, a half-unpacked duffel bag spilling workout clothes onto the floor, and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the glittering skyline. The faint scent of Bevens' cologne—woody and invigorating—lingered in the air, mingling with the remnants of takeout from earlier. Driver stepped inside, shedding his hoodie and kicking off his shoes by the door, his eyes scanning the room with approval. "Nice setup. Feels... real. Not some sterile hotel vibe." He turned, closing the distance between them in two strides, his hands finding Bevens' waist as the door clicked shut behind. The kiss that followed was unhurried but intense, a release of the pent-up energy from the ring—lips parting, breaths mingling, hands exploring with the familiarity of wrestlers who knew exactly how to read a partner's cues. Bevens pulled back just enough to murmur against Driver's mouth, "Drinks first? Or straight to celebrating that perfect performance of yours?" His fingers traced the lines of Driver's abs through his shirt, teasing the edge of the waistband. Driver's response was a low laugh, his grip tightening as Evan guided them toward the sofa. "Celebrating sounds perfect. Show me what a man player does off the clock." The night stretched ahead, full of discovery and shared exhaustion melting into passion, the apartment their private arena for the rounds to come.
Intimate Rounds: On the Sofa
The sectional sofa, with its soft leather yielding under their weight, became their improvised ring as Val Driver and Evan Bevens tumbled onto it in a tangle of limbs and lingering heat. The city skyline twinkled indifferently through the windows, casting a mosaic of lights across their skin, but the world outside dissolved into irrelevance. Driver's hoodie lay discarded on the floor, his pants half-unzipped, exposing the taut lines of his torso—marks from the match still faintly red against his tanned skin. Bevens, ever the showman, peeled off his own shirt with a fluid motion, revealing the sculpted shoulders and chest honed from years of rugby scrums and suplexes, a faint tattoo of a rugby ball curved along his ribcage like a signature move. Driver pulled Bevens down on top of him, their mouths crashing together again in a deeper, hungrier kiss—tongues exploring with the same intensity they'd traded strikes in the ring. Bevens' hands roamed greedily, one threading through Driver's short, beautiful hair to angle his head just right, the other sliding under the waistband of his trunks to grip firm muscle. "God, you're built like a weapon," Bevens growled against Driver's lips, his voice husky with want, nipping at the younger man's jawline before trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down his neck. Driver arched into the touch, a soft moan escaping as his fingers dug into Bevens' back, tracing the ridges of scars from old battles—reminders of resilience that only fueled the fire. Driver's inexperience in moments like this was edged with eager curiosity; he flipped their positions with a wrestler's burst of strength, straddling Bevens' hips and pinning his wrists above his head in playful dominance. "Your turn to tap out," he teased, grinding down slowly, the friction drawing a sharp inhale from Bevens. Their erections strained against the thin fabric separating them, the rhythm building like a comeback spot—deliberate, teasing, electric. Bevens bucked up with a laugh that turned into a groan, freeing one hand to yank Driver's pants and underwear off followed by the shirt, freeing him fully. His touch was expert, stroking with a firm, knowing grip that had Driver gasping, head thrown back as waves of pleasure rippled through him. "Like that, kid? Remember—I've got range." He guided Driver's hand to his own length in return, their movements syncing into a mutual exploration: slow at first, savoring the slide of skin on skin, then faster, breaths ragged and synced like a tag-team sequence. The sofa creaked under their shifting weight as Driver leaned down, capturing Bevens' mouth once more while their hands worked in tandem—fingers teasing sensitive tips, thumbs circling with precision born of body awareness. Sweat beaded on their brows, mingling as foreheads touched, eyes locking in the dim light with a vulnerability that cut deeper than any Crossface. "Evan... fuck, don't stop," Driver whispered, his voice breaking on the edge of release, and Bevens obliged, whispering encouragements laced with filth—"That's it, come for me, perfect"—until Driver shattered first, spilling over Bevens' hand with a shuddering cry that echoed softly in the room. Bevens followed moments later, pulled over the brink by Driver's relentless strokes and the sight of him undone—his release was hot. They collapsed in a heap, chests heaving, limbs entwined in the afterglow. Bevens pressed a lazy kiss to Driver's temple, murmuring, "Round one goes to you," as Driver chuckled breathlessly, nuzzling into his neck. The night was young, the sofa merely the opening bell, but for now, they savored the pinfall, bodies cooling in the quiet hum of the apartment.
