Erotic sex fighters

Andre Jordan is one of the founders of Team Factory because he is a 3 event champion sex fighter in the NYC Underground Sex Fighting Circuit. He wrestled since he was a kid and now is also a black belt in Brazilian jiu jitsu. Three years ago he became my coach when I became a member of the Team. When he noticed my potential, he took me and 3 others aside and formed a special training squad, 1 to increase our training to match that potential. He was like that as a coach, always looking for ways to exploit or maximize team members’ abilities and potentials.

He basically gave us seminars on wrestling, jiu jitsu, mixed martial arts, strength testing, and cock fighting. The fours of us wrestled and fucked each other indiscriminately, but we all also got a chance to spar with Andre routinely. He kept his game just ahead of ours to teach through leading. We knew he wanted to fuck all of us, the sexual energy that flies of him just existing, holy fuck. Instead he expertly taught us a large variety of ground and standing combat traditions and techniques. He designed our fitness and strength training regimens especially for combat games.

He was fucking gorgeous. Total physical specimen. Athletic as fuck. Muscular as fuck. Handsome as fuck. Great fucking cock and great fucking tattoos. As the year went by he saw the quick improvement in my grappling game, freestyle and jiu jitsu. One day we were sparring and I definitely felt his boner. So one night on a full gym pump and full of swagger, I slipped into Andre’s bed before he fell asleep. With both of us in our Factory boxer briefs, we started to grind dicks and making out vigorously. We were suddenly on fire for each other and proceeded to eat each other alive. We were no longer just mentor and student, we were uncontrollably, passionately attracted to each other and we were not shy about it. I could never come close to beating him, but at midnight, after he had given me the fucking of my life, he would let me mount him and totally fuck his brains out. My nocturnal visits became more frequent.

I remember running the training squad with Pau, Liam, Luis and Bruno. They were all very promising, excited and very committed to becoming grappling and fighting athletes. The seminars created a brotherhood bond amongst them and soon they were very committed to fucking each other all the time. The relational atmosphere at the Factory is a little all over the place and constantly changing. Pau sees other older members take younger lovers and he so he slipped into my bed and the chemical explosion that happened will go down in history. The mother fucker is the sexiest monkey on the team and he is rapidly getting very good. He has these bright, ornery green eyes, and his muscularity strikes a classic proportion beautifully sculpted by his training, and he really knows how to throw his dick into you. So, during the day I was Coach Jordan and at night I was bed wrestling and flip fucking with Pau.

The special training squad lasted almost a year before Dre decided it was time for us to switch up our regimes, all in separate, individually tailored ways. Liam, Luis, Bruno and I could not be closer and see each other in the various seminars the Factory offers to all the members, but for the next two years I only saw Andre sporadically during the day while I was working with other head coaches to push my game forward. My night time visits tapered off dramatically, but as I was getting much better at jiu jitsu or wrestling, I would have an irresistible alpha desire to challenge Andre to a match. This is the man who set all my bars for me, and my alpha nature will not stop until I take him down. So when the desire bubbles up I find myself slipping into bed with Andre, my hard cock wanting to fip fuck with my mentor, and my alpha nature wanting to say, “I’m ready to take you down, Dre.”

As Pau slips into my bed I put my arms around his shoulders, feeling my dick spring to attention. “Is that right?” I grin. “Pau any time you want to fuck or have me beat your ass down again, all you have to do is ask.”

“It’s your fault. You’re in charge of recruiting. When are you going to find me more competition to tear through? Then I wouldn’t have to crawl in here to tell you are no longer king of this hill.” I look at him with a cocky twinkle in my eye and reach down to grab his fat cock in my strong hands. Offf. He does the same to me and we just slow jerk each other like we own each other’s cocks.

Man, we love playing with each other’s dicks. We could slow jerk each other for hours. “As it happens, I have a trip planned to visit professor Rafael Costa in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. Seems he’s got a new talent on his hands. Jonny something. I am going to bring him here so he can humble your arrogant ass.”

“Fuck yeah, bring in the new Brazilian meat. At latest they fuck really well,” I laugh.

 I look at you and roll my eyes. “So, you and I will have to do our challenge match this week. What was it that you wanted to lose at again?”

“I’m going to pin you in freestyle wrestling,” I say confidently while poking my finger into your big chest.

