Spike's Dream Match! Part 1 - The Challenge

“Better tap, boyo.”

This wasn’t good! Cian restrained Spike in abdominal stretch, the pretty boy Sailor’s torso on display for all of his fellow trainees--hanging out ringside--to see. He had been reckless. Cocky. Cian weighed only a little more than him, but his proportions were bulkier; a grappler through-and-through. At around 5’1” and 228 pounds of Irish beefcake, Cian’s sweat-slicked skin shined like marble beneath the practice ring’s lights. With a sneer on his face that could cut granite, he leered down at his squirming opponent, Spike, who was doing everything within his power to resist tapping. But the contortions of pain on Spike’s pretty, angelic face were telling.

I can’t believe I’m letting my ass get kicked by Cian of all people! Spike thought as he tried to push away the thought of giving up. Cian had been his rival since day one, thanks to a poisonous combination of being well matched, starting in the federation at the same time, and—Spike liked to think—jealousy over his good looks.

Which was dumb, Spike thought, as Cian wasn’t bad looking at all. He had a football player's build. He was damn thick where it counted—with big, head crushing legs, and the disposition of a high school bully. And Spike, well, he was the type of guy to be bullied—with the face of an angel and the body of a demon, absolute bait for wannabe heel-type brawlers with axes to grind and too many insecurities to count. Unfortunately, Spike had a thing for guys who liked to bully him, so really, he had only himself to blame for getting himself into this mess.

It had been an even match til that point. Spike, by way of his gifts, took Cian’s body blows head on. The spellbreaker liked his strikes and kicks, and with his steel-beam legs, Spike could see why. Cian was from the old Brit Pro school of wrestling. I.e. pasty white guys who looked like they lived off milk and potatoes, crammed into tight fitting singlets and absolutely going ham on each other as if they were in a pub brawl. Spike didn’t know much about that type of fighting across the pond, but he couldn’t deny that Cian looked pretty damn good in his snug, little, black singlet—the green Celtic knot logo over his crotch working overtime to conceal what heat he was packing.

And considering Spike had been up-close-and-personal in many of Cian's traditional, freestyle type moves, he knew he was packing a lot. His mouth watered, knowing what Cian probably had tucked away down there, and even more so that Spike suspected he was secretly embarrassed about how it bulged out of his singlet so temptingly. 

Spike, on the other hand, looked like an underwear model who had wandered into a wrestling ring. This wasn’t true of course. He had been a pinup boy, not an underwear model—and he would be the first to tell you there was a huge difference! Mostly in pay…which he saw very little of…yet still, a difference all the same. Perhaps not as distinct difference between the two fighters though—the red-headed brawler vs the blonde bombshell.

But, back to Spike being in pain.

The first thing about wrestling, or spellbreaking—or any ground combat sport for that matter—was to never give your opponent your back. But this wasn’t just your normal wrestling match, this was spell-breaking. It wasn’t just about the brawn, but the skill, and the ability to channel one’s given power. Spike had underestimated Cian, who was still awkward about harnessing his magickal talents in full. This time however, the stocky fighter had pulled a fast one, confusing Spike by creating an after-image of himself mid-fight, an illusionary construct that had Spike seeing double. It was like being drunk, but without the fun...and in the inconvenient position of being in a wrestling match.

Spike had gone for a hammer-drop from the ropes, ready to bring down his stored-up power onto Cian’s broad back with his fists. But that oafish lug’s blurry, after effects threw Spike off course, and he mistimed his jump at the last moment, landing right in front of Cian...falling right into his trap.

He hated to say it, but the brute was like an octopus—he knew how to use his thick arms very quickly to put an opponent’s limbs in the optimal position for restraint or pain. In this case, both. He yanked Spike’s chiselled arm behind his own, using his own body to stretch out Spike’s, almost literally pulling him apart! It wasn’t just a brutal move, but it also put Spike’s bulge front and center in front of the audience. Well, not so much an audience but just Kengo, Gio, and Victor, who had decided to put beer money down on the two rookies to see who would win (perhaps a fair amount of beer had already been involved in this decision to begin with...).

