Erotic sex fighters

I have been a member at Team Factory for five years now. I have successfully competed in the underground sex fighting circuit, rising in the ranks in grappling sex fighting, kneeling knuckle lock strength testing and cock fighting. As a tenured member of the team I have been approved to do recruiting of new talent. I love my teammates. They make me work my ass off and I chase their tails as well, in the gym, on the grappling mats and fighting spaces. As we live and train together, some have connected in various ways as family. I am more of a lone wolf guy, though I would say my teammates all feel like brothers to me. I get paid very, very well to be good at high-tech fighting for fuck stakes by getting to train the things that give my life meaning: wrestling, jiu jitsu, judo, muay thai, boxing and mma. I can get sex whenever I want too, but that has fallen off for some time now and I just train my ass off. Then one day I ran across this kid during the wrestling seminar, Ruslan, the nephew of Coach Dimitri Petrov. Both wrestlers from Dagestan where wrestling is a cultural tradition, I had heard he had recently been recruited onto the team. We were paired up in class and he made my ass work very, very hard to match his skill, strength and technique.

I immigrated from Dagestan, Russia to flee the war and was able to stay with my Uncle, Dimitry and his chosen son, Johan Hansson, who was to become my chosen brother. They were both sex fighters, and besides my University studies, the only thing I know is training and competing at wrestling, so I decide to become a sex fighter too. We are a family of sex fighters and are now, with my recent recruitment, all members of Team Factory. My family urges me to reach out, make brothers on the team, but I am not as extroverted as Johan. Everyone was really nice and very impressed with my wrestling skills. They were all happy to see that I was big and capable of getting bigger for strength test events. Yet, out of shyness, I always end up working out with Uncle D and Johan, until one day I met Hassan in the wrestling seminar. So far I hadn't been that impressed with the wrestling on the team, but Hassan made me sweat and remember what it’s like to be with an equally skilled grappler. As class ends we roll apart sweat soaked, sitting on our haunches, boasting full boners in our wrestling singlets, and looking into each other’s eyes like we’ve known each other for ever.

There’s not much left to the imagination looking at a man wearing a sweat soaked singlet. The sweat almost makes the lycra translucent and stick to the body like a second layer of skin. I look at Ruslan sweat soaked in his singlet and can see how big are his legs, ass and back, and how shredded are his abdominals. And I am not sleeping on that big Russian cock poking out of his singlet crotch like a hammer. We are definitely the same weight class, but what I really loved was rubbing up against his muscles. They felt as densely packed as mine, like armor plating hard. Clearly, we are both attracted to each other and have great wrestling chemistry, so I introduce myself. “Hey Ruslan, I don’t know if you caught my name. I am Hassan and it’s very nice to meet you. I haven’t had that much fun wrestling in quite some time. Plus, look what you did to my cock,” I say, laughing to break the ice.

I am sitting on my haunches across from you, looking into your beautiful brown eyes, and suddenly I realize just how lonely I have been on the team. My dick is throbbing hard from wrestling with you. I crush hard looking at your incredible physique, muscles at once rippling like water, yet hard as stone, and all I want to do is wrestle some more with you and be your best friend. As you say hello I finally notice how hard your dick is and I am shocked, but excited. “You did the same thing to my cock, Hassan,” I say, pulling my singlet straps off my shoulders so I am fully bare chested and you can see my deep-packed core. “There’s nobody left in the mat room. I think I have enough gas in the tank to wrestle some more, you game?” I ask, sounding confident, but secretly nervous.

 “Hell yeah, I’m game bro!” I say, taking down my single straps now too so we can both boldly give each other the once over twice. No serious growls of combat, just grins and laughter as we wrestle some more. We ramp up very quickly to grappling full force, wanting to impress more than defeat. We trade playful smack talk and even trade some sexy punches as we tire and need a fist to facilitate a reversal. As our gas tanks empty we slow down, grappling half-speed and then only quarter-speed even more playfully. We are more water than weight as we both have mouthfuls of each other’s salty sweat, and we slide around in it with each other, laughing like we are 10 year old best friends wrestling in the back yard. Eventually we exhaust each other and end up in a clinch making out and grinding our steel hard dicks.

