The arena buzzed with excitement. Two massive bodybuilding champions were going to finish a rivalry they had started on the stage but now were going to test not just strength but skill as well. Dennis was a white giant with perfect proportions. At 6’3” and 245 pounds of solid muscle he had swept titles up like a vacuum. But his real desire was to see his major competitor humbled before the crowd and prove his superiority not just as a bodybuilder but as a man. The opportunity had presented itself. Now he could reduce his rival to the status of a bitch and destroy any hope of returning to competition.
Serge was as massive as Dennis. 6’2”, 230 pounds with black skin shining in the light. He knew this was not going to be a friendly rivalry but an act of conquest. He knew Dennis had been taking wrestling lessons. But felt just moving or holding tight was too little too late. Although shorter than Dennis, he knew that his powerful frame was equal to anything Dennis could bring to the fight. Dennis stood facing the center of the ring. Serge was facing the corner pulling on the ropes.
The bell hadn't finished ringing before Dennis lunged, and the crowd’s roar collapsed into a held breath. The dropkick has driven Serge into the turnbuckle, his head clashing with force into the padding. Before Serge could recover Dennis needed to establish his dominance. Dennis’ thumb found Serge’s throat, and he pressed down into the larynx, hard, just under the jaw, the way a man might break a chicken’s neck. “Stay down,” Dennis mouthed, and the words came out like something wet sliding across gravel.
Serge’s brown eyes went wide. His hands flew up, but Dennis drove him backward into the ropes, thumb still buried, twisting now. The top rope burned across Serge’s spine. Dennis pulled his hand free, then raked his knuckles across Serge’s eyes — slow, deliberate, bone against socket. Serge’s head snapped back, spittle flying. “Open your eyes,” Dennis taunted. “Watch.”
He grabbed Serge by the back of the neck and drove him down. Belly first. The mat was already damp, the sweat-slicked canvas warm under the floodlights. Dennis’ palm shoved the back of Serge’s skull and ground his cheek into the wet rubber, pressing until the skin stretched and glistened. Serge’s legs kicked once. “That’s it,” Dennis breathed, chest swelling. He wound his fingers into Serge’s hair and yanked his head back, sneering into those stunned, pained eyes.
He wrenched Serge’s head back until the tendons in that proud neck stood out like cables, then slid his right arm under the chin. The cobra clutch locked tight. Dennis’s forearm came down across Serge’s throat like a steel bar, and his other hand grabbed his own wrist, ratcheting the hold shut. Serge’s breath hitched and died.
Dennis squeezed. His bulging bicep swelled against the side of Serge’s neck, crushing the windpipe flat. Serge’s hands came up, slapping weakly at the massive arm, nails scraping over the oil-slicked skin. No purchase. Only sweat. The muscle flexed harder, and Serge’s mouth opened in a soundless choke, spit running down his chin onto the mat.
“Feel that?” Dennis grunted, lips against Serge’s ear. “That’s your blood stopping.”
His forearm clamped across the carotid artery, shutting off the flow to Serge’s brain. Serge’s legs kicked once, twice, heels drumming the canvas. His back heaved against Dennis’ chest, every rib straining, every slab of ebony muscle fighting for air that wouldn’t come. Then the drumming slowed. The hands fell slack and dropped. Serge’s body sagged against Dennis, dead weight.
The referee raised Serge’s arm. Once. Twice. Three times. The bell clanged. Dennis didn’t let go. The crowd screamed, but Dennis only breathed through his teeth, watching Serge’s face go loose. Ten seconds. He counted them slowly. Serge’s body twitched once, a hard full-body spasm, and then the unmistakable heat spread across Serge’s trunks — warm piss darkening the fabric, dripping down his thighs onto the sweat-slicked canvas.
Dennis released.
Serge’s unconscious body dropped face-down onto the piss-wet mat, his cheek bouncing once against the damp rubber.
The referee hovered at the ropes, unwilling to intervene, and Dennis let the moment stretch. He stood over Serge's motionless body, chest swelling, each breath deliberate as he surveyed what he had made. The crowd's roar rolled through the air like stormy weather, and Dennis let it wash over him. Then he bent, slow and deliberate, and hooked his thick fingers under Serge's jaw. The bone fit neatly into his palm. He squeezed, grinding the knuckles into the soft flesh beneath the chin, forcing the slack mouth open.
Serge's head lolled back, eyes closed, spit still glistening at the corner of his lips. Dennis lifted. Serge's torso came up off the mat, dead weight dragging against the canvas, his arms hanging useless at his sides. The dark skin of his chest gleamed under the floodlights, streaked with sweat and mat grime. Dennis brought that proud face level with his own and held it there, steady, an offering to the crowd.
Then he kissed him.
