It was set up to be a squash job. The first match on a Saturday night, with four more to follow, nobody expected anything memorable. The bloody brawls, the grudge matches--those were for the big names appearing later. We were the warm up act. The promoters didn't even bother with subtlety; you couldn't have found two less evenly matched grapplers. I was wrestling that night as the Collegiate. Even though I had left Utah Polytechnic my sophomore year--in a red, regulation singlet and black boots, I nearly looked the part. Six-one, tipping the scales at two-twentyfive, my burly physique and hairy chest were not exactly the attributes of your average boy-next-door; but I kept my face clean-shaven and my hair in a high-and-tight, and I had nice green eyes, a straight, never-broken nose and a rather dazzling smile. My skills, also, were mostly of the Greco-Roman variety, though a disinclination to abide by the rules had grossly hampered my success in high school and college. It did, however, make me a natural for the underground circuit. And what I lacked in formal training, I made up for in brute force. My opponent couldn't have been more my opposite. To begin with, he must have been at least twice my age. While my body was pumped from daily workouts, his was lean and hard from years of serious grappling. Where as I was hirsute and pelted with dark curls at that, he was practically hairless and what little he had retained (none of which was atop his head) was well on the way to becoming white. His face had probably been handsome once—even with the hawk-like features and stern eyes—but the same lifelong fighting that had honed his physique had scarred his skin and turned his nose into a gnarled ridge of twisted cartilage. But our differences were not just physical. I was new on the circuit. Two other matches, both wins, were already under my belt, but my name was not yet recognizable. My opponent, however, was quite well-known. In his glory days he had been an infamous heel, but the last few years had witnessed an inevitable slow decline. That left me with mixed emotions toward the prospect of fighting him. On the one hand, it was disheartening to see a legend relegated to an opening bout--and certain defeat at that--but on the other hand, I felt it pretty amazing he had lasted so long. He was known as Professor Pain, which perhaps explained the promoters pairing us: even an opening act needed a gimmick. You see, the crowd attracted by our shows was not just looking for wrestling. We catered to men who liked to watch other men go at it hard, unencumbered by a lot of rules, and with more at stake than a raised hand at the end of the bout. In the case of the professor and I, it was clearly contrived of as a school-yard revenge vignette: muscular, handsome student settles the score for years of harassment by sadistic instructor. The spectators could whoop and holler as I tossed the smaller man around the ring, knowing that he was getting his fair comeuppance. That we were so unevenly matched would only add to their enjoyment. They were already voicing their approval as I made my way to the ring. Jogging down the darkened isle, I leapt briskly up onto the apron, confident in the knowledge that my singlet was showcasing my firm, round gluts and the mansized package around front. A few quick push-ups just before my entrance had swollen my already pumped pecs, and my ripped, six-pack abs were clearly defined by the tight suit. I grabbed the top rope and hoisted myself acrobatically into the ring, giving the cheering crowd a taste of my dazzling smile. Finally, I lifted my arms in the recognized gesture of imminent victors the world over. The noise turned abruptly sour when my opponent was announced. He came down the isle more slowly, meeting the derision hurled at him with vicious contempt. Wearing a full length, black academic smock and mortarboard, he looked far more suited to his title than I did. He utilized the stairs to mount the apron, and stooped to enter the ring between the middle and top ropes. We claimed our opposing corners as the ring announcer completed his spiel. I engaged in my usual, brief regime of calisthenics—mostly for the pleasure of the crowd—and the professor rid himself of his superfluous outer garments. When the announcer quit the ring, I turned to find my opponent facing me in nothing but a fully packed pair of black leather trunks and matching boots. For a moment I was stunned. The bulge would have been impressive on a much larger man, but on the wiry old timer it seemed like an affront. Whereas I wore a good fistful, his was more like two and then some. Further emphasizing its size was the diminutive dimensions of the garment struggling to contain it. The impression was that any false move might find the professor spilling out into view. With a struggle, I tore my eyes off the impressive package, only to discover that it was not the only aspect about my opponent capable of capturing my attention. Looking at his shaved chest, I saw that his nipples were equally immense. Each was capped by a column of gnarled flesh, jutting a full quarter inch out from his body. Even with the ring separating