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Chase raises a paw to prod at his bruised jaw. Won’t be losing any teeth tonight, but it stings like a bitch, and there’s blood dribbling down the side of his mouth. Doesn’t mean he’s gonna let it go that easily, oh no. Everyone knows his mug is one of his strongest assets, and he’s put people down under for way less. There’s gonna be hell to pay.
He looks at his meal, who is currently propped against the corner and breathing heavily through his mouth. Syd notices the gaze piercing through him and lifts his weary head. Yeah, you. You should know better than anyone, you piece of shit. After all, for all that bullshit you spouted painting yourself as some sort of victim, you still let it happen, didn’t you? You still let me hit your back walls until you were a quivering mess.
Well, you’re a quivering mess now. Ha. That was clever, he should write it down in his memoir.
But that’s for later. Right now there’s the issue of what to do with Syd. Calling it an issue made it sound like a chore though, and Chase is savoring the moment way too much for that to be accurate.
Syd’s face is all black and blue, one eye inflamed and sewn shut. If nothing else, Chase made sure to pay him back for busting his jaw, and then some. But this is about much more than just that. The humiliation Chase felt on the Night of Hysteria, then on the day he lost his shot at the championship belt, is something he’s gonna carry until he croaks. Syd should be grateful. He should be thanking Chase that in his boundless generosity, he’ll satisfy himself with taking the belt back and roughing him up a little.
More than a little but, details, details.
Chase winds his fist back and drives it into Syd’s stomach. He lets it stay there for a bit, loving the feeling of Syd’s abs sinking and contorting around him. Likes to imagine when he pulls back there’ll be a crater in the shape of his fist. That’s not what happens, but Syd does sputter and fold in pain. Even hurls clear, watery liquid from his mouth and nose. It’s a decent enough replacement, Chase decides.
Syd is really not in good in shape. That’s what happens when Chase isn’t caught off guard or when Alvarez isn’t there to crack his ribs. On an equal playing field, there’s no doubt or question that he’s the stronger competitor. Chase already knew that, proving it in front of an audience is just the cherry on top.
Still, he should slow down. Syd hasn’t moved an inch since taking that punch to the gut, and the fuckers writing his cheques may be bloodthirsty, but not enough to let him wail on an unconscious man. If the ref calls the match before Chase’s had his fun it’s seriously going to fuck up the rest of his week, so he slaps Syd a few times, trying to jumpstart his brain. When that fails, he takes a bounding step forward and gets all up in his business until their chests are touching.
That’s when he feels it. They’re not allowed to bring rockets into the ring and Syd is most definitely not happy to see him, so the mass poking Chase’s thigh can only be one thing.
…Now that’s interesting.
Chase grabs Sydney by the headfur and brings his head up. He’s awake, just groggy. Good. “What have we got down there?”
Syd doesn’t dignify him with a response. Like he thinks if he clams up and tries to look tough Chase won’t notice. Wouldn’t be the first time he’d underestimated him, and it makes Chase’s blood boil. He stops being nice, and grips Syd’s crotch with force.
The dumb hicks in the crowd don’t even realize anything’s wrong. There’s booing, some uncomfortable laughter here and there. They figure the move is dirty, but not uncharacteristic. Syd isn’t blessed with that ignorance, lets out something between a wail and a moan, obviously feeling something other than aggravation.
This is fucking rich. But Chase isn’t surprised. Backstage they didn’t call Syd ‘loose cannon’ for his temper or his weird fucking fascination with pirates. If Chase plays his cards right, this might make up for everything. He could give him a taste of his own medicine.
Chase doesn’t waste any time whispering into Syd’s ear. “Look. I know how you feel about me, but I’m not some fucking rapist, alright?” He says. “So I’ll throw you a lifeline. All you have to do is tell me to stop, and I’ll quit messing around and pin you. I go home with the belt, you leave with your dignity more or less intact.” The alternative is not elaborated upon, Chase content in letting it stew in Syd’s mind.
He’s so easy to read, then and now. No sooner do the words leave his mouth and Syd is already saying what he needed to hear in a raspy voice. “I… I want it.”
Chase smiles. Yeah. Nothing’s changed, in the end. Chase lets Syd’s privates off the hook to honor his promise, reaches for those ugly camo pants and tears them off with ease.
Syd immediately protests, cheeks blushing. “N-Not here!”
“Don’t recall giving you the option to choose a where and when.” Chase says. “We play by my rules or not at all.”
Syd’s lower lip wobbles, and he dejectedly closes his eyes, but doesn’t ask him to stop. PWF’s champion, reduced to this. It’s justice, it’s retribution.