Dennis's lips crushed down against Serge's slack mouth, hard and wet. He drove his tongue past the open teeth, pushing deep, claiming the warm, unresponsive interior. Spit smeared between them, running down Serge's chin in a thin string. Dennis worked his jaw, grinding the kiss deeper, tasting the salt and the surrender. Serge's body swayed, held up only by the grip on his jaw. The referee took a step forward and stopped again. Dennis's eyes stayed open, fixed on the crowd beyond the ropes, watching them watch him take this last thing.
He pulled back just far enough. Then he spat, a thick, white wad of saliva, directly into Serge's open slack mouth. It landed on the tongue and sat there, glistening. Dennis let the jaw go.
Serge collapsed. His body hit the sweat-slicked canvas with a wet slap, face down, cheek landing in the cooling puddle of his own piss. He did not move.
Dennis turned, slow and unhurried, and walked to the ropes. A ringside attendant thrust the microphone toward him. Dennis took it, wiped the spit from his chin with the back of his hand, and turned back to where Serge lay spread, stunned and soaked.
He raised the mic and let his voice roll out into the roaring dark, slow, each syllable a brand. The crowd leaned toward him, hungry.
"Black is the loser's color."
The roar swelled. Dennis stood in the center of it, and inside his chest something that had been clawing for years finally curled up and lay still. He stepped back over Serge's body, spread his legs wide, and raised both arms to the lights.
Dennis hooked his thumbs under the waistband of his trunks and shoved them down his oiled thighs. The fabric peeled away wet, and his cock sprang free, hard and pale against the dark heat of the ring, already slick at the tip. He kicked the trunks aside and stood naked under the lights, sweat running in slow lines down the carved slabs of his chest. The crowd's roar energized him. He didn't turn to face the crowd. His eyes stayed on Serge, face down in the puddle of his own piss.
He dropped to one knee and grabbed the waistband of Serge's soaked shorts. One hard yank and the fabric tore, the wet cloth ripping away from Serge's hips and down his thick, limp thighs. Dennis ripped again, tearing the shorts off him entirely, and threw the black rag out through the ropes. Serge's ass and legs lay bare now, the dark skin wet with urine and sweat and spreading gooseflesh under the hot lights. His own still body glistened like meat on a slab.
Dennis grabbed a fistful of Serge's hair and hauled. The dark head came up off the canvas, loose and heavy, drool and spit and diluted piss stringing from the slack mouth. He dragged Serge's face to groin height, rested the blunt head of his cock against the parted lips, and shoved. The shaft slid over Serge's tongue and into the wet, warm cavern of his black mouth, and the crowd's noise became one long animal sound.
Serge's throat constricted. A wet choking sound pushed through his nose, and his brown eyes snapped open, dazed and bulging, fixed on the pale cock skewering his mouth, the urine, the filth, the ring's bright lights behind Dennis's enormous silhouette. His hands twitched against the canvas, fingers curling and uncurling without strength. A muffled groan vibrated up the shaft, and Dennis heard it in his balls.
He took Serge's skull in both hands and began to fuck. Fast from the first thrust, hard, driving the white cock into the black mouth, deeper with each snap of his hips. Sweat dripped off his oiled chest and spattered Serge's face, ran into those stunned eyes. Serge gagged, his jaw working involuntarily, trying to close, trying to bite, but the hands clamped his head like brackets and the cock kept coming, ramming through the back of his throat, setting off wet convulsive sounds. The crowd was chanting something now, two words over and over, “Finish him.” But Dennis didn't hear it. All he heard was the wet slap of his hips against Serge's lips, the choking, the hoarse gurgle of a body learning to submit.
He went faster. Harder. Every thrust a short, brutal declaration. Serge's strong neck strained, his beautiful dark body twisting weakly, his hands flat and useless against the mat. Dennis grunted, low and guttural, feeling the tight heat of Serge's throat clamp and spasm around him, feeling the pleasure of taking him as a bitch in front of everyone, the joy of ownership.
Then he slammed deep and held. His cock pulsed, and the cum came in heavy, flooding spurts, thick and hot, filling Serge's mouth and pouring down his throat. There was too much. It overflowed the corners of Serge's lips, spilled white down his chin, dripped over the dark skin, and fell in thick strands. Dennis held Serge's skull steady, buried to the root, pulsing the last of it out as Serge choked and swallowed helplessly, throat working around the flood. White cum leaked from the corners of Serge's mouth and pooled on the dark canvas beneath him, and Dennis did not pull out. Dennis keeps up the assault until he comes a second time. Not stopping to rest or recover, Dennis goes a third time. "White is aways more effective than black." Dennis went down on Serge and took his perfect nipple into his teeth and began to separate it from the breast. In a few moments he had it. Sucking in his mouth he removed whatever blood was still on the piece. Then the art of chewing began. Always chew until the meat is ready to swallow. The feeling of human flesh as food was an unbelievable sensation. Dennis never felt this good after a bodybuilder competition. Standing over Serge he put several stomps across the chest. Then he unloaded kick after kick on his groin. The screaming was at a 10. A beautiful body beautifully destroyed.
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