Escalating Heat: Peaks on the Sofa
In the hazy afterglow, with their bodies still tangled and slick on the sofa, Evan Bevens wasn't done exploring the map of Val Driver's form. Evan shifted their bodies with a gentle nudge, easing Driver back against the cushions until he was reclined, legs splayed invitingly. Driver's chest rose and fell in quick rhythms, his skin flushed from their earlier release, but Bevens' eyes gleamed with that veteran hunger—the kind that promised to draw out every last drop of sensation. "Not done with you yet, perfect," Bevens murmured, his lips brushing Driver's collarbone as he trailed downward, hands pinning Driver's hips in place with just enough pressure to tease submission. Driver shivered, his hands feeling the body above him, anticipation coiling tight in his core. Every touch from Bevens felt like a masterclass, and he arched instinctively as warm breath ghosted over his pecs. Bevens' mouth descended, capturing one nipple between his lips—soft at first, a teasing flick of tongue that sent jolts straight to Driver's groin. He sucked gently, then harder, teeth grazing the sensitive peak just enough to blur the line between pleasure and a delicious sting. Driver's moan was raw, uninhibited, his cock twitching back to full hardness against his thigh as the sensation rippled through him like a standing ovation. "Fuck, Evan—right there," Driver gasped, one hand flying to Bevens' hair, fingers threading through the dark strands to hold him close. Bevens hummed in approval, the vibration amplifying the pull, switching to the other nipple with equal fervor. He lavished it with wet, insistent suction—tongue swirling in lazy circles, lips sealing around the bud and drawing it deep—while his free hand stroked Driver's length in lazy, firm pulls, syncing the rhythm to the pulse of his mouth. The dual assault was overwhelming: nipples hardening under the onslaught, each tug and suck pulling a fresh wave of heat from city center, building like a slow-burn high spot. Driver's hips bucked involuntarily, chasing the edge as Bevens alternated between the two, nipping one while pinching the other, his own arousal evident in the press of his body against Driver's leg. The room filled with the sounds of their shared breaths—Driver's turning to ragged pleas, Bevens' low encouragements muffled against skin. "Let go for me, Val... give it all," Bevens urged between sucks, his voice a velvet command that shattered the last of Driver's restraint. It hit like a finisher: Driver's back bowed off the sofa, a cry tearing from his throat as release crashed over him. Hot spurts painted his abs and Bevens' hand, his body shuddering in waves that matched the relentless pull on his nipple—Bevens not relenting until the tremors faded, drawing out every aftershock with a final, soothing lick. Driver collapsed, boneless and spent, pulling Bevens down for a sloppy, grateful kiss that tasted of salt and surrender. Bevens grinned against his mouth, wiping his hand on a nearby throw rug before settling beside him, arm draped possessively over Driver's waist. "Told you—many tools." The night hummed with possibility, but for now, they basked in the victory, hearts pounding in tandem.