us I could easily ascertain that my own nipples paled in comparison. It was as if the inequities between us were suddenly less profound. Adding to my new misgivings was the fact that I recognized a familiar stirring down between my legs. Fighting always got me hot—the men watching expected it—but I usually didn't show signs of arousal until well into a match. Then, especially if things were going my way, it wasn't unusual for me to carry a full rock-solid woody. I'd take it out, show it off (it was eight fat inches of finely carved beef), and even use it to torment and humiliate my weakened opponents. In fact, it wasn't uncommon for victorious fighters on the underground circuit to show their superiority by fucking their victims right in the middle of the arena. The spectators were always most appreciative of a decisive win, and nothing was more decisive to that tough bunch than splitting another man's ass with your cock. Never having been on the receiving end of that humiliation, and seeing little reason to expect anything different with the professor, I decided my current early arousal was simply due to the fact that I would get to have my way with the well-hung old scrapper. The underground circuit does not have referees. The same ring announcer that handles the introductions declares the victor when the fight was over. In between we are on our own, free to do whatever we feel man enough to get away with. That provides for a lot of wicked punishment being meted out over the course of an evening. As an added incentive, purses are calculated in vastly disproportionate shares based upon performance, with the winner receiving anywhere from fifty-one to ninety-nine percent. That means that a particularly brutal defeat can send a fighter packing with next to nothing to show for himself except a bruised body to go with his battered pride. The bell sounded, and we both left our corners. Its rare that you see two fighters in our league shake hands at the start of a bout, and that match was no exception. While we were still some distance apart, the professor stopped, puffed out his chest and flexed his biceps. Despite his hard body, he was so pathetically outclassed in the muscle department that I couldn't resist rubbing his nose in it. Unfortunately, that's just what he had hoped I would do. With my guns up, my bigger biceps flexing, I was helpless as he slammed his right fist into my gut. My abs are tough; I torture them daily with crunches and sit ups; they have that rippling, washboard look you see in the top fitness magazines. Still, Professor Pain's gnarled knuckles did a number on them. I grunted, my arms lowering, my hands moving instinctively to clutch at the stricken area. For a moment I was stunned, and if he would have pressed his advantage who knows what might have happened. But he only laughed and called me a stupid musclehead which made me immediately forget my punishment and step forward. The crowd had been booing him, but changed their tone when they saw me move in. The professor stood his ground. Toe-to-toe, nose-to-nose, eye-to-eye, both of us carried clinched fists. I could feel the flush burning across my cheeks, and was all set to attack him with everything I had. He looked equally determined to meet it. Just before I flew off the handle, I realized that, too, was simply playing into his hands. He knew as well as I that the edge in brute strength belonged to me. Losing my head would simply give him the edge in skill. He looked surprised when I smiled. "You dirty old shit. You're gonna regret that." His eyes sparkled. "Yeah, kid? Let's see what you got." For a long moment, we held our tight clench, neither of us actually touching the other. His scent accosted my nostrils, an exotic male muskiness. Despite my best efforts, the stirrings down below intensified. Fighting to keep my voice steady, I asked: "You ready to get split in two, old timer?" The nervy bastard laughed again. Too quick to intercept, his hand swung out and he flicked the tip of my dick with his index finger. "By that?" Startled I stepped back. The professor continued to snicker and I took a worried look down. My worst fears were realized. My swelling cock was already tenting the crotch of my singlet. Though only in the early stages of arousal, I was well enough endowed that the effects were unmistakable. Even the crowd noticed it; I could hear the expectant buzz of uncertainty begin to circulate. Unfortunately, all the attention didn't seem to help. If anything, the process accelerated. I decided to act. Assuming a fighting stance, I kicked my right foot up at the older man's smirking face. I was rewarded with seeing the expression sober, but little else. The wily fighter twisted clear of my attack. I followed up with a left roundhouse punch. This the professor easily ducked, riposting with another quick jab to the belly. After the earlier sucker punch, this second blow left me gasping. Again I was momentarily stunned, nearly doubled over, and again he refrained from pressing his advantage. That struck me as doubly insulting, and my temper burned even hotter. I charged him, knowing that close quarters would allow my superior