 “Great. Day after tomorrow, my private mat room. I am looking forward to working you hard and hanging you up wet! I love fucking a pe-lubbed sweaty ass.”

Before either of us even close distance, the gear tells the story. We both wear Olympic-cut, short-jam wrestling singlets — tight, functional, stripped of anything unnecessary — the kind that hug the body for practicality, keeping everything close for movement, for sweat, for grip. The fabric molds over thick shoulders, wide backs, tapered cores, and the legs ride high enough to leave powerful thighs uncovered so they can drive freely. The lycra is so tight you can see a clear outline of our sex fighter muscle cocks stretching from our crotches up to our abs. Asics wrestling shoes anchor us to the mat, laced snug, molded to our feet from years of breaking them in. The tread grips in silence, biting slightly into the Resilite. Our calves flex when we shift our stance. The ankle support cuts a clean line up toward the hem of the singlets. We look like two men who were built inside rooms like this — not glamorous, not decorative — just real, trained, and hardened through repetition.

You stand across from me in the private mat room on the 3rd floor of Team Factory, the soft thud of ventilation and fluorescent hum mixing with the sound of our breath. The room feels sealed off from the rest of the world — hushed, padded, insulated — as if everything outside it has paused so it can watch us settle into this ritual once again. The thick Resilite mat beneath our feet smells faintly of disinfectant and sweat that never quite leaves, the surface slightly tacky underfoot from being cleaned and worked on so many times that the texture has become part of the rhythm of training. The padded walls reflect only the smallest echo of movement, absorbing the weight of bodies that have been driven into them again and again over the years. Our shoes squeak at the slightest adjustment of stance. Our lungs draw measured air into bodies tuned for this exact kind of effort.

This room has heard everything we have ever said with our bodies — grinding tie-ups, stubborn escapes, the strained silence of effort, and the occasional laugh because neither of us really hates the other. It is the kind of silence that hums with familiarity rather than emptiness. Every scrape of the mat, every sharp inhale, every soft grunt feels like it belongs here — layered over years of repetition, challenge, failure, and growth. The Resilite mat sits beneath us like a living record of all of it.

 I shift my stance with a relaxed rhythm, but my movements are never careless. Even when I look loose, every tendon is ready. Every angle is intentional. You’ve changed over three years. Your shoulders are broad and rounded now, the muscle thick and durable from too many battles to count. Your thighs look built to drive weights off the floor, corded and purposeful rather than bulky. Your chest rises and falls slowly and confidently. There is steadiness in your breathing — not bravado, not performance — just genuine belief in the body you’ve built. I can see that you didn’t just come to survive — you came to challenge the order of things. But I’ve been the order of things for a long time. So when you lower your level and begin to stalk forward, I simply breathe deeply and prepare to show you again what control feels like.

I’ve never believed in myself as much as I do right now. The confidence isn’t loud — it lives in my lungs, in the way they don’t feel rushed or panicked. Every lift, every drill, every conditioning circuit has been for this moment. I’ve carried all the old losses through every mile run and every rep pushed, letting the sting shape me without letting it poison me. My liver still remembers the burn of past losses. My chest remembers the weight of your rides. But now my lungs work like furnaces that don’t empty easily. My forearms feel dense and strong, like they’ve been carved to hold onto wrists forever. There’s no wasted tension — just readiness.

You look steady like always — calm, sure, practiced — but tonight I’m tired of bowing to that calm. I step in, hand fighting aggressively, fingers wrapping around the meat of your wrist, forearms banging against yours as we pummel for inside control. The hand-fighting is sharp and deliberate — wrists rolling, fingers prying, biceps flexing under the strain of trying to win angles that most people don’t even notice. Our shoulders collide and I feel how solid your body still is, but that doesn’t scare me. It makes me grit my teeth and square my stance and push harder. I snap your head and drive forward with a deep double leg, hips pushing, hamstrings firing, my breath loud in my throat, and I growl, “Let’s see if you can still hang with me, Coach.” The words come out rough — part challenge, part respect — because I know what it means to come after your throne and my cock stand hard and tall waiting to fuck the king.