Deeper Connections: Missionary Surrender
The tremors of Driver's second release still echoed through his limbs as Evan Bevens eased him fully onto his back against the sofa's yielding cushions, their bodies a heated press of skin and shared breaths. The city lights flickered like distant spotlights, illuminating the sheen of sweat on Driver's flushed chest, his nipples still peaked and sensitive from Bevens' earlier attentions. Bevens moved with the assured grace of a performer who knew how to build to the main event—his eyes dark with intent as he hooked one of Driver's legs over his hip, settling between them with deliberate slowness. "Wanna feel you under me, Val," he whispered, voice roughened by desire, his hand trailing down to align their bodies, the head of his cock teasing Driver's entrance with slick promise from the lube he'd grabbed from the side table. Driver nodded, breathless and eager, his hands roaming Bevens' broad shoulders, pulling him closer. "Yeah—take me, Evan. All the way." The vulnerability in his gaze was electric, a stark contrast to the fierce competitor from the ring, and it only stoked Bevens' fire. With a steady push, Bevens entered him inch by inch—missionary's intimacy allowing their eyes to lock, foreheads nearly touching as Driver gasped at the stretch, the fullness that bordered on overwhelming. Bevens paused, buried deep, letting Driver adjust, his thumb circling Driver's hipbone in soothing strokes while he peppered kisses along his jaw. "Breathe with me, perfect. You're doing so good. "The rhythm started slow, a gentle rock of hips that built with each thrust—Bevens' powerful frame caging Driver in the best way, one forearm braced beside his head, the other guiding his thigh higher for deeper access. Driver's moans filled the space between them, uninhibited and raw, his nails digging into Bevens' back as pleasure coiled tight in his gut once more. The angle was perfect: every slide hit that spot inside him, sending sparks up his spine, while Bevens' weight grounded him, the slide of their chests adding friction to already sensitized skin. "Fuck, you feel incredible," Bevens groaned, pace quickening, hips snapping with controlled power—each plunge drawing out Driver's cries, their bodies syncing like a flawless sequence. Driver's legs wrapped around Bevens' waist, urging him deeper, his own hand slipping between them to stroke himself in time with the thrusts. The sofa dipped under the force, the wet sounds of their joining mingling with grunts and praises—"Harder... yes, like that"—until tension snapped like a held breath. Bevens came first this time, burying his face in Driver's neck with a muffled roar, pulsing hot inside him as his rhythm faltered into shuddering aftershocks. The sensation tipped Driver over, spilling across his stomach with a keening whine, clenching around Bevens in waves that prolonged the bliss for them both. Stilled, entwined and spent, Bevens' weight a comforting anchor as he softened inside. He lifted his head, capturing Driver's lips in a tender kiss, murmuring against them, "That was... championship level." Driver smiled lazily, fingers tracing lazy patterns on Bevens' sweat-damp back, the night far from over but this round etched in memory.
Standing Heat: Frottage Ignition
As their breaths evened out in the languid haze of release, Evan Bevens slid free with a reluctant groan, his body still humming from the intimacy of missionary's depths. He pressed a lingering kiss to Val Driver's forehead, then extended a hand, pulling him up from the sofa with effortless strength. "C'mon, perfect—let's take this vertical. I want to feel every inch of you against me, no cushions in the way." Driver's legs wobbled slightly at first, the aftershocks making him lean into Bevens' solid frame, but the spark in his eyes reignited at the suggestion. The thrill of standing—exposed and pressed close—felt like a new high spot, raw and unscripted. They rose together, bodies aligning in the open space of the apartment, the cool air raising goosebumps on their sweat-damp skin. Bevens backed Driver gently against the nearest wall, the city skyline framing them like a private audience, but their focus was solely on each other. Driver's hands braced on Bevens' hips, pulling him flush—chest to chest, the heat of their torsos melding as Bevens' thigh nudged between Driver's legs for leverage. "Like this," Bevens murmured, his voice a low rumble against Driver's ear, one hand cupping the back of his neck while the other guided their cocks together—slick from earlier, hardening anew in the friction of bare skin. The frottage began with a slow grind, hips rolling in tandem: Bevens' length sliding alongside Driver's, the velvety drag sending shivers up both spines. Driver gasped, his head tipping back against the wall as he matched the rhythm, thrusting forward to chase the building pressure—their tips bumping, shafts rubbing with increasing urgency, pre-cum easing the glide into something sinfully smooth. Bevens' free hand roamed, one palm splaying across Driver's abs to feel them tense, the other tangling in his hair to claim a messy kiss. "Fuck, Val—you're perfect like this, all mine to grind against," he panted, pace quickening, the slap of skin echoing softly amid their moans. Driver's nails scored light trails down Bevens' back, urging him on as the sensation coiled tighter—frottage's intimacy amplifying every twitch and pulse, their erections trapped in a heated vice of mutual pressure. Legs trembled from the effort of standing, but it only heightened the edge, breaths syncing in ragged harmony. Bevens angled his hips just so, trapping them fully, the rub turning frantic until Driver broke first—spilling between them with a choked cry, hot streaks painting their stomachs as his body quaked against the wall. The sight and feel pulled Bevens under seconds later, groaning Driver's name as he came, their releases mingling in a sticky testament to the friction. They sagged against each other, foreheads pressed, chuckles bubbling up through the exhaustion. Bevens stole one last grind before stepping back, admiration in his gaze. "A girl has nothing on you." Driver grinned, stealing a kiss before they disentangled, the night promising more explorations in the quiet glow of the apartment.