Gio, a hirsute and over-muscled Italian stud who loved teasing Spike endlessly grinned wide, taking in Spike’s ample bulge. “The pretty boy is more of a man that I thought!” he laughed jovially.

“Hey, that’s my roommate you’re talking about!” Kengo—a hefty, beautiful sumo with a heart of gold—said. He crossed his heavy arms in front of his broad chest. “Come on, Spike, you can do it!” He certainly hoped he could. After all, he had put down money that Spike would win the match. Not for beer, of course, but for the chocolate drumsticks they sold down at the training academy commissary. 

Victor, never without his signature sword-in-heart emblazed luchador mask, shook his head. “I am afraid this sailor boy is about to be put out to sea!” Victor had no bad blood with Spike, but he enjoyed reminding him who the GSA’s top, romantic stud was. Spike and Vince had completely different styles, but they shared a love of well…love. Or lust, rather. Besides, Victor had alcohol money riding on this match. Making the rookies fight was always a good time, and even better yet when there was profit to be made of their gorgeous suffering. 

Spike strained, gritting his teeth, as Cian yanked him back even harder, putting on the pressure. “You gotta' tell me what kind of deodorant that is. Smells great!” He tried to say this as arrogantly as possible, but it came out as more of a miserable gurgle.

Cian growled, annoyed by his rival even when he had him at the verge of submission. “Your accent is so damn annoying!”

“Really?” Spike strained, tears in his eyes. How dare this pasty ogre insult Spike’s Brooklyn roots? He caught sight of Gio and Victor, smirking, and Kengo looking at him with pleading, concerned eyes. “Well, yours is actually really charming. Too bad I gotta put the hurt on ya!”

From the audience—really just three entirely different deck chairs positioned in front of the ring—Gio nudged Victor. “Why don’t we raise the stakes. No beer money. We put in for a nice bottle of red?”

Victor sighed and tossed his hands up. “Are you not sick of wine, friend? You are a stereotype! Let us make it tequila instead.”

From the ring, Cian spread Spike’s legs further apart, causing the poor spellbreaker to yelp.

“And you call me stereotype when the luchador suggests tequila? Really?” He shook his head and then said, offhand, “Make it a mezcal.”

“Ah, you like a little smoke?”

Gio leaned in and gave Victor a seductive look. “I like the fire.”

Victor returned the gesture, getting dangerous close to his Italian friend’s face. He forgot how horned up these matches between twunks tended to get him. “You do, eh? I can make it even hotter.”

Kengo growled. “Guys, keep your pants on. Besides, don’t count Spike out!”

Great, Spike thought. Now I gotta win, or else Kengo will sulk all night. And he snores even louder when he’s had a sulk...

The thing about big grapplers like Cian were that they always left themselves to an opening, thinking their 'hit-hard/hit-heavy' approaches left them invincible. Spike took a deep breath, converting the pain into energy, channelling it into strength. His glyph—that is, his gift—was transforming tension and impact into power. It was easier when it was direct strikes, but Spike had been slowly working on harnessing the power of pain as well.

Fortunately, Spike was a bit of a masochist. He felt his muscles bulge and ripple as he fed the energy into his biceps. Then, he tensed and drove his free, right elbow back into Cian’s knee.

“AGH!”

The combined force and weight—fed by Spike’s magick—was like taking a baseball bat or hammer to the man’s leg, just as intended. It loosened Cian’s grip just enough for Spike to break free and turn this fight around.

“Ya’ call that a submission move, sexy boy?” Spike said, as he rounded about to face his opponent, currently clutching his thigh in anguish. “Let me show you how it’s done in the Navy!”

Spike used the moment to go for a double leg takedown. It was like lifting a heavy sack of cement, Cian being a bulky boy, but—as with many men—Spike had him flat on the canvas in no time. Of course, he had enough fight in him to break the pin. And getting down to his level meant risking getting put in another hold, potentially costing him the match. He had to be decisive. He had to end this.