strength to prevail. Again he evaded me, and my outstretched arms were thrust impotently through the ropes. The consternation of the crowd was growing; this was not the match any had expected to see. Extricating myself from entanglement, I turned back to face the professor who had reclaimed the center of the ring. I closed in slower, and we began to circle. He was smiling still, and looking smugly contemptuous. His sweat-free brow reminded me that I was already perspiring profusely. Also, my abs were still stinging from his mean set of bare-knuckle jabs. I knew I had to keep my temper in check if I wished to spare myself the humiliation of an incredible upset defeat. Despite appearances, the older man was proving to be more of a challenge than I had ever imagined. We slipped into a collar-and-elbow and from there it was easy for me to snap on a side headlock. The crowd, relieved, was quite vocal in their esteem. A hip toss sent the old man onto his back, and my full weight bore down across his chest. I settled in, tightening the crunch on his shaved cranium under my powerful right arm. I felt his hand come up behind my head and grab a fistful of hair, wanting to pry my larger frame off of his scrawny one, but an abrupt jerk of the arm crushing his skull made him reconsider. He decided to slap the mat in frustration instead. I shifted my weight and rose up onto one knee, taking care to keep the pressure on with the headlock. The professor's arms encircled my waist, and we both climbed to our feet. I was tempted to execute another hip toss, knowing that simply landing atop him punished the older man a great deal. Instead I released the head lock, keeping his head down with my left hand as I dropped my right elbow across the back of his neck. He sprawled, face down while the spectators extolled me with cheers once more. How long he might have lain there is anybody's guess. My body can be a powerful weapon and the professor had been subjected to an unhealthy dose. He wasn't out, though, and I certainly wasn't through working him over. He just needed help up. I obliged. Grabbing his wrist I bullwhipped him into a corner. He back-slammed the turnbuckles and would have rebounded to no doubt collapse had I not moved in and pushed him firmly into the corner. He was dazed and offered no resistance as I hooked each of his arms up over the top rope. Taking his chin in my left hand, I steadied his head, giving him a mean slap with my other palm to get his attention. He focused on me and didn't look any too smug. I cocked my right fist and buried it in his midsection. He grunted, and so did I. Though nothing much to look at, this belly felt like a concrete slab. It actually stung my knuckles. I relaxed my fist and gave my hand a shake. Again the crowd sensed something was amiss; someone actually booed. Angrily, I reclenched my fist and slugged the professor again. A stabbing pain shot up my arm. I stepped back, clutching my wrist with the other hand. It took me a moment longer to recover, and several more catcalls came from the crowd. When I looked up I saw that the glaze had cleared from my opponent's eyes. He was focused on me. Furious at his apparent invulnerability and made desperate by the vacillating support of the spectators, I yanked the straps of my singlet down off my shoulders. It fell, bunching around my waist. Giving the men watching a better view of my muscular physique was always good for rallying their favor. I emphasized the ploy by flexing my arms again, playing shamelessly to the crowd, but also reminding Professor Pain exactly what he was up against. Finally, I stepped back in and gave his iron belly my best shot. The agony was devastating. Staggered, I doubled over my wrist. Feeling the entire arm go numb, I stumbled back. The professor got his feet under himself, rising out of the corner. He looked like he had just spent two minutes catching his breath rather than suffering my big right fist. I gazed up at him in unabashed amazement. He slapped his belly, inviting another blow. The crowd was clearly torn, and I knew if I didn't meet the challenge I'd lose them completely. I straightened up, gathered my strength and swung. Again the tremendous pain drove me back. I looked up to find the older man following me, slapping his belly again, still daring me to attack. I willed myself to ignore the anguish, rising to face him. I tightened my fist, nearly impossible by that point. I pulled back my arm and slugged. This time I aimed at his head, thinking to catch him off guard. But before my fist could reach his face, his left forearm had risen in its path. Seeing my desperate blow so easily deflected I was completely unprepared for the man's other fist, rising purposefully up toward my chin. My head snapped back with tremendous force. The ring lights danced in my eyes. I knew I had not fallen only because I could feel myself teetering drunkenly on the balls of my feet. Then another stabbing blow to my already tenderized abs made my body convulse again. My shoulders hunched; my knees buckled. I might have gone down had not the professor closed in, another fist striking my belly. He drove me back, continuing