BDSM - Beat, Dom and Shame Muscle

Stacked Sky:

I’m cashing fat checks every week from that Rush 4 - Corners Beatdown match. Shit's still selling like crazy. When Thunders called about another match, I couldn't grab my phone fast enough. Especially hearing Victor's bitch ass is begging for another go. “Retribution” they say. Motherfucker must've forgotten how I turned his muscle-pussy inside out on national pay-per-view. Guess some lessons gotta be taught twice.

Show day. Fuck yeah. I squeeze into my singlet, yanking those straps over my shoulders. That shit hugs my ass and quads like a second skin. Walking down that corridor like I own the whole damn arena. Head high. Chest out. Every motherfucker staring. This lycra don't hide shit - shows off every cut, every vein across my chest and abs. My 9.5" meat stick carving a fucking highway down the front. Swings like a goddamn battering ram with each step.

Camera dude's right up in my grill, lens sliding from my face down to where the real money is. I lock eyes with that lens, flash my teeth, then reach down and cup my python through the lycra, giving the viewers at home a little preview of the weapon. Gotta give these thirsty fuckers what they paid for.

Thunder's never satisfied with a straight-up beatdown. Always gotta jazz it up with some carnival bullshit. Tonight we're pulling cards from a stack, whatever number you draw, that's how many times you gotta make your opponent tap or black out before you win. Just another excuse to stretch out how long I get to wreck that muscle-pussy Rush before the cameras stop rolling.

I swagger into the ring, half dressed muscle freaks in the front row. Center of the mat sits this box on a chair. I dip my hand in while the camera pushes in tight. Pull out a card - number 5 staring back at me. Shit. Five submissions tonight. Gonna be wringing this bitch dry. Strut to my corner, stretch my hamstrings slow, make sure to flex each muscle group so these cameras catch every vein popping through my singlet.

Victor Rush:

It has been a some weeks after my defeat and it still feels like yesterday, the anger, the pain, the submission, the humiliation, I wanted my revenge and after some talk I finally was able to schedule one, that would be my pay-back, my chance to prove to my fans that I did not became weak and also to show that fucker who truly is the alpha here.

Not only that but I rigged the match at my favor, tonight we will be doing a "card match" and I made sure his number is high and mine is low.

After your entrance I hear the producer calling me in, I strut towards the ring, wearing my black speedos and black boots, I look stronger than ever, bigger than our last match, more muscular. My muscles pumped as I show off to the camera, then I grab the top rope and one clean swoop I jump inside the ring, making the whole place hear the bang of the impact of my feet against the canvas.

I look at you and smirk, looking confident and cocky, I walk to the center of the ring and put my hand inside the box, grabbing my card, which was positioned in a way that I knew it was the number 1 card and as I look that I was correct I try my best to act surprised as show it to you "ready to lose, bitch?"

Stacked Sky:

You waddle into the arena like a science experiment gone wrong, thighs so juiced they're rubbing together. Those tits hanging off your chest like overripe fruit. Black speedo stretched across your ass but empty up front where it counts. Your crew howling your name while you flex for the cameras, veins popping like they might burst. Fucking human pharmacy on legs. You clear the top rope, dig into the box, and pull out a number 1. Figures. Camera zooms right in on that shit.
"Ready to lose, bitch?" you bark. I laugh in your face. "I'll wreck that muscle-pussy worse than last time.I boot the box off the chair and cards scatter everywhere, all showing number 1. Rigged bullshit. Should've known you'd need to cheat after I turned your ass into my personal cum holster.

DING! DING! DING!

We lock up, collar and elbow. Your steroid-pumped arms strain against mine, veins bulging. I break the hold with a knee straight to your gut - Once, Twice. You fold, gasping for air. I grab that thick neck and ram your head between my thighs, feeling my package press against your face. "Feel that monster, bitch?" The crowd roars as I hook your arms. Pedigree time. I jump, driving your pretty face straight into the canvas. WHAM! You bounce like a fucking basketball, landing flat on your back. Those muscles just twitching, useless. Your eyes roll back, staring at the lights. Fucking clueless. I'm already moving, hitting the ropes, feeling them launch me back. I sail through the air and BOOM, leg drop right across your throat. You make this sweet little gurgling sound, like you're choking on my dick again. I flex one arm for the camera while my other hand slaps the mat. "One! Two! Three!" Your hand's tapping so fast it might fly off your wrist.