Oral Spotlight: Driver's Turn
The afterglow of their standing frottage lingered like the echo of a crowd's roar, bodies still pressed close against the wall, breaths syncing in the dim apartment light. Evan Bevens leaned in for one more deep kiss, his hands framing Val Driver's face with a tenderness that belied the fire still smoldering between them. But Driver, ever the eager up-and-comer, had other ideas—his gaze dropping with a mischievous glint as he sank to his knees, the cool hardwood floor a stark contrast to the heat radiating from Bevens' skin. Driver moved with the fluid grace of a high-flyer spotting his next mark, his hands trailing down Bevens' thighs, thumbs pressing into the bordering flesh of the penis.
"Evan... let me return the favor," Driver murmured, voice husky with intent, looking up through lashes as he settled between Bevens' legs. Bevens' cock, still slick and half-hard from their earlier release, twitched at the proximity, and he let out a low, approving hum, one hand coming to rest lightly in Driver's hair—not guiding, just anchoring. "Show me what you've got, perfect. Make it a main event." Driver didn't hesitate, leaning in to press a soft, exploratory kiss to the base, tongue flicking out to taste the salty remnants of their mingled spend. He worked upward slowly, lips parting to take the thickening length into his mouth—warm and wet, the slide easy at first as he hollowed his cheeks, sucking with deliberate pulls that drew a sharp hiss from Bevens. His hands joined the rhythm, one wrapping around the root to stroke what his mouth couldn't reach, the other cupping Bevens' balls with gentle rolls, teasing the sensitive skin behind. Driver's technique was instinctive, honed by passion rather than practice: tongue swirling around the head on each upstroke, tracing the vein along the underside with flat, broad laps that had Bevens' hips jerking forward involuntarily. "Fuck, Val—your mouth..." Bevens groaned, head tipping back against the wall, fingers tightening in young wrestler’s hair as pleasure coiled low in his gut. The sight of the younger man on his knees—lips stretched around him, eyes watering slightly but locked upward in defiant connection—pushed him closer to the edge faster than expected. Driver hummed in response, the vibration sending fresh shocks through Bevens, and he took him deeper, relaxing his throat to swallow around the girth, nose brushing coarse hair as he bobbed with increasing fervor. Saliva glistened on his chin, the wet sounds obscene in the quiet room, punctuated by Bevens' ragged praises—"Just like that... god, you're killing me." The build was relentless: Val's free hand slipping up to tweak one of Bevens' nipples, echoing their sofa play, while his mouth worked in tandem—suction tightening on the down, teasing flicks on the up—until Bevens' thighs trembled under his grip. "Gonna—Val, close," Bevens warned, voice breaking, but Driver didn't pull away, doubling down with a final, deep swallow that shattered the restraint. Bevens came with a guttural moan, pulsing hot across Driver's tongue, who took it all—swallowing greedily before easing off with a slow, savoring lick, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as he rose. Bevens hauled him up immediately, crushing their mouths together in a bruising kiss that tasted of him, hands roaming possessively. "That was... unreal, kid. You're full of surprises." Val grinned, flushed and triumphant, as they stumbled back toward the sofa, the night far from tapped out.