And, more to the point, he wanted to put Cian in his place.

Submission was not Spike’s usual weapon of choice, but boy did it feel good when used on a jerk like Cian! Spike was most definitely a masochist—hell, it was part of his power—but there wasn’t anything wrong with a little dose of sadism on the side either! The Sailor Boy moved quick, threading one of his own statuesque legs around Cian’s, both blocking it and hooking it at once. After deliberately falling to the canvas, and twisting his body around Cian, Spike wrapped his other calf around Cian’s face, giving the Irish stud a taste of his white boot. Spike secured Cian's other hand, yanking it back over his head—not unlike performing a sitting ab stretch—and then secure his other leg. Spike, effectively “knotted” his body with his opponent’s and pulling it in two different directions, leaving Cian locked, helpless, and—most importantly—with his legs pulled apart to give the audience a good look at Cian’s crotch.

“Oh FUCK!” Cian cried out as Spike pulled his legs in either direction, leaving his package front and center for the audience to stare at. It was like grapefruit inside a cloth sack, and it was ready to spill out at just the right--or wrong--move.

Victor, Gio, and Kengo’s jaws dropped at the site of the helpless, stocky stud being yanked apart, with all his most intimate bits on display. Somehow, the spread had driven his singlet up his hungry ass, leaving his pale, white cheeks open for the audience’s viewing pleasure. Poor Cian squirmed and struggled to get leverage. It was all futile, only serving to ride his trunks deeper into the right crevices, exhibiting his milky-white ass for all to see.

“I call this one the Sailor’s Knot!” Spike growled from his position. It wasn’t a bad feeling, this stud quivering in his grasp, grinding against Spike’s bulge from the back. If he could only move his right hand a bit farther down, he could probably snag the hem of Cian’s singlet and spill out his goods—that would really show him!

“How’s that feel, huh…boyo?” Rarely on this side of domination, Spike relished the power. Now, let’s end this.

Spike focused his residual energy into pulling Cian’s arms and legs in entirely two different directions. With so much Sailor Boy strength ripping him apart, Cian had no choice but to—

“I give!” Cian said, with no way to tap out and signal defeat. “Damn it!”

Spike grinned. "Not Enough! Say 'I'm Cian, and a I have a big, beautiful bulge!'"

"Fuck you!"

Spike's answer was to put on even more pressure, and really put those ligaments to work. 

"I'll be real sweet to ya once I've ripped your arms out of your sockets! Now, what was that again?"

"GAH! I'm Cian and I have a big, beautiful bulge!"

Spike considered being a dick and asking him again, but that was too much. He wasn’t a total heel (and nobody would believe it anyway). Instead, Spike moved his head down and kissed Cian on the cheek before letting the sore, tender stud go.

Well, not quite. As sore Cian laid helpless on the mat, Spike couldn't resist his signature face-pin, planting his bubble butt--navy print trunks already eaten up between his cheeks--on Cian's pretty face. Spike gave his audience his single-bicep flex and winked. 

Out in the audience, Spike's stunned--and equally horny--companions all shifted their legs or placed their hands conveniently over the front of their pants.

"Get your ass off me!" red-faced Cian whined, struggling to get up. It was pathetic and humiliating and just what Spike wanted.

Spike was a good guy though. He stood triumphant over his downed opponent, not caring that he was hard as a rock, tenting in front of his peers. He towered over Cian, catching his breath, and struck another bicep pose for his stunned audience.

“That’s right!” Spike said, getting a good look at his own peaks. He almost turned himself on! “That’s fuckin’ right! Take a look. That’s New York power, right here.”

Kengo, flustered and hot under the collar, tugged at his Hanshin Tiger’s baseball tee. “Oh, he swore—that means he’s serious.” And after catching his own breath, Kengo stood and pumped his fist in the air. “Good job, roommate! You just bought me my beers!”

Victor and Gio looked at each other in shock and dismay.