Your shot is powerful and committed, the kind of attack that used to belong only to people at the top. Your hips enter deep, your chest stays upright, your hands lock tight behind my legs. But I don’t meet it with panic or adrenaline. I meet it with patience. Years have taught me that rushing wastes energy. I drop my hips, spreading my base, legs braced like pillars, and let my chest flatten down through your back until your neck bends and your balance shifts. My hands strip your grip methodically as my breath stays slow and deep. I’m not wrestling your strength — I’m wrestling your position.

The friction of the mat scrapes lightly under my toes as I back-walk out of danger. I feel my calves tighten, my hamstrings catch, my spine align into the familiar arc of the sprawl. When the pressure finally bleeds off, we rise again, each of us exhaling like engines resetting. We circle. Your traps flex as you shrug tension loose. My shoulders loosen without strain. The match stays in motion, but my mind stays clear. This is still the territory where I live.

I refuse to let your calm win the mental battle. I stay on you. The moment we reset, I re-engage. We trade collar ties and brawling hand fights, the palms of our hands slapping into triceps and necks, our forearms burning as we dig for inside control. You fight to peel. I fight to clamp. Our elbows bump ribs. Our feet shift constantly as we adjust weight — short steps, quiet pivots, controlled tension. The mat grips at our feet when we pivot, the slight tackiness tugging at the skin through our socks.

Sweat starts to roll down from my hairline, sliding along my jaw and neck. My cock throbs. My lungs begin to work harder, breath coming out louder now, but I don’t let it shake me. I duck under your arm and try to turn the corner, my torso bending, hips rotating tightly, but you limp-arm free with infuriating timing. So I drop to a single, clamping your leg, feeling the hard texture of your quad through the fabric. My shoulder pressure digs into your hip. My forearms burn. And still you stay balanced. But tonight — I stay there with you.

You push harder now, and I can hear your breathing deepen — not desperate, but forceful. Mine remains steady, trained, careful. I manage distance without retreating, creating space without ever running. When your pressure finally gives me the window, I dip my level and slide in beneath your arm, loading your weight for a Fireman’s Carry. The motion is fluid — muscle memory, practiced timing, controlled commitment.

Your body settles across my shoulders, solid and heavy, the warmth of your torso pressing against the back of my neck. Your core tightens, your breath grinds deeper, and your legs momentarily lose their power as gravity tilts the exchange in my favor. I guide your fall rather than throw you, riding you down smoothly. My cock throbbing from toppling you. My chest lands on your upper back again, the Resilite mat squeaking slightly beneath the impact. And I let my weight mold into you the way a sculptor molds clay — evenly, calmly, relentlessly. Top position isn’t aggression — it’s gravity I’ve learned to listen to.

It frustrates me how natural your top pressure feels. Your body doesn’t crash into me — it settles. It presses down in a way that doesn’t waste energy. My lungs compress beneath you and breathing becomes a focused act. I keep my elbows tight and my neck stiff, refusing to give you the openings I used to. Sweat beads across my shoulders. The mat drags slightly against my ribs as I work to shift underneath you. Your arms snake in, patient, hunting control. The heat between us rises. My breath grows deeper.

But when the opening flashes, I shoot my sit-out hard and clean, hips whipping out, shoulder carving space, and I spin behind you, chest glued to your back, hips to your backside and my cock is grinding on your ass. I exhale sharply, jaw tight, ribs expanding fast. “Different Pau,” I mutter into the air. “You’re wrestling the upgraded version now.” And I believe those words. I earned the right to say them.

And you are. No question. But I am still me. I feel the weight of your chest on my back — thick, steady — hear the rasp of your breath close to my ear. Your arms wrap tighter than they once did, your pressure more disciplined. But control is more than pressure — it is timing and structure. I roll through into a Granby, sliding across the mat in one continuous ribbon of motion, then emerge behind you. My hands settle again around your torso. My chest lowers. My hips anchor. Now my lycra covered cock is grinding on your ass! And then I hook your inside leg with mine to ensnare you in my Turk. The pressure shifts the battle from chaos to inevitability. I don’t crush you. I corral you. I tilt you. I isolate. And in a playful tone that holds no malice, I murmur, “You’re quiet all of a sudden. Getting shy?”

There is nothing shy about what’s happening inside me. Heat. Frustration. Anger. Refusal. All of it packed tight into my lungs. The Turk traps my leg so thoroughly that I feel like I’ve been stitched into the mat. My hips burn as they stretch wider than they want to. My lower back strains. Your chest pressure is like steady weather — not violent, not dramatic — just always there.