Demanding Encore: Bevens' Command
The apartment's air hung heavy with the scent of their shared exertion, the sofa still rumpled from earlier conquests as Evan Bevens disentangled from Val Driver's embrace with a predatory glint in his eye. He guided Driver back a step, then sank onto the cushions himself—sprawling out like a king claiming his throne, legs splayed wide in blatant invitation. His thighs, thick and powerful from years of ring wars and diamond drills, framed the space between, his cock already stirring back to life against his abs, demanding attention. At 34, Bevens knew how to command a spotlight, and tonight, Driver was his sole audience."C'mere, Perfect," Bevens rumbled, voice laced with that New Jersey edge turned velvet command, patting his thigh once before crooking a finger. "You did good before—now show me you can handle the main event. On your knees. Repeat it... but deeper this time." There was no room for hesitation in his tone, the playfulness from moments ago sharpening into something insistent, hungry. Driver, cheeks still flushed from his own highs, felt the pull like a lockup in the ring—irresistible, thrilling. He dropped to his knees between Bevens' spread legs, the hardwood biting into his skin, hands bracing on those muscled thighs as he leaned in, lips parting in anticipation. But Bevens wasn't content with gentle encouragement this round. As Val's mouth enveloped the head—warm, tentative at first, tongue swirling to coax the full hardness—Bevens' hands shot to the back of his head, fingers splaying wide through the sweat-damp strands and gripping like a vice. "No half-measures, kid," he growled, hips canting up as he yanked Driver forward with unyielding force, burying himself to the hilt in one demanding thrust. Val's eyes widened, a choked gag bubbling up from his throat as the full length stretched his mouth, the thick base pressing against his lips, invading deep enough to hit the back of his throat and beyond. Driver gagged hard—wet, involuntary spasms that made his chest heave, saliva spilling down his chin as he fought the reflex, hands scrabbling at Bevens' thighs. But escape wasn't an option; Bevens held him there, iron grip unmovable, "Take it all, Val—breathe through it. That's my boy... fuck, yeah, just like that." The words were a demand wrapped in praise, Bevens' voice dropping to a guttural chant as he guided the rhythm—not Val's anymore, but his own: shallow pull backs just enough for air, then slamming deep again, using Val's mouth like a custom fit, the obscene gluck-gluck of gags filling the room. Tears pricked the boys eyes from the strain, his throat burning, but beneath the overwhelm was a twisted spark of surrender—the raw dominance flipping the script from their earlier equality, making his own cock twitch traitorously against the floor. He hollowed his cheeks on the forced retreats, tongue pressing flat to ease the slide, even as coughs rattled through him. Bevens' thighs tensed under his grip, breaths turning to grunts—"Gonna fill you up, take every drop"—until the coil snapped. With a final, brutal shove, Bevens held Driver flush, pulsing hot and thick down his throat, the release flooding in waves that Val had no choice but to swallow or choke. Only then did Bevens relent, fingers loosening to caress instead of crush, pulling Val off with a slick pop and a satisfied sigh. Driver gasped for air, coughing wetly as he slumped forward, forehead resting on Bevens' knee, but the older man was already hauling him up—wiping his chin with a thumb, then drawing him into a searing kiss that tasted of possession. "Knew you could handle it. Proud of you." Val's voice was hoarse when he murmured back, "Worth it... for you," the night saw their bond begin to weaken in the fire of that Bevens claim of dominance..