“That’s right,” Kengo said, playfully cuffing Gio on his boulder-shaped arms. “Pay up!”

The victory was sweet, but without the energy of a real crowd, it was a very fleeting high. Spike, ever gracious, knelt over to help Cian off the ground.

For a moment, Spike thought Cian would deny his hand—yet again. But either he’d knocked some sense into him, or he was in too much pain to refuse.

“That was a dirty, rotten trick you pulled there,” the Irish lad said, getting helped on to his feet. He glared deeply at Spike and then, with a sneer, grabbed his crotch. "Too bad you'll never really get this, boyo. Would be too much for your gabby mouth anyway, I'm sure."

Damn, he’s heavier now, Spike thought, realizing he’d used all the stored up energy he’d accrued over the course of the match for his finisher at the end. It was really a photo finish. He gave his opponent a small grin. “Hey, don't go making more challenges you won't win, now."

Cian rolled his eyes and patted his shoulders, trying not to make a face at the obvious strain and pull on his tendons. Spike could see bits and pieces of his fair skin were now bright red from the pressure and the canvas burn. He almost felt bad. Almost.

“You think you’re hot shit, eh?” Cian said, rotating his arm to stretch it back into equilibrium. He winced. “What, you think you’ll be taking on Colt next, do ya, boyo?”

That was quite the statement, Spike thought. But right now, he was feeling fucking invincible—a total champ! He’d wanted to put Cian in his place for awhile, mostly to prove he wasn’t just a flash in the pan. The prospect of taking on his teacher and childhood hero, however—well, that sounded pretty sweet actually.

“Why not?” Spike shrugged, confidently. He gave Cian another little bicep flex, to drive the point home. “I’ve wanted to grapple with that cowboy stud ever since I was a little guy.”

“My friend,” Victor laughed as he ponied up the cash for Kengo, “you are still a little guy.”

Spike pouted. That oversexed luchador was next in line! “Shuddup! I’ll tell you what, loverboy, If that cowboy king were right now…"

"What would you do?" Cian asked, suddenly actibg genuinely curious. He locked his beautiul, emerald green eyes with Spike. "Say it."

Something came over Spike, a force he couldn't resist--and if the himbo sailor wasn't so thick and horned up, he may have realized Cian had just put the whammy on him with his power. His was a double-combo called the Faebrand, the devious fusion of the Mind and Illusion glyphs. A little mental suggestion was nothing, especially on poor sods who didn't have much mental defenses to begin with.

Exhibit A, Spike.

"Well," Spike started, under Cian's spell. He didn't even care that he was rock hard right now, thanks to the match and thinking about his big, buff hero. "I’d...gladly challenge him for his crown.” He jabbed a thumb into the valley between his pecs just to hammer the point. "Yeah! I could take that cowboy down! I'd even hog tie him with his own lasso. Hahaha! And then I'd face pin him, just like I did you, right in front of the whole damn school!"

“That so?” Came a gruff, yet gentle voice from the ring room entrance.

Spike’s blood froze on the spot, and the sense of triumph gave way to an overwhelming realization that he had just royally fucked up. He saw Cian’s eyes light up with mischievous victory. No doubt Cian had spotted Colt, the president of the fed and their teacher (as well one of the strongest men to ever walk the damn earth) walking into the room.

“Oh shit…” Spike said out loud as he slowly turned his head to the door.

Colt was six-foot-fuck-you, so he naturally filled the entirety of the door. Victor, Kengo, and Gio—all very strong and muscled men in their own right—slowly backed away, averting their eyes like children who had just been caught by the principal doing something they shouldn’t. That something in question, of course, was using the practice ring after hours.

Colt’s green eyes stared daggers at Spike, yet his face was always calm-before-the-storm. Even his flannel shirt and jeans couldn’t disguise how much muscle that man had. Everything looked ready to burst right off him at a sudden move. With his arms folded across his chest in profound dismay, Spike could see every bulging vein in his forearms, which could easily snap his pretty neck like a twig in seconds.