And it’s so, so fucking hot. For the first time since Chase’s heel turn, the crowd is behind him. A few confused murmurs quickly drown under a wave of support: they realize the show he’s about to give them is worth the price of admission. That’s likely why the ref hasn’t stopped him.
Under the tattered remains of Syd’s trousers, he’s sporting a black jockstrap. Typical. Probably thinks it comes across as ‘athletic’ or some shit. Truth is, everyone knows only faggy sluts wear them. At least he fits the part.
Chase gets on his knees and goes for Syd’s bulge. Nips at it just to see Syd squirm, then buries his nose. It’s spicy with sweat to kingdom come, but that’s how Chase likes it. It’s also a diversion. An appetizer that can’t hope to quench his hunger. Besides, Chase isn’t here to satisfy him.
Chase leaves it alone and stands up. Fuck, Syd’s looking wrecked already. Face flushed and ample chest heaving up and down. Every inch of the body Chase had thoroughly explored in the past is begging for this.
He’s happy to provide. Chase takes each of Syd’s legs and throws them over the middle ropes until Syd is spread as wide as he can be. His hole is practically saying hi, the jock doing nothing to hide it, and Chase can’t contain himself anymore, digs his own cock out of his trunks and promptly spears him. That’s the only way he can describe it, by comparing it to a move meant to surprise and knock your opponent’s breath away. The mechanics are the same even if the tools used for the job differ, and they lead to one result: Syd gasping in shock.
Without waiting for Syd to find his bearings, Chase looks for his rhythm. The ropes are keeping Syd in place, so all he has to do is move his hips. It’s warm and moist, tight without impeding his advance. That last part surprises him. Did Syd keep himself celibate after they separated? Aw, how sweet. That promo must have been a cry for help. If this goes well and Syd asks nicely, Chase will consider forgiving him.
He doesn’t divulge that information, but next time he bottoms out, he places his paws on Syd’s shoulders and plants a kiss on his lips, for old times’ sake. Syd says nothing, but he looks appeased. Camera shutters go off around them. This is still a performance, just of a different kind.
In and out. In and out again. The sound of Chase’s balls slapping against Syd with each pump is louder than the crowd, Syd’s moans even louder. Chase grabs onto that pair of sweaty, useless heaps on Syd’s chest and holds them for balance, allowing him to speed up. After jiggling his pecs around gets boring, he twists his nipples with malicious intent. Sucks that Syd seemed to enjoy that, but them’s the breaks.
Eventually, Chase feels a spark at the base of his length. Won’t be long before he climaxes. It doesn’t sadden him, tonight’s been as unforgettable as any match Chase has been involved in, but there’s one more prize to lay his claim on.
He slots his body against Syd’s, who’s using whatever leverage he has to finish himself off. Chase won’t let him, untangles his legs from the ropes and holds Syd by the underside of his knees.
Syd’s deadweight is nothing to him, and he begins to climb up the ringpost with his companion in tow, dick still deep inside him. When he reaches the apex, he winks at the crowd, and backflips.
Syd crashes into the mat headfirst. His legs thrash wildly before going limp. The impact buries Chase so deep he swears he touched the back of Syd’s teeth, and he finally comes, so far in there’s no worry of wasting a single drop, fills every crevice of Syd’s guts with his seed. Chase thinks of yelling for the ref, but seeing Syd’s shoulders against the apron with his opponent on top of him prompts the man to quit jerking off and do his goddamn job. He begins to count.
“One!”
“Two!”
“Three!”
The bell goes ding, and Chase extricates himself from his opponent as the championship belt is draped across his shoulders. The ref attempts to lift his arm up but Chase pushes him away, does it his own goddamn self and places a foot on top of Syd’s chest for good measure, letting some leftover jizz drip onto his mouth from the tip of his softening manhood. Chase stomps lightly to see if anyone’s home. He doesn’t receive a verbal response, but Syd’s bulge does twitch slightly, seeping copious amounts of come through the jock. Now he’s out cold for real. And having a nice dream by the looks of it.
Wasn’t Chase’s goal, but he’ll let it slide. It’s all so below him anyway. Now that he’s conquered the champion in every possible measure, no one in this backwater fed can touch him. His momentum has become unstoppable. And the best part?
He’s only getting started.
***
The noise of the mechanical keyboard finally stilled, and Jenna leaned back on her seat, appraising the thing (she refused to call it art) she’d brought into this world.
Ugh. Horrible. Trite. The plot was like something dreamed up by a high-schooler, and the prose matched.
When was the last time she wrote something this debauched? Too long, good lord was she rusty. Or perhaps not long enough. Really shouldn’t be making shit like this in the first place. She had no qualms with the practice of exploring dark desires through the medium of fiction, but it was easier to say that than try to justify herself for writing smut about her coworkers.