I was having so much fun seriously wrestling Hassan, and then again playfully, that I had completely forgotten about being shy. Hassan was so welcoming and open hearted with me it put me very much at ease, but it was also the multi-layered connection we established in just one wrestling session that had me out of my head, where I over-thinking as usual, and into my body where I was just in the moment making out and grinding dicks with him. Hassan whispers in my ear, “Hey bro, you wanna grind one out together?” That is all it took for our lust to spike and we humped away at each other on our sides until we both shot huge streams of warm, sticky cum into each other's crotches. Our moans and cum faces were dramatic as the orgasm was absolutely earth shattering. We almost fell straight into a cum coma as we relaxed into each other, but Hassan jumped up and said, “Hey Ruslan, you want to escape the Factory with me for a bit? I had so much fun with you I want to keep hanging out.” I immediately said yes and we were off to the showers. We slip out of the Factory in Soho, Manhattan and have Moroccan food at Cafe Mogadar in the East Village for dinner. We talk all through dinner in the soft glow of the lighting really getting to know each other. Guards down, hearts open, this was the moment we became inseparable.

I am so excited about meeting and spending time with Rus that on the way home I take a shot and ask him if he would like to ditch our regular training regimes and just train with each other. His immediate excitement at the idea excites me further and we set about making plans. We attend all the seminars together; wrestling, jiu jitsu, boxing, muay thai and mixed martial arts, sparring together in class and then afterwards in one of the many private mat rooms on the third floor of the Factory. We discover that I am better than Rus at jiu jitsu and Rus is slightly better than I at wrestling, but within weeks of non-stop sparring we catch up with each other and become even more attracted to each other because we can now grapple balls to the wall every session. We were having a blast. We also discover we are so evenly matched at the standing striking martial arts that we basically end up beating the shit out of each other every time we spar. We wear the bruises we receive from each other with pride and massive arousal.

As the weeks go by and we essentially remain attached at the hip, equal in all events so far and training harder than we have before, we start hooking up. Our similar size and shape makes for great fucking chemistry as well and once we start flip fucking we’d rather starve to death then stop having sex everytime we do. We fuck in the mat rooms. We fuck in the showers after some soapy muscle worshipping. We spend every day and night together. Uncle Dimitry and Johan began to wonder where I was all the time. They are happy I have met someone and can see the new light shining in my eyes, so they are very happy for me, although they insist on me bringing Hassan around so the four of us can have some grappling time together. This new level of intimacy has us touching each other and flirting all day long as we train too.

We love all our training, but we really love working out together in the Factory’s enormous, state-of-the-art facilities on the 2nd floor. We usually hit the gym last so we can really luxuriate in lifting hard together. We can spend hours lifting. Once again we discover that we have very similar physiques and strength and soon we are repping out all the same weights. Our gym gear consists of Asics wrestling shoes and under armour boxer briefs to contain our non-stop raging hard ones as our hands roam all over each other’s muscles as we lift. We especially love leg day. We attack the squat rack like it fucked our sisters. We push each other very hard, both knowing that the back, legs and ass together create the engine of any great grappler. We flex together in the mirror after we finish our sets, talking about gains and symmetry. We worship each other’s muscles non-stop in the gym, but we really go to town on each other in the showers as we soap every single muscle on each other’s bodies.

As the months continue to roll by, Hassan and I grow even closer, but we notice we are starting to feel increasingly competitive with each other. We are sex fighters with alpha energy spilling over. We were born to dominate and win. We know we are teammates and that the real domination has to happen live onstage on the underground sex fighting circuit, but we are getting itchy to beat the other at SOMETHING. We almost killed each other trying to out muscle the other in a kneeling knuckle lock test of strength. We even tied at arm wrestling after calisthenics in front of the whole team. It really pissed us both off and fired up our rivalry even hotter. After months of training we find ourselves so full of Alpha aggression that our cocks are diamond hard, even as we poke at each other about events we can try out. The one thing we haven’t done, because it’s not a sanctioned event on the circuit, is an ab punching contest, and we both have cores full of rock solid abdominals to punish. We agree that tomorrow, after a light workout to get our adrenaline flowing, we will have an all out ab war. The shit talk we trade that night while flip fucking each other into unconsciousness was a sign that a rear war was brewing.