Camera man shouts - Sky 1 > Rush 0

I roll off your sorry ass, snatch a fistful of that sweaty hair, and drag you up. Your face? I make sure it gets real friendly with my package. Camera eats that shit up, viewers getting their money's worth watching those pretty boy lips slobber against my bulge. Ratings gold, bitch…

Victor Rush:

I show to the camera my card, tease you and then throw the card off the mat, I turn back to face you and walk to the center in a defensive stance already, my muscles all pumped, ready for my revenge. I hear the bell and as soon as the match starts we lock collar and elbow, I know I am stronger and I know I can overpower you quickly, but what I did not know was your next move. You knee my gut hard, over and over again, I bend over in front of you and you take that opportunity to lock me between your muscular legs, a place I knew very well already. I feel the tight grasp of your thighs as your bulge rested on to back of my head, I could feel the weight of it. You go for the pedigree and as as my head hit the canvas the room started to spin.

I am laying there looking up, trying to make sense of what just happened when suddenly I see you, flying on top of me and coming down like a fucking missile, your leg crashing against my throat making me whimper pathetically, gasping for air. I watch you show off to the camera while you count me off and all I could do in that moment was to tap out, feeling your weight and the pain destroying my body.

You pick me up and I feel your muscles again pressed against my face, your thighs and then your package, I remember how big it was and here I was feeling it again "arghh fuck you bitch" I say as I try to shove you off me, still feeling the room spinning.

Stacked Sky:

Goddamn, I'm rock hard watching you squirm. Could whip out my hammer and skull-fuck that mouth, but we ain't done dancing yet. Grab a fistful of your hair, grinding your face against my bulge. You getting high off that musk, bitch? Yeah, thought so. Yank your sorry ass up by the neck, arm locked tight around your throat like a python. One smooth motion, spin and DROP. Your spine meets canvas with a sick crack. WHAM! Whole fucking ring trembles. You're flat on your back, whimpering like a two-dollar hooker. "That all you got, muscle-boy? Want my dick now?" Nah, too fucking easy.

I don’t give you any time to recover, I’m on you,

I pull you up onto your knees, sweat dripping down your face. I slide in behind you. Lock in a dragon sleeper so tight your eyes bulge. Your crew sits stunned, jaws hanging open while a few apes start shouting for me to finish you off. I wrap my muscled arm around your thick neck, forcing your face deep into my musky pit. My free hand reaches down to grab your pathetic excuse for manhood, can't even find that micro-dick hiding in your trunks. Camera man crawls in close, lens practically kissing us, capturing every fucking humiliating second of this big roided loser getting owned. My rock-hard nine-and-a-half-inch monster presses against your back like a baseball bat while you slobber helplessly in my pit. I hear you moaning, whimpering like a bitch in heat, your massive chest heaving as you gas out, that bloated roidgut finally going slack. Your arm starts swinging wildly in defeat, fingers fluttering, begging me to stop the punishment. I release you with a shove and you drop face-first to the canvas, 240 pounds of defeated, used-up bodybuilder trash.

Camera man shouts - Sky 2 > Rush 0

Victor Rush:

I stay in that position what feels like a lifetime and all I can think is your dick, how you used it last time, how you fucked me silly, that fills me with anger and lust. I try to shake it off to get my head back in the game but you are faster, you grab my hair again making me whimper in pain and rub your dick against my face one more time, my little cock getting harder by the second, then you lock me with your muscular arm and with one quick motion I am back down on the canvas, the crowd going crazy by that beat up, as I wallow in pain

Before I can do anything about it you grab me again, putting me in a dragon sleeper, locked tight by your muscles one again. I panic, my body jerking side to side trying to find a way to get myself free but it is like being trapped by concrete, you dont move an inch. I feel your hand sliding down and grabbing my crotch as I panic once again, trying to hide my hard on but its too late, I can barely stay awake, feeling the world fading as you drop me down, completely out cold.

Stacked Sky:

Your eyes roll back so far they’re staring at your own fucking brain stem. Those twenty-inch pythons? Useless meat hanging at your sides. I keep that Dragon Sleeper locked tight, feeling your juiced body twitch and die against my bicep. Foam bubbles at your lips. The crowd's going wild, phones up, dicks hard.

I let go. You drop. Bam! Two forty pounds of useless muscle hits the canvas, twitching and gasping, your face purple from lack of air. Your skull bounces off the mat. I stand over you soaking up the love, king of the fucking jungle. Your boys? Silent. Not one has the balls to cheer now. The crowd's losing it, "SKY-LER! SKY-LER!". I peel down my singlet straps, slow and deliberate. My nine-and-a-half inches flops out, already leaking, straining - The Fucking Money Shot.

I mount you - schoolboy, knees crushing those useless pythons. Your head lolls sideways, drooling. I wrench your jaw open. Camera zooms in tight. Two strokes and my nine-and-a-half inches is ready. WHAM! Cock-slapping your face raw. Chin to forehead, I mark my territory. Each smack echoes.