to brutalize my midsection, right-left-right, until I fell into the far corner. For a moment I knew respite from the devastating onslaught, but then I felt my arms being positioned up over the top rope. A hand came to my chin, raising my face. Then the stinging slap, more punishing even than the fists. He was mocking me. The crowd had completely abandoned me. Their cheering rang in my ears, sounding in whole-hearted support of Professor Pain. The older man raised his arms, just as I had done before the start of the match, claiming imminent victory. The adulation of the crowd grew—crescendoed--and I saw that the professor had turned back to face me, deliberately cocking his hard right fist. I was helpless as the cruel knuckles drove into my once proud abs. My body rocked with a tremendous spasm of pain, but my brain knew the torture was just beginning because I heard the voice of the crowd shout: "One!" What followed was unadulterated torture. Fist after fist pounded my belly, riddling my abdominals with their jagged, calcified knuckles. By the time the tally reached ten, I was oblivious. Through a swirling haze I could dimly distinguish the figure of the older man strutting triumphantly around the ring, but the remainder of my awareness seemed overwhelmed by agony. Finally he came back and I was preparing to beg for an end to the gut mangling when I felt him grab my hair. He pulled me up and out of the corner, back toward the center of the ring. I staggered after him like a broken marionette, held up only by the roots of my hair. I expected some flashy maneuver to finish me off. The fight had been ludicrously short and one-sided, just as everyone had expected it to be, only somehow the roles had gotten reversed. Instead of a student wreaking vengeance on a teacher, the teacher had proven himself master once again, unquestionably so it seemed. But though my body was racked with pain, I longed to mount some sort of attack. He paraded me around once in a complete circle, ensuring all the crowd got a good look at the big, hairy, muscle-bound bruiser whom he had so efficiently and expediently destroyed. The men were as vocal as ever in their appreciation. He released me and I sank gratefully to my knees. He turned to face me, and I found myself at eye level to his bulging crotch. His arms went up again, not in a show of superiority this time, but in preparation of a double-fisted hammering of my head. Almost instinctively, I acted. My right fist swung in a tight, powerful arc, driving up between his thighs. His groin was neither as hard nor as impervious to pain as his belly, but my sore knuckles still suffered in the exchange. The numbing pain made me grip my wrist again, and I shook the hand, temporarily unable to continue my assault. The old man, for his part, cupped his huge pouch in both hands and doubled over, gasping. The crowd booed me with all the animosity one assumes regularly greeted Attila the Hun. As much as the agony in my right arm, that hampered my ability to rise. Stooping, but refusing to fall, the professor had his face just inches from my own. Indefatigably abandoning his stricken crotch, he shoved both hands out and grabbed me by the hair. My face was angled upward, and he leaned forward, clamping his teeth down on my straight nose. The stabbing pain that followed made the numbness of my arm seem superfluous. I could hear the crunch of crackling cartilage, at least I could until my hollering drowned the noise out. My arms struggled to pry him off me, but his grip on my hair and the set of his teeth, coupled with the staggering agony, put me at a marked disadvantage. Finally, he jerked his head away, elevating my suffering to a whole new level. Maintaining his double hold on my hair, he yanked me back to my feet. Immediately, my head was pulled down and positioned between his thighs for a piledriver--the coup-de-grace. Even my desperate low blow had failed to ward off the grand finale for long. I felt him stoop over me, his arms stretching down to encircle my waist. He hoisted me up--nearly got me perpendicular despite my weight and his scrawny arms--leapt and dropped. The top of my head impacted the mat with enough force that I bounced twice before sprawling facedown. The next thing I knew, he was nudging me over onto my back with the toe of his boot. Expecting the boot to settle atop my chest, I kept my eyes closed rather than face the humiliating sight of him towering above me. But what I felt was my hair being gripped in a fist once more, and my racked body being pulled back to its feet. Again my head was shoved down and pinned between his thighs; again I was hoisted nearly perpendicular. The piledriver hadn't been the finishing touch, only the first in a series. I bounced three times, this second time, and ended up on my back, arms and legs strewn impotently outward in all directions. My eyes couldn't have opened even if I'd wanted them to. As close to unconscious as I'd ever been in a match, I wondered vaguely why the old man didn't claim the win. When he had dragged me up by the hair a third time, it hit me. It was the unadulterated adoration of the crowd. After years in