Laundry day at the ring. Spike had just finished his top-rope drills and was feeling pretty confident–and more than a little sweaty–when he noticed the laundry trolley outside the mat room next to the ring. Great, he thought, as he collected his Yankees T-shirt off the floor, I can just toss this and head to dinner. His stomach was already rumbling, as he thought about dessert. It was a churro night, a sacred and celebrated occasion among the other fighters. He'd need to get to the mess hall quickly or risk losing out...
As he got closer to the laundry trolley, Spike noticed a splash of bright color sitting atop all the socks, shirts, singlets, and towels that had accumulated Heaven-knows how much sweat (and other bodily fluids) the last few days. Spike looked over the edge of the trolley and a tingle of mischief ran up his spine, which was still awfully sore from the killer backbreaker Colt had delivered him the other day as punishment for a snide remark. At least the electrified massage afterword had been worth it--Colt always did take care of his boys...
Anyways, Spike laid eyes on the undergarment in question: an emerald green jockstrap–expensive looking too–with a generous pouch for whoever the well-endowed owner was.
Now, Spike was respectful of his fellow spellbreakers and trainees...but he was also a slut with an eye for good bulge, and he knew exactly who this sexy jock belonged to--Cian Enbarr, his rival, bully, and crush (the best triple-threat).
Ah, Cian. Red hair. Bulging muscles. Pale as a sheet, but which almost gave his body a Greek statue like quality. He was mean and cocky and meaty. And of course this was his jock strap, because who else on the GSA campus could ever look as good in green as him?
Well, maybe Gio, Spike thought of the hairy muscleman, an Italian Tarzan. But anyway...
Spike had lusted after Cian since their first encounter (on the night of his sensation debut, no-less) but the Irish stud played hard to get. And speaking of hard, Spike was getting harder at the thought of picking up those little green jocks and giving them a good sniff. Dirty, of course, but not beyond Spike’s limits. Cian’s third and forth best features–besides his Rugby-champ legs and gorgeous green eyes, was, of course, his distractingly large bulge. Spike had longed to get his hands, or mouth on that…
“What the hell are ya doing, boyo?”
Spike nearly jumped into the ceiling. It shouldn’t have come as a surprise. Cian had ninja-like stealth, and had a habit of getting the jump on Spike and scaring him witless.
Spike turned to face his fears. Cian, in his singlet, cheeks bright red and slicked with sweat from a workout. And worse, he had the devil’s look about him.
“Cian, I can explain!”
“No chance,” Cian grinned wickedly as he tackled Spike and shoved him into the mat room with the force of a freight train. Spike’s glyph activated and took the blow, and the secondary impact from his face hitting the mat, but Spike wasn’t prepared for what happened next.
“N-no!” It was like watching an oncoming train. Cian wrapped his massive, steel-and-concrete legs around Spike before he could so much as squirm away or get to his hands and knees.
“You’re gonna get punished for messing with my stuff,” Cian said, sounding both pissed off and sadistically enthusiastic. “Time to become my latest sacrifice, boyo!”
The dreaded Pillars of Sacrifice! It was no use. Spike’s head was caught, like a fox in a brutally iron-clad beartrap. He felt the weight of Cian’s quads come from either side, compressing his throat and head like a vice. As much as he struggled and tried to back bridge his way out of it, there was no fighting it. His pretty head was being squashed like a grape!
“Cian…I give! I give!”
“Hahaha!” This only made the thick grappler squeeze harder, and Cian even positioned himself so his bulge was now right on Spike’s head. “After humiliating me in that match the other day, I thought I’d return the favor. Didn’t you want this in your face?”
“I…” Spike struggled to breathe. His feet struggled wildly, trying to grip the mat for any leverage. “I...never even touched your damn jock.” He began tapping, annoyed he'd submitted but not wanting to get choked out in such an embarrassing way. Besides, he couldn't get KO'd now--it was churro night at the mess hall!
“I know–and I don’t care! You’re going out now, boyo. Going out for a nice little snooze…”
Spike’s vision blurred. He could hear the pulsing of his rapidly beating in his heart, as the oxygen and blood cut off from his system finally took effect and he thought his head might crack like an egg. “...I…gi…..”
For good measure, Cian cranked his legs one last time, giving Spike a little squeeze. A gurgle of air escape Spike's lips...and that was it. Done. Out cold.
Cian thought it was cute how his eyes rolled up into his head and his limbs went slack. Still keeping his prey squeezed tight, Cian picked up Spike’s limp arm for good measure, letting it drop for the count.
“One…two…and…three.” The Irish beefcake kept his pretty blond friend locked up tight against his hardening bulge, and then got even harder as Cian flexed his bicep, giving it a good look over. “Who’s the fucking champ now, eh boyo?”
Finally, Cian let deeply unconscious Spike free, his head falling against the mat like a brick. Poor little guy. Cian couldn't help but reach down and pat the side of his face in almost gentle manner, before he stood and planted his wrestling boot right on the prettyboy’s washboard abs.
“Sweet dreams, kid,” Cian said, as he wiped the sweat off his brow and flicked it down on the slightly twitching, defeated twunk laying flat on his back. Then, a wicked eye came to mind. How could he make this even more satisfying?
Cian reached down and pulled Spike up, easily flinging the twunk over his back in a firemans carry. He was a lot lighter than he expected! Cian carried his opponent real slow, over to the laundry trolley outside. He laughed. This is too good! Wait, but am I being too mean? Then he remembered Spike's emabressment, how he'd splayed Cian's legs open for Vincent, Gio, and Kengo to leer at. Nah, this was perfect!
Like dropping a sack of potatoes, Cian flung Spike onto his back amid sweat-stained shirts, underwear, and other pieces of fighter-worn laundry that was a few days past when it should have been clean. What a nice little bed for a loser, he thought, as he yanked his green jockstrap out of the bin, right next to Spike's face. He'd actually been wearing this one when Spike had submitted him two days ago--and wouldn't it be a bit of poetic justice, some salt in the wound, if he used it to pile on some extra punishment?
“You enjoy your dreaming session, Ol’ Spike. Sorry you’ll miss dinner--but I got you your dessert right here....you know, since I'm such a nice guy." He pressed his finger to Spike's lips, parting them slightly, before he slowly shoved the pouch of his sweaty, worn jockstrap into Spike's mouth, making sure it was tucked in there real tight. "Awww, don't that taste better than cinnamon and sugar? You can suck on that for awhile, loser."
Spike, worlds away, his brain still trying to reactivate, only responded with a muffled, unconscious groan. As if to add insult to injury, one of Colt's tight, well-worn, white briefs fell over his face. Double the humiliation.
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