I grit my teeth and begin my slow rebellion. Elbow posts. Hip heists. Bridges that make my ribs ache. My breath comes in warm bursts across the mat. Sweat runs into my eyes and blurs the edges of the world. And then, finally, by stubborn persistence rather than clever trick, I tear myself loose and scramble to daylight, heart pounding, lungs dragging air like heavy cargo. I latch onto you again. I refuse to let the pattern repeat because I didn’t come here to surrender.

Your grip is harder now — exhaustion tightening it rather than weakening it. Your forearms tremble but do not let go. Your breath comes rougher, but not broken. I loosen, peel, stand, and we separate again. The match becomes quieter in an emotional way. Less talk. More intention. We both recognize that something serious is happening now — that this isn’t practice energy anymore, it’s something closer to truth-seeking.

Here — during one of those silent breaths — we rise fully to our feet again. Without needing to signal it, we each reach back and peel down the straps of our singlets, letting them fall to our hips. Sweat-slick torsos fill the cool gym air and we can both see each other’s raging hard ons bulging huge. Your chest is thick and full from years of pressing and gripping. Your abs look packed and carved by effort rather than vanity, breathing in deep waves. Your shoulders are broad shelves of muscle, and your lats flare wide like the frame of a strong door. My own body matches in history — not flashy, just built through repetition and the stubborn daily act of showing up. Two wrestlers. Nothing hidden. Nothing to pretend.

You shoot the double leg take down of your life and plant me with authority, chest heavy, legs wide, posture in control. Your lats spread, shoulders thick, neck rigid. And this time you begin to work your half nelson carefully, not recklessly. You turn me with knowledge rather than just muscle. And I respect it and love you for it.

This is what I trained for. I grind my ribs down through your torso. My palm drives your head. My half nelson sinks in like a blade. My heart thunders hard enough that I can feel it in my teeth. My breath echoes in my ears. The mat sticks faintly to my forearms as sweat slicks into a thin sheen. Every fiber of muscle across my chest, shoulders, and back participates in the push and suddenly my chest is stretching out across yours from the side and grinding down on you rough. I drop my voice into a smug whisper. “I hope you like the ceiling.” Because for one moment — I feel close. Close to winning. Close to rewriting the story.

It is not comfortable, but fuck being chest to sweaty chest with you is always so arousing and in this case fucking distracting.You are not being kind. And that is good. You want to earn something. My shoulder line desperately tries to tilt up. My lungs expand — but not with panic. Just breath. Just patience. Just refusal. And then I plant my feet in the mat and with the strength of my quads, bridge up high. Spine bending. Toes digging. Hamstrings tightening. And slowly, carefully, I push the world back where it belongs and reverse you as if water found downhill. Top returns to me like gravity easing back into place. There is relief, but no gloating, because you forced me to work for it.

And now that I am back on top, I tighten angles and begin to wear you down — not cruelly, but completely. When I trap your arm and begin sliding into a reverse half nelson, I feel every muscle in your body resist. Your neck locks. Your spine arches. Your lungs drag hard air. You bridge like a coiled spring trying not to snap flat. It is a long, stubborn war of inches — and you win pieces of it — forcing me to adjust, to stay patient, to keep layering pressure instead of chasing.

Then when the position loosens I transition smoothly into a cradle — your body folding as my hands lock tight around your head and leg. Your shoulders hover frighteningly close to the mat. Your abs clamp. Your breath rattles. Every muscle in your frame joins the fight to keep you from rolling fully onto your back. And you do, just barely. Only when you finally kick your legs and pry the lock open do you spill free — exhausted — but unbroken.

We fall into a scramble that consumes position and intention. Arms miss. Fingers claw for something solid. Bodies twist in ways that test everything we’ve built. Mat friction burns along my forearms as I slide and adjust. Your breath is steady, heavy, constant. Mine rushes like a machine under strain. We finally reset onto our feet, chests heaving, shoulders rounded, forearms red, grips tired but still dangerous. The match has crossed into that unspoken realm where nothing is personal, but everything is meaningful. We don’t speak during this stretch. We don’t need to. The match is saying everything.