It shouldn’t be. She couldn’t help who she found attractive. The urge to fantasize about the people around us was as natural as breathing air or drinking water, and it’s not as though she had any wish to muddy her real relationships by acting on those fantasies.
Hm. No, still weird.
She never thought she’d find herself here again, which was a miscalculation on her part. The intimacy, the sexualized violence, the romance and the drama, these were the reasons she fell in love with the sport to begin with. Then things changed. She changed. She found a job at an indie promo and suddenly there weren’t nearly enough degrees of separation for her to be comfortable writing her stories. And she now felt inclined to agree with everyone who’d told her a psychology degree amounted to an expensive piece of paper, because she couldn’t for the life of her figure out why she’d decided to take it twenty steps further and write about people she knew in real life and saw every other day.
Then again, she wasn’t really in love with Chase and Sydney, rather their personas. It was obvious to her, should be fairly evident to anyone who’d met them and happened to read this that the characters on the page were so far removed from the sickeningly sweet and caring couple it bordered on libel. It’s called compartmentalizing and it is not delusion, look it up.
She had harbored a little crush on Chase, lifetimes ago. Silly thing. The crush and its target, she clarified. That’s how she saw him, a helpless, bumbling pup, equal parts adorable and pitiful. The kind that, depending on the type of person you were, you wanted to either scoop up and tuck inside your jacket, or punt as hard as you possibly could. Or both. No comment on where her preference lied.
Another correction: used to. Used to see him that way. Getting acquainted with Chase, his cutting wit that he seldom had the confidence to show off, his lack of judgment and at times indulgence of her more idiosyncratic hobbies. She appreciated it. Deeply enjoyed his company, in fact. After a while it no longer felt proper to patronize him by trying to become his mom. He still needed help, but she was glad to offer it as a friend and nothing more.
The issue was that the transformation he’d undergone in the ring, so different from the Chase she knew, was… let’s just get to the point, it was pretty sexy. Sydney owned the blame for that, and by extension for the draft sitting in front of her.
In comparison, she had little to say about the muscle-bound otter. They had a friendly workplace relationship, but weren’t really friends—Sydney was a mostly responsible, reliable worker, that’s all that mattered. Her use for him was practical, in real life and within the realm of her rotted out imagination. Less of a person and more of a vessel. For… cum, apparently.
Something was seriously wrong with her.
The contents of the fiction she’d woven were as alarming as its participants. Not to confirm every single misogynistic stereotype about female readers, but she liked a slow build and tons of foreplay. Deep, at times conflicting emotions swirling in the air and consummating in a passionate, cathartic act of love-making.
There was no love to be found in what she’d written. It was barbaric. The characterization was flat and clearly meant to facilitate sex instead of the other way around. The language was crude and vulgar. The premise was so stupid she wanted to scream. Honestly, public sex in a wrestling ring, in full view of the audience? It was almost parody. If she didn’t know any better she’d think a gay man had written it. Which, for the record, wasn’t prejudice. It was a reasonable assessment based on observation.
Well. She did use to wonder, if perhaps she was a gay man herself. It would explain quite a bit. The prospect aroused some passing interest, but she’d ended up deciding going down that path wouldn’t bear the answers she seeked. She’d have to look somewhere else for the source of her deviancy.
Jenna picked up a number two pencil she hadn’t used since her college days and chewed on the soft end. If she smoked, this would be the time to do it. Shame was so unlike her. Something—or someone, must have rubbed off on her.
Yes. Self-deprecation was intrinsic to Chase’s behavior. She’d done all she could to squash it, but nothing seemed to take until Sydney came into the picture. Little by little, slow and arduously: sweet, merciful progress. That’s why despite the whole matter reeking of inappropriateness, how the mere sight of Sydney succeeding where she’d failed made her feel a tad jealous and more than a tad useless, she couldn’t bring herself to tear them apart. The incident at the motel where she threatened them with suspension lacked any credibility, which she’d known going in. It served only to spare her sense of control.
They made for a good couple. Cute to behold, at a safe distance.
And this. This thing, wild and monstrous yet all hers, was as far as she could tread without breaking a boundary. She simply had to love it, in all its repulsive splendor. Nobody else would.
That being said, if she performed so much as a cursory editing round the embarrassment might just swallow her alive and spit her bones out, so she resolved to leave it as is. If anyone asked, she’ll tell them it’s more authentic this way.
She hadn’t posted in years, but her account had managed to maintain a sizeable number of subscribers. They’d be treated to a nice surprise. It wasn’t Jenna’s best work by a mile, but she doubted they’d care or notice. Chase and Syd were fan favorites, and Jenna was attuned to the wants of her people.
Besides, it’ll be great publicity.