decline, the professor suddenly found himself more popular than ever before. Even the jeers and catcalls which assailed him during his golden years as a despised heel must have paled beside glory in which he basked at the moment. And it wasn't just that he was winning, had that been the case he would have finished me and been done with it. It wasn't even the fact that he had done one hell of a squash job on me. Had things turned out as planned, had I managed to crush the professor even worse than he was doing me, I could never have elicited the exultation accorded my opponent. The crowd would have cheered, acknowledging my victory, but then the ring would have been cleared and the spectators would have reseated themselves for the next match. Given what they had expected, they would have been appreciative but not hysterical. The professor had given them a surprise. More than that, he had thumbed his nose at all of us. Everyone knew the match had been designed to push a rising star a little further up and a battle-scarred veteran a little further down. The old man had not allowed his fate to be dictated, neither by me nor the promoters. That's what the onlookers were cheering: the underdog beating the odds, the outcast bucking the system. Professor Pain's victory over the Collegiate was suddenly rendered inconsequential. I was no longer his adversary, I was a symbol. Beating me, even squashing me wouldn't have sufficed. A symbol needs to be displayed. A symbol needs to be used, exploited. A third piledriver left me virtual putty in his hands. I don't know how many times I bounced, I only know that I found myself blinking up into the harsh rings lights, blinded, deafened by the continuous roar of the assemblage. Suddenly the brilliance was eclipsed by the figure of Professor Pain sailing down on top of me. Just before the impact I realized he must have scaled the turnbuckles and executed a spectacular dive. Then everything when dark. I might have been convinced I was out, except for the lack of oblivion. My torment continued, and I gradually realized that the reason things remained dark was that the professor's buttocks had settled over my face. He was kneeling over me, his shins pinning my arms to the mat, facing down the length of my body. My still aching nose was lodged tightly between his rock-solid gluts. I felt him push my singlet further down onto my hips, exposing my belly completely. Then, yet another all new realm of suffering was revealed to me when he attacked my abs with a two-handed claw. Reacting desperately--instinctively--my body thrashed about. From side to side, up and down, I tried everything to free myself. I felt my hands flapping, useless, and my head trying to roll beneath the weight of the old man's ass. Arching my back only served to thrust my belly up and offer easier access. Raising my knees finally ended the torture, but only because the professor decided to grab my legs and hook the backs of my heels up under his arms. My ass was now thrust into the air. The red singlet was pulled completely down onto my thighs. Wearing only a white jockstrap beneath, my gluts were exposed to the world. I felt a stinging slap on my right buttock. The watching men roared, and several more slaps followed. The professor played my big gluts like bongo drums. Pausing, he shifted his weight back, bearing down harder on my face. He moved his hips, forward and back, from side to side. Insult was added to injury; the vulnerability of my own ass was emphasized by the exalted position of his own. Finally, he gave me a half dozen more humbling spanks, and then dislodged my heels, pulling my singlet off completely before letting my legs fall back to the mat. I knew just a momentary respite before another claw was applied--this time single-handed, and to my crotch. Apparently feeling assured of the spectators' support, the old man had decided it was ‘payback’ time for my earlier low blow. His reparation was far more brutal and devastating than my original transgression. The only good thing that came of it was that my bucking grew so intense, I finally managed to throw him off. The professor got quickly to his feet while the most I could do was roll over onto my side and into a ball. My battered body seemed to want to close protectively around my battered genitals. I lay there waiting for the tell-tale tug on my tresses that would draw me back up for more punishment. Instead, my ankles were gripped, pulled into the air. I was rolled back onto my back, with my legs held into the air, forming a V through which the old man sneered down at me. His right boot rose to hover over my groin, and I showed him my palms, supplicatorily. "Please," I moaned. "Have some mercy." That only served to intensify his disdain, and he stomped viciously down on my groin, twisting his foot back and forth to grind my balls beneath his heel. At first I grabbed hold of his ankle, trying vainly to dislodge the boot, but then the pain became too much to bear. I slapped backward onto the mat, pounding the canvas repeatedly with my useless fists and the back of my head. I was so out of it by the time he lifted his boot, that it took me a moment