Rise and shine, bitch. Naptime's over." I slap my nine-and-a-half inches across your face. Precum glazes your nose. You flinch. Too bad. Got you pinned flat. Those vacant eyes tell me your brain's still offline. One hand cranks your jaw open. In goes my meat. You gag. Fight it. But with no air and nowhere to go, pride's just another thing I took from you.

“Yeah, choke on it. Breathe me in, bitch.” I drag my balls over your face. The cameras are eating this up. Every time you manage a gasp, I stuff my cock deeper. Above us, the jumbotron loops the humiliation, your pretty-boy face getting wrecked in high-def slow motion. Your crew at ringside has gone from outrage to silent hard-ons, every single one of them staring at your disgrace.

I pull out before unloading, smear my pre across your cheeks, and give my cock a few prideful pumps for the audience. I fishhook your mouth, drag you upright by the jaw, and whisper so only you can hear: “You want to tap now, or you want to be my fuck doll the rest of the round?”

You gargle something, half sob, half curse, but your body is speaking the real truth, quivering, limp, every muscle still cabled and swollen, but powerless. I slap your face again, mock concern. “C’mon, Rush, wakey-wakey. You got fans to disappoint.” The audience loses it. Your bitch-ass arm slaps everywhere, mat, my leg, the fuckin' air - beggin' me to end your misery.

Camera man shouts - Sky 3 > Rush 0

Victor Rush:

I remained locked in your sleeper, feeling my focus and consciousness slipping away. You let me go and my body flops on the canvas, out cold, destroyed again by you, the cheers of the crowd felt very far away. You sit on my pecs and lock me in position, just for the humiliation since I am out and cant fight back. Your muscular body pinning me down and your dick resting on my face, each slap showing everybody again who is the boss in that ring.

You keep slapping my face with your alpha cock, each hit making bringing me back to reality, slowly feeling the weight of your body on top of mine, I wake up to see your muscular body towering over me, drooling falling from my mouth as I am still not quite sure of whats happening or cant think straight.

Then I feel it, you grab my mouth and open it, your cock getting deep inside my throat, my eyes bulging as it starts to water, I can feel that its getting harder to breath as your cock fill my whole mouth and throat, I look at you in panic, almost begging with my eyes, but you are to busy showboating for the crowd, humiliating me more and more

I keep trying to fight back, beg, swallow, anything to make it easier to breath but it is useless, you tell me to tap or be your bitch for the next round, I try to curse you but I can barely speak since your cock is deep inside my mouth, I try to fight you but I am weak compared to you and before I go out I start tapping anywhere, hopping for you to let me go.

Stacked Sky:

I grab a fistful of your hair, yanking your sorry ass up. "Look at this pathetic shit," I snarl, wedging those black panties deep between your cheeks. The fabric's stretched paper-thin, soaked through with your juices. Your pathetic excuse for manhood dangles out the sides like a thumbtack on a bull. Every phone in the arena's pointed at your shame while I march you around like my personal trophy.

I ram you into the corner turnbuckle like a fucking battering ram. You crash backward, legs wobbling under all that useless bulk. Those thick arms drape over the top rope. Your face is glazed with my pre, head flopping side to side.

I wave the camera guy over. "Get this money shot!" He scrambles ringside as I climb the first rope. Your head's lolling.  BOOM! My elbow crashes into your jaw. You gurgle something pathetic. "What's that, muscle-pussy? Can't hear you over the sound of your career ending!"

I rain down fists on your skull. One. Two. Three. Each one snaps your head back. Your arms windmill uselessly, all that gym time for fucking nothing. "I give! I give!" you scream.

The ref looks at me. I shake my head. "This ain't ballet, princess. You're done when I say you're done. And those steroid-stuffed muscles? Just makes it sweeter watching 'em fail you."

I unhook your arms and watch your sorry ass sag to your knees. Fucking pathetic. All that juice pumped into those balloon muscles, and now you're just drooling like a brain-dead jobber. I grab your head, wedge it between my thighs, bet you like that, don't you? and lock in the Tombstone.

I hoist your quarter-ton of juice-pumped meat overhead while your legs twitch, dangling useless. WHAM! Down we go, your thick skull meeting canvas with a sound like a home run. Cameraman's right there catching your humiliation in 4K as I slap the mat for the count. ONE! TWO! THREE! I roll off and you're just there, twitching, drooling some bullshit about how you "almost had me." My nine-and-a-half inches is still rock hard watching you break. Pathetic.