Colt, his long hair tied back in a ponytail, grunted. “’Oh shit’ is right! And it’s actually a belt, not a crown, I’ll have you know.”

Spike threw Cian, whistling and waltzing out of the ring now, a mean look. Of course. That trickster has fairy blood in him—I knew I couldn’t trust him…even after kicking his ass!

Spike tried to turn on the innocent charm. “Um…hi, sir.”

Though Colt tossed back his Mona Lisa smile, Spike knew he was in the dog house no. “Don’t ‘hi, sir’ me, you blonde punk. What are y’all good-for-nothings doing at this hour using the ring anyway huh?”

The thing about Colt was that Spike had never seen him truly angry—though he heard stories. Colt’s weapon of choice was something Spike called ‘disappointed dad mode’, which, contrary to the name, was not as sexy as it sounded. Being yelled at? Spike could take it. Being ‘disappointed’ at? That was even more devastating than Colt’s patented Thunderbolt Piledriver!

Well, nothing was more devastating that Colt’s patented Thunderbolt Piledriver, but it came close...

Colt stared down his apprentices, each one trying shrink themselves in his presence. “I have the right mind to shock the lot of y’all silly,” he said. But there was a lightness in his voice that suggested—mercifully—that he would not be turning his glyph’s power against his boys today. He sighed. “I s’pose training is training though, and if Kengo is here, you can’t possibly be doing anything too stupid, now can you, bless your damn hearts…”

Kengo, the most innocent of the mall, covered his mouth. “What does that mean! A-a-am I in trouble?”

It was like watching a trainer dealing with a puppy. Colt sighed. “No. I was referencing the fact that you’re the most responsible one present, Mr. Oyama.”

He was not as patient with Victor and Gio. “Now, what was this again about beer money? Well, you better be paying it to me! Remember, room and board ain’t cheap, especially when it comes to housing your sorry asses.”

Victor and Gio, who probably had close to 500 pounds of muscle between them, looked down at the grown, humbled by the superior stud.

Meanwhile, Spike tried to ease his way out of the ring while Colt was distracted. He got as far as midway through the ropes—at probably the most awkward angle—when he heard the most dreaded sounded in the world—his full name.

“Samuel Anthony Waterford!”

Victor gasped. “The three-name combo,” he whispered from the side-lines. “It is deadlier than any fishing move! We shall mourn for our friend, Gio…”

Only the nuns who raised him could strike as much terror. Spike grinned innocently at his boss. “Yes, sir? Have I mentioned how your sense of mercy and forgiveness is an inspirat—”

 “I was gonna say, ‘Good work’.” Colt appraised him harshly, but his words were soft. “And Cian? Nice hustle.”

Already tugging a t-shirt over his sweaty body, the red-headed warrior gave the president of the GSA a respectful bow.

Ass kisser, Spike thought with utter malice. And what an ass to kiss...

The cowboy king surveyed the room one last time, making sure his loyal subjects knew where they stood, before he made way for the door. A wave of relief washed over the room.

But as he got to the door, Colt turned back and addressed Spike head on. He smiled. “And if you really want to challenge me, son, then catch me around here tomorrow night when I do my own training. See if you regret being a cute smartass then.”

Spike gulped. His cock twitched. He had never been so turned on and afraid at once! He hoped nobody else was looking at him, though he thought he saw Colt’s eyes fleck downward at his tenting briefs. Or maybe that was just wishful thinking.

The boss man shut the door, and every single soul in the room sighed. Cian didn’t stick around. He waited a few seconds for Colt to clear off before he gave one of his silent, overly masculine head nods to the others, and left them alone without so much as a goodbye.

“Fuckin’ dick,” Spike said under his breath as he finally cleared the ropes and hopped on off the ring apron. He had played with fire and hadn’t gotten burned though, so tonight was well-won. He stretched, deliberately showing off his glistening abs and pectorals for his fellow spellbreakers—hoping it might inspire some lust and fear of his own making. See if these punks mess with me now!