to notice the change. By then he had knelt between my thighs, spreading my legs, and was preparing to reapply the stomach claw. As all ten of his wicked fingers drove once more into my decimated belly, my body convulsed in another massive seizure of agony. I heard myself hollering again and, through that, the old man's voice yelling at me to submit. When I failed to heed his command, he removed his right hand from my abdomen and reapplied the crotch claw. With both my belly and my genitals in his vice-like grips I had no choice, and I nodded frantically, forcing out the words: "I give! I give! I give!" The bell sounded, and after another excruciating moment the torture subsided. I felt my rigid form relaxing, twitching spasmodically. Professor Pain sat back on his ankles and glared triumphantly down on me. The crowd, on their feet, were stomping and shouting their satisfaction. The old man rose and indulged in an exalted but well-earned traipse around the ring. His arms were raised in true, final and utter victory. Completely ruined, I could not even manage to roll over. The long awaited sensation of his boot settling majestically atop my burly chest alerted me to his return. This time he was not alone. The ring announcer was there, holding the victor's right arm aloft. His words, the very sound of his voice as he reiterated the name of my vanquisher for the adoring spectators, fell like the final, crushing blow. When the professor's arm was finally released, and he gave me a single, pulverizing stomp to my already tenderized belly, it was mere icing on the cake. Abandoned, I lay there helpless as the realization of my first defeat sank into my throbbing brain. I hadn't simply lost, I had blown a match set up to be mine. As if my absolute destruction were not degrading enough, everyone shared the knowledge that I had come expecting an easy victory. I was not only a loser but a fool. The announcer knelt beside me and told me I had to clear the ring. He gave me a push and rolled me over onto the apron. I succeeded in swinging my legs over the edge and lowering myself upright to the floor. Using the apron to steady myself, I stood gathering my strength for the long walk up the isle. Professor Pain was gone, and the crowd was once again focused on me. No longer content to merely boo, they were jeering and deriding me. "Hey you!" the ring announcer called suddenly, and when I looked, he kicked my discarded singlet over to me. I snatched the garment up and staggered toward the dressing rooms. My groin was still throbbing and I massaged it gently with my left hand. Even as the man in the ring began the introductions of the next fighters, those spectators along the isle continued to ridicule me. It was a far more arduous journey back up the isle than it had been down. The locker room was particularly quiet after being subjected to the deafening crowd. The other fighters had all gone to the prep room to await their respective turns in the ring. I stumbled to my locker, collapsed onto the bench facing it, and waited for the pain to subside enough to undress. My left hand continued to gingerly knead my agonized crotch. "Hurts, huh?" Startled, my head jerked a quarter turn to the right. There stood the professor, still in his ring raiment, his right boot on the bench not two yards from me. He was leaning forward, his arms crossed over his raised knee. A cigar was clenched in his teeth, and his thin lips curled smugly around it. I wasn't surprised to find him there, actually. He had certainly earned the right to gloat. Forcing my body back to its feet, I turned to face him, offering my hand. "Congratulations." He eyed my offer to shake like I was handing him an insult. "Shit. For what?" I shrugged. "A hell of a win." He gripped his cigar with two fingers and dislodged it from his teeth. That cleared the way for a mocking laugh. "Save it." He straightened up, hooking a thumb toward his chest. "I earned a ninety-nine share tonight. Do the math. You think you're good enough to shake my hand?" I slowly lowered my hand back to my side, bowing my head. My eyes focused on the tip of his black boot resting on the bench. He was right. I had lost big time, and the one percent the promoters were paying was the final proof. But I wasn't going to scurry off like some whipped dog with my tail between my legs. I knew what I had to do. I raised my right foot and stepped over the bench, sitting straddle the eight inch wide wooden platform. I lay forward, lowering my face toward the professor's boot. He didn't move, and I extended my tongue, running it slowly along the top of the scuffed leather. After the first taste, I was surprised by how easy the task was. Although by no means pleasurable, it seemed to be no less than I deserved. The man had beaten me, completely dominated me. His skill and endurance had outshone my own by such a degree that my greater strength had proven immaterial. After demonstrating complete mastery in the ring, why shouldn't he enjoy complete mastery backstage? I set eagerly to shining his boot with my tongue. The sound of bare feet slapping the tiles warned me of another's approach, but did not slow my