We lock up again. Hand fighting. Forearm grinding. Neck pulls. Shoulder bumps. Breath steaming between us. Sweat makes our grips slippery, forcing us to clamp harder. My fingers ache slightly from constant leverage work, but ache is irrelevant when timing arrives and things get fast and furious. I shoot, finish, and return to top. You reverse again. You nearly pin me again. I bridge again. And after the dust clears, I return behind you — and thread your inside leg once more. This time, I make the pressure quieter. Lower. Truer. I let my weight speak instead of my arms.

This Turk is not hurried or casual. It is deliberate. My shin hooks into the crook of your thigh. My hips lower until my weight becomes a constant downward truth. My chest stays tight enough to control but loose enough to adjust. My hands never force — they guide. And while I work, my voice remains warm and almost affectionate. “You’re too stubborn for your own good. I like that.” Because stubbornness is how you got here.

Stubborn doesn’t even begin to cover it. My lungs burn. My ribs protest. My shoulders inch closer to the mat. My breath comes out in strained bursts. My grip strength dwindles then returns in stubborn spikes. Every escape attempt costs me air. Every bridge sends fire down my back. And still — I refuse to quiet down completely. “You gotta pin me sometime, Coach,” I rasp. “You plan on waiting until retirement?” And despite everything, I still try. And somehow, I free myself once more. That matters to me more than I ever say out loud.

And yet, when I reverse you again, when I resettle into control, when I thread your leg one final time, I know — deep and calm — that the match has reached its natural conclusion. So this last Turk slows to eternity as I hook you completely. I stretch you out like a map being flattened.c I anchor every inch of my frame to yours. My voice softens. “Yeah brother Pau.” My breath stays steady, and all the struggle finally crystallizes into a single simple outcome. Your shoulders drift. Then slide. Then settle as my chest crushes down on yours so hard and tough our hot sweaty skin melds together and your shoulder blades dig deep into the resilite mat. You stare at the ceiling and the room goes very, very quiet.

I lie there breathing hard, chest rising like waves. Sweat runs down my temples and into my hair. My lungs ache. My muscles burn. But deeper than the frustration lives something steadier: respect, and the fire that doesn’t go out even when I lose. You beat me again. And yes — it still stings. But I was closer than ever. And I will be closer still the next time. I grin despite the fatigue. “Enjoy it while you can,” I tell you. “Because one day I am going to flip the script. And when that day comes, you’ll still be the reason I got there.”

“I kick your ass for your own good Pau,” I crack wise while jumping my far leg over yours. I reach down and drag your singlet down, releasing your muscle cock, then do that same with mine as you lay there fully exhausted. I grapevine your legs and spread them wide. Our quads feel like concrete grinding against concrete. I wrap my arms around your head and start grinding down on your cock with my top leverage. “Fuck yeah, sexy Pau, cock fight me!”

As soon as your raw cock begins rubbing mine my hips start bucking back up into you. I can feel your grapevine loosen as you lock our bodies together head to toe for perfect cock to cock fucking. This is not a contest. The match is over. This is about reconnecting with our brotherly love. “I fucking love grinding dicks with you too, Dre!”

We settle into a sexy, gyrating grind, so insanely horny after our great battle, with the taste of each other’s salty sweat in our mouths and our mingled raw masculine musk filling our noses. We take our time and ramp up our grinding to luxuriate in the intense arousal that seems to spread outwards from our cocks, sending wave after wave of pleasure throughout our exhausted bodies, breathing new life into us. “I fucking love wrestling with you, Pau. I will NEVER take it easy on you and I will ALWAYS be in your corner, pushing you, supporting you.”

The cock grinding is getting so intensely arousing we are growling out loud moans. I can always feel when our balls begin to boil like cauldrons of molten steel. “And I will never stop dropping by your private suite in the middle of the night for a sweet flip fuck and my next challenge. Deal?”

As soon as you mention flip fucking we both grunt and immediately explode, spewing hot cum all over each other’s cocks and abs, and still we grind and moan and grunt. I roll us to our sides now and stare into your eyes. “Fucking DEAL. You are the sexiest mother fucker on the team!” And then we open our mouths wide on each other, kissing deep and passionately while we continue to grind, milking each other fully before we slowly slip into unconsciousness from the cum coma, laying in a pool of our battle sweat.

Read all the Factory stories at: 

https://mars.chatfighters.com/federations/The_Factory_Reading_Room 

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