It did not have the intended affect. Instead, Gio and Vince went straight back to their ceaseless teasing, though more in a brotherly than bullying way.

“Oh, he is in trouble!” big Victor said, wrapping his thick, tan arm around Spike’s neck and pulling him close to his chest. An aroma of fine cologne filled the Sailor Boy’s nostrils. “Would you really challenge him, little Spike?”

Spike blushed. A waft of Victor's pheromones wasn’t going to make his erection go down any quicker. “C-Colt?” Spike stammered. “What. Well…” It was hard to give the idea any mind, especially with the distraction of Victor's massive pectoral pushed against his face. Like a damn pillow. Spike thought, hungrily. He hadn't thrown down with Victor yet, but he wanted to. For...reasons unrelated to training.

The luchador—the self-proclaimed Warrior of Love—whose glyph of the mind could stir feelings of lust in any opponent, knew exactly what he was doing of course. He gave his little captive, about a foot shorter than him, a gentle brush of the hair. “Hmmm. Perhaps you should face me first.” He pushed Spike’s head closer into him. “I will not kill you, at least. You are much too cute to be dead.”

Powers or no, Victor's enchantments worked too well. But Spike, not one to be out-studded, took that luchador magic and threw it right back. “Oh?” He said, gently freeing himself from the muscle man’s grip,  turning around to face him. He kept the man’s arm around his neck though, putting him in more of a half-embrace position.

Spike leaned in and narrowed his eyes, but the smile on his face suggested more mischief than challenge. “What will you do to me then, big guy?” Spike wasn’t shy about letting his hand drop down to Victor's jeans, just below his belt buckle.

From the chair, Kengo turned red and looked away. “Oh my…”

Victor's dark, shining eyes flashed with interest. He leaned in, putting his masked faced closer to Spike. “Make you scream,” he growled.

Spike lamented Victor's infuriating choice to go clothed for once. He looked up and lowered his eyes, coyly. He decided to test the boundaries and put his index finger around a lock of Victor's long, dark hair, which he let flow freely from behind his mask. “From the pain?” Spike said, winding the strand tight.

Victor allowed it. “Depends on what’s causing it,” he said, softly, as his captured friend melted. “May I kiss the winner?”

Spike had lost this round. His eyes glossed over with hungry desire. “I would like that…yeah.”

Spike had never kissed someone in a mask before, and he wished to catch a glimpse of Victor's face just once. Perhaps it would be too much, though. In any case, the handsome luchador knew how to walk the walk. His kiss wasn’t clumsy or aggressive, but soft and firm at once. Spike resigned control of his mouth, letting his own tongue get pinned by Victor's, as if they were doing a completely different kind of wrestling.  

So far gone were the two that Spike forgot that others were present. Gio rolled his eyes and strutted over to the Sailor Boy, who was completely in the grip of the muscle man. “You are sucking the soul of the boy,” he grunted. “You two disgust me.”

He divided the two men with his own beefy arms, before turning around to grab Spike’s head and giving it a much firmer—and quicker—kiss of his own, before all three of them broke off into laughter.

Spike was dizzy, his neurons completely over-stimulated by Victor's subtle spell. The luchador, however, was still on the prowl. “Should we end our night here?” he asked the Italian, flirtatiously.

Gio shrugged, briefly regarding poor Kengo, who had pulled his shirt over his eyes to hide from the passionate display. “My ancestors may have invented the orgy…but I am needing sleep.” He yawned dramatically. “You do what you want tonight though. You have a whole ring.”

Kengo lowered his shirt, sighing loudly enough to break Spike free of his trance. “Should I expect you late, roommate?”

Spike had somehow come to his senses. He grabbed his jeans off the floor and positioned them in front of his trunks, which were threatening to burst open at the seams now. He was too spent from the fight, and men like Victor deserved partners with a bit more stamina in them.

“Go enjoy your beer, bear,” Spike nodded to his friend. “And…um…thanks for believing in me.”

“Oh,” Kengo blushed. “Heh. Always.”

Next chapter!