efforts. Neither did Professor Pain move or react. Only after the black leather was slick and shiny did the boot move aside, and then merely to make way for its pair. Before attacking the second boot, I glanced up to find a young fighter, fresh from the shower and naked, watching my performance. His jaw was drooping amazedly, and his right hand was absently fondling his growing erection. As I lowered my eyes once more to my task, I heard him call off: "Hey, Steve! Come get a load a this." I didn't listen for the other man's approach. A hundred or more people had witnessed my humiliating submission, for two more to see me paying the price hardly seemed to matter. And my crotch had begun to stir again at the sight of the ripped wrestler enjoying my subjugation. I could feel my cock beginning to swell. I determined to do an even better job on the second boot. Salivating rabidly, I quickly had the leather glistening. A long, savory swipe along the insole followed. My dick began to throb, prying its way up between my belly and the bench. Without realizing it, my hips began to gyrate, humping the polished wood. Professor Pain lowered the second boot to the floor. He stood straddle the bench looking down on me. I gazed up and saw that his right fist was brutally massaging the huge bulge in his trunks. I rose up onto my hands, putting my eyes back on a level with his crotch. Although I longed to, I knew I didn't dare reach out for it; I hadn't earned the right. I waited, feeling the saliva drip off my lips. He turned around, again straddling the bench, but showing me the gluts straining against the black leather of his trunks. Reaching behind his hips, he hooked his thumbs over the waistband and peeled the material slowly down. When both cheeks of his ass were completely exposed, he looked over his right shoulder, reaching back to reassert his accustomed hold on my bangs. He guided my face forward, reacquainting it with his hard, shapely ass. I used my tongue as readily as before, straining to penetrate the fold between his buttocks, working for a taste of his sphincter. He bent his knees and leaned slightly forward, offering me greater access. I rewarded him with my hungry mouth, probing the tightly clenched hole and devouring the sweet resin that encircled it. Clutching the edges of the bench with both hands, I felt my pelvic thrusts intensify. My cock longed to be freed from the jockstrap restraining it, longed to be fondled and pumped by my fists. I did not give in to the urge, concentrating entirely on pleasing the man who had bested me. I heard the first whimpering moans of bestial gratification slip from my lips. The professor straightened up once more and turned back around to face me. His cock was out and in his hand, giving me my first good look at it. Half again the size of my own, it was breathtaking by virtue of its sheer enormity. I wanted to shallow it immediately, or at least to try, but he grabbed my hair again and held me at bay, my slavering lips mere inches from the tip of it. He squeezed its base, mercilessly, causing the heavy foreskin to peel back as the huge mottled head slipped forward. A glop of creamy jism emerged from the great slit marking the end of the beast, rolling and glistering before oozing slowly down toward the bench. I extended my tongue, trying for a taste, but he just laughed at me again and shook the monster teasingly in my face. Feeling the upward tug on my hair, I rose obediently. He released my locks and shoved both of my hands behind my back. He knew I would keep them there without any need for instruction, and I did. His hands returned to the front and unceremoniously bared my cock. He did not shove my jockstrap down, but rather reached a hand in from the side and pulled my dick and balls out that way. I appreciated the manhandling, and he seemed to appreciate the fact that my cock was already rock hard. His left hand returned to fondling his own big dick. He lowered himself to sit straddle the bench just as I had done. His eyes were leveled at my cock. His right hand, however, seemed more concerned with my balls, which he pulled and twisted with the same brutal antipathy he had shown his own. I knew my nuts weren't as tough as his, though, and so did he. More than once the wind whistled between my teeth, and each time I saw his faint smile. Finally he told me to put my foot up on the bench. I did so, and he quickly ripped the laces from my boot. He shoved the foot aside again, and then used the cord to expertly bind my genitals. He worked quickly and expertly, looping each nut individually and tying them snugly to either side of my cock. He passed the cord several times around the base of my dick before completing the operation with a tight knot. My cock seemed to swell even larger in its confines, turning a deep crimson. The professor rose once more, and stood facing me. Taking his cigar from his mouth, he exhaled an oppressive cloud of smoke into my face. I fought not to choke, but failed. His eyes lowered to my chest, studying each nipple with interest. As I said before, they were minuscule compared to his own. He reached up and pinched the left between his thumb and