Camera man shouts - Sky 4 > Rush 0

Victor Rush:

At that point I am almost completely out again, useless, powerless, a loser who cant fight back, just your personal punching dummy. You lift me up again and throw me against the turnbuckle, my legs shaking, weakened from the beat up, my little dick rock solid. I cant fight back, I cant do anything, only watch and feel your presence looming over me

You climb the rope and your shadow covers my view, I can feel your muscles touching my body again and before I can even think about doing or saying something your elbow come crashing down my jaw, and then your punches hit me over and over again, each hit getting more and more dizzy, eyes rolling back, drooling, tongue out, looking like a cartoon character who just got a piano dropped on top of him.

All I can do at that moment is beg for mercy, for it to stop, but you mock me and continue using me. You let me go and its like my legs could not work anymore, making me fall on my knees in front of you, my face right in front of your huge cock, reminding me once again who is the real man there.

You put my head between your muscular thighs and I feel the pressure again, but you don’t stop there, you hoist me up and get ready for your next move, I try to beg you to stop but I can't say anything besides mumble something in-comprehensive. You jump and come down, my body taking all the hit from both sides then you go for another pin, I stay there powerless just hearing you winning once again.

Stacked Sky:

You're just laying there, drool pooling under a busted lip, eyes rolled back. Only thing still working is that massive chest, heaving for it’s last breath. I rip those sweaty trunks clean off your thighs, exposing what's left of your manhood after all those needle pokes. Fucking thing looks like a button on a fur coat.

"Get in tight," I bark at the cameraman. He zooms on your wrecked grill, then pans down that useless muscle pile to your shrivelled acorn. Poor bastard can't even find that joke between your legs, fucking cocktail peanut hiding. When he swings to me, I hook my thumbs in my singlet, soaked through with victory sweat and pre-cum, and peel it down inch by fucking inch. My monster python springs free, slapping against my abs with a wet smack. Nine and a half inches of veiny destroyer hanging there like a goddamn baseball bat between my legs.

You're half out of it, eyes glazed, I grab a fistful of your soaked hair and heave your sorry ass to standing. I lean into your steroid-bloated body and hoist you over my shoulder in a fireman's carry, your 240 pounds of useless muscle flopping like raw meat. I parade your broken ass around the ring, bouncing you hard with each step. The crowd loses their fucking minds, on their feet screaming my name while your juiced-up boys watch their hero being wrecked. My fat curved cock, slick and purple-headed, swings like a goddamn pendulum between my legs, leaving a pre-cum trail across across the canvas like I'm marking my territory.

In one fluid motion, I squat and thrust you skyward like a fucking trophy, then drop ass-first to the canvas. Your roided-out gut comes crashing down on my knees - WHAM! - a textbook gutbuster that folds those worthless muscles. You bounce once, then sprawl flat, eyes fixed on nothing, mouth hanging open.

You're blubbering like a bitch, "I give! No more!" over and over. Pathetic. I grab your limp ass and haul you up. Drape those useless pythons over the top rope so your muscle-head buddies get a front row view of their hero getting wrecked. Your glazed eyes roll toward them while I rip what's left of your trunks clean off. I step back, give my nine-and-a-half inch monster a few slow strokes for the cameras. Let everyone see what a real man's packing. Then I split you wide open, drilling into that muscle ass while the whole arena watches you break.

Your muscle-bound body bounces against the ropes like a rag doll while I drill you deep. I reach around and find that pathetic excuse for manhood, barely a handful. Three quick jerks and you're already whimpering like some backstage ring rat. I pound harder, working that joke between your legs until your whole frame locks up tight. That micro-dick twitches in my grip, dribbling its weak load onto the concrete while the whole arena watches you break.

I snake my python arm around your throat, crushing your windpipe while my bicep bulges against your jaw. You wheeze and slobber all over my forearm, then go limp as a fucking corpse. Grabbing a fistful of hair, I crank your head back so the camera gets your vacant eyes rolling. My nine-and-a-half inch destroyer keeps jackhammering that broken muscle ass while you dangle there useless. Fucking waste of gym time. Every HD camera in the house is zoomed in tight when I start pumping my load, counting each blast like a pinfall. ONE! TWO! THREE! FOUR! FIVE! I could count to fifty, you're done, bitch.

Camera man shouts - Sky 5 > Rush 0

I yank out with a wet pop, leaving your sorry ass draped in the ropes. My baby batter trickles down those tree-trunk thighs while I strut toward the exit, my cock still at half-mast, glistening under the arena lights. Back in the locker room, my phone's blowing up, notifications stacking up faster than I can count. Every wrestling forum's got clips of me destroying your roided-up ass from six different angles. Thunder's website crashed twice already. Another fucking best seller in the bank, and your career in the toilet.

End

Published: 2026-03-27, viewed 126 times.