Fractured Aftermath: Descent into Humiliation
The high of their raw, demanding encounter crashed like a botched hold as Val Driver pulled back from Evan Bevens' possessive kiss, his throat raw and chest heaving not just from exertion but from a dawning unease. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, the taste of Bevens lingering like a bitter afterimage, and shifted on his knees, suddenly hyper-aware of the ache in his jaw and the slick mess cooling on his skin. He had chased the thrill, but now, in the quiet that followed Bevens' release, a hollow feeling settled in—used, discarded like a jobber after the main event. "That was... intense," crowed Bevens. The boy was undressed emotionally. His voice hoarse and tentative as he rose unsteadily to his feet, avoiding Bevens' gaze. He sought his clothes, trying to reclaim some dignity, but the words tumbled out sharper than intended. "Too intense, man. You didn't have to hold me like that—force it down my throat. I get playing rough, but that felt... I don't know, like I wasn't even there." Bevens, still sprawled on the sofa with legs akimbo, his cock softening against his thigh, arched a brow in lazy amusement that curdled into condescension. He sat up slowly, all coiled power and unapologetic swagger, wiping a bead of sweat from his temple. "Oh, come on, kid. You're just a boy—fresh meat on the circuit, all flash and no finish. That's all you're good for right now: service the needs of your betters. I gave you a taste of the big leagues. You should be thanking me, not whining like some indie mark." The words landed like a cheap shot, igniting a spark in Driver's gut that flared into full-blown anger. His fists clenched at his sides, face flushing hotter than during the match—betrayal twisting the admiration he'd felt earlier into something venomous. "A boy? Fuck you, Evan. I'm not your damn boy. You think because you're some big time vet, you own me? That was bullshit—you crossed the line way past my consent." Bevens' eyes narrowed, sensing the shift like a heel reading a face's fire. The air thickened, the playful dominance curdling into something darker, more primal. In a blur of motion—honed from years of ring psychology and street-tough instincts—Bevens lunged from the sofa, closing the distance before Driver could react. A forearm smashed into Driver's midsection, doubling him over with a whoosh of expelled air, and then Bevens' arm snaked around his neck from behind, locking in a textbook sleeper hold. The biceps flexed like iron cables against Driver's throat, cutting off air and blood flow in a vise that blurred the line between wrestling spot and real malice. Val thrashed, elbows flailing wildly, nails scraping at Bevens' unyielding grip, but the older man was a wall—whispering hot against his ear, "Told you, boy. Know your place." Stars exploded behind Driver's eyelids, his struggles weakening to futile twitches as his oxygen starved brain began to shut down. The room spun, the city lights smearing into streaks, and then—nothing. Blackness swallowed him whole, body slumping limp in Bevens' arms.
When awareness trickled back, it came with disorienting pressure: Bevens straddling his chest, knees pinning Driver's arms to the floor, the full weight of the veteran's hips grinding down over his chest. Bevens' spent cock was dangling just out of reach like a taunt. Driver bucked instinctively, a muffled roar of fury vibrating against skin, but the position left him trapped, inhaling the overwhelming scent of sweat and dominance. Bevens chuckled low, rocking slightly to emphasize the control, his thighs flexing to hold firm. "Welcome back, princess. See? Even out cold, you're useful." Bevens rubbed his hand over Val’s face. The feeling and smell said everything. Val understood Evan had masturbated on his face while he was unconscious. The boy's rage boiled over as clarity sharpened, humiliation fueling a surge of adrenaline. He twisted violently, nearly unseating Bevens, snarling through the movements, "Get the fuck off me, you prick!" But Bevens anticipated it, rising off Val he drove a sharp knee into the boy's groin—cruel precision that expelled the fight from Val in a wheezing gasp, leaving him winded, coughing and feeling sick. Bevens stood towering over the sprawled form, his expression a mask of cold satisfaction. Falling on the front of his “boy” Bevens grabbed Val’s head and forcing a massive kiss on Val’s lips, began to rub his body against the piece of garbage under him. Sharp and powerful moves against Val soon brought the older man to another explosion. Val could do nothing to stop him. As he got up Bevens said: "Go home, boy. Take your little dick with you and learn how to play with the big boys if you want to make it in my world. The other guys will love to hear about your failed little night with a real man. And next time? Stay in your lane." He turned away dismissively, grabbing a towel as if the night were just another workout. Driver lay there, chest burning, privates abused, pride shattered into jagged pieces. Tears of impotent fury stung his eyes, but he swallowed them, dragging himself up on shaking limbs. He dressed in silence, avoiding the mirror that would reflect the red marks blooming on his neck, the disheveled hair, the defeated slump of his shoulders. The door clicked shut behind him like a final bell, the hallway's fluorescent hum mocking his retreat into the night—humiliated, used up, and forever scarred by the veteran who'd shown him the ring's ugliest underbelly.
To get in touch with the author, send them an email.