forefinger. When that elicited no response, he gave it a mean twist. He smiled again as I reacted with a sharp intake of breath. Leaning forward, he used his teeth, grinding my nipple until I cried out sharply. He slipped his hand behind my neck and pulled my mouth to his own left nipple. I tried to give him similar treatment: clamping my teeth tightly on the mangled pillar of flesh, rolling my jaw from side to side; but was rewarded only with his deep chuckle. He pulled my head back up and attacked my right nipple, again mauling it with his teeth until I hollered. My mouth was then guided to his right nipple. We went back and forth, him grinding and mangling my nipples until I could no longer contain my cry, and me attempting to do the same to his until he could no longer contain his mirth. After several minutes, my nipples were in such a state that he barely got them between his teeth before I had to holler. Another contest at which I was proven inferior. He put his hands on my shoulders and pushed me back to the bench. He sat as well and then pushed me down onto my back. Slipping his hands down under my knees, he pulled my legs up into the air, bracing them over his shoulders. He slid forward, and I felt the head of his monster dick brush my ass. His right hand swooped down and pulled something out of his right boot. A condom I discovered, as he opened the package with his teeth. He deftly adorned his cock with the sheath, as I looked once more behind him. The two fighters watching had each other by the dick, slowly working their meat. My attention was brought back to the professor when he drove his cock up my ass. The dizzying anguish was far greater than any punishment I had been subjected to in the ring. I had never been plowed by a dick even as big as my own, and the old man's technique was far from gentle. I heard myself choking back more pleas for mercy, knowing that this fuck was his by right. And a big part of me wanted it too, that was evidenced by my cock, which began to bounce within its bonds as Professor Pain began to hump me. He leaned forward, pushing his weight against the backs of my legs, hoisting my boots high up into the air above my head. "Now, boy," he crooned, "who's gettin' split in two?" Discovering that I was unable to speak, his assaults escalated. His cock drove deeper into me with each thrust. "You wanna submit again? You wanna say uncle?" Grinning maniacally, he reached down around my knees and reapplied his two-fisted claw to my belly. Another brutal spasm racked my entire body. I could no longer control myself, and my hands rose and grabbed hold of his wrists. He just laughed, knowing that I was too far gone to pry his fingers loose. He slammed his bony hips against my gluts, stabbing the full length of his gigantic piece of meat up my burning ass. All my glazed eyes could see was his stern face glaring sadistically down at me. "Alright," I said at last. "I submit. I submit. Please..." He spat in my face and broke the double claw. Swapping grips, he took hold of my wrists and pulled my arms out to the sides and back. He rose slowly to his full height, his dick still completely submerged in my ass, rolling me up onto my shoulders. My chin was pressed against my chest, my hogtied cock was throbbing above my face. In the ring it would have been the perfect pin. "Count it!" he commanded, and I did. "One..." I drew a ragged breath. "Two..." Laughing, he crowed: "That's right, you fuckin' three time loser! Say it!" "Three!" As my lips uttered the final word, my cock suddenly let loose with an explosion of jism. Aimed at my head, its load was splattered across my face—spurt after spurt of my own fluid coursing over my nose, across my forehead, into my hair, down my cheeks and into my mouth. I bucked wildly, but the professor held me tight. Though my eyes were clinched shut, I knew he was enjoying the spectacle. Beating one fall out of me, he had fucked me to two more. His dominion over me was so supreme, that even my own orgasm had been turned against me. I felt him sink once more to the bench, laying me flat again. He released my arms and they fell limp, hanging down toward the floor. His big cock pulled gradually out of my ass, leaving me feeling suddenly empty. I blinked my eyes, fighting the sticky fluid to reopen them. I gazed up as he let my legs fall from his shoulders and rose back to his feet. He saw me looking and sneered. Tearing the condom off his beast, he tossed it down onto my belly. The dick looked larger than ever, more menacing and ready to burst. Despite everything, I wanted to be on the receiving end of its eruption. As if he could read my mind, he told me: "You don't deserve it," and turned around. The two other fighters moved to greet him as he stepped toward them. The first thrust out his hand. "Good job, man." "Yeah," the other agreed, clapping the old man shoulder. "Way to fuckin' go." "They oughtta give you the whole damned hundred!" "Fuck that loser." Professor Pain shook the first fighter's hand, then turned and did the same with the other. "Hell, I want a man to fuck. Either a' you up for some action?" Laughing, they moved off toward the showers.

END