We stand across from each other in one of the Factory’s private mat rooms—buck naked, stroking our hard cocks harder and glaring at each other’s body shimmering from the sweat from our warm up workout. I want to punish your abs until I dominate you so I can be the first to victory fuck the other. You square off with me, just us, padded walls, dim overhead lights, and a silence that feels like a referee standing too close. No counting reps today. No conditioning rounds. This is a direct challenge: my fists versus your abs, your fists versus mine. I flex my core until the muscle tightens like armor under my skin. “You ready to lose this, Rus?” I say, growling. You raise your chin and tap your stomach with your knuckles, inviting the hit.

 “You talk like you didn’t get bruised last time,” I say back to you. We step in close, shoulders squared, forearms brushing for a brief second. Then I swing a straight right into your midline—no soft warm-up, just a heavy punch driven from the hips. The shock up my arm tells me I hit solid muscle. You absorb it and barely move. Good. The harder you take mine, the harder I’ll hit and the harder my dick will be when I fuck you senseless in victory.

I tense my abs and force myself not to exhale too early—control is half the game. “My turn.” I step in and drill a right straight into the exact center of your eight-pack. The impact sounds like hitting a heavy bag made of stone. You step back once, not from pain, just adjusting. “That's all you trained for, big man?” I taunt, twirling my wrist like I’m loosening my joints for something serious.

You want serious? Fine. I square up and throw a second right, even harder than the first, twisting through my shoulders and hip. My fist thumps into you with a deep, heavy smack. You grunt—not much, but enough. “Finally woke you up,” I say. My knuckles sting from hitting a brick wall. And I love it. It made my dick quiver.

We start trading single rights, but every punch gets harder, faster, angrier. The sound of fists meeting muscle echoes off the padded walls. Each time you hit me, I respond immediately, trying to time mine just a fraction harder. “Where’s all that Factory pride?” I mock as I slam my fist in. You swear, tighten up, and fire back with something that feels like a sledgehammer to my gut. I take a harder breath. My turn. Always my turn. And my dick is still standing tall at attention.

We’ve only been going a few minutes and already my stomach is burning like someone dropped cinder blocks on it. I’m proud of that burn. I step closer until we’re almost chest-to-chest and slam another heavy punch in from the hip. It knocks your stance off just a little—just enough that you drop to one knee before powering right back up like a piston resetting. “First blood,” I mutter. “You see how hard I got watching you fall to your knee?”

Yeah, you caught me. You actually forced me down. I breathe hard through my nose, nod once, then come back with a brutal body punch—right into your upper abs, right where every fighter hates taking a clean shot. You tighten too slowly, and I feel my fist sink in deeper than before. You swear and stagger half a step, then drop to one knee just like I did. “Even,” I tell you. “One each, and do you see my cock getting ready to take your hard, muscled Russian ass?”

We rise again and now we’re not trading single shots anymore. Fuck these singles. Combos,” I say with a growl and a curl of my lip. You smile like that’s exactly what you wanted. We start throwing alternating right-lefts, hammering into each other’s cores like two men punching through a wall. Each impact leaves a red burst across skin—marks that’ll be purple tomorrow. I welcome all of it. Every welt means I’m still standing.

I feel your fists pounding, trying to punch the air out of me. You’re faster this round, combinations drilling into me like percussion drills. I grit my teeth, absorb, and throw harder—right then left, right then left, snapping my hips with each hit. We circle the room, stumbling into the padded wall, shoving off it just to land another hit. “You call that Russian iron?” I bark, smashing another punch into you. Both me and my sex fighter cock feeling the rage of battle.

Your shots get brutal now—hard enough that my breath catches before I can control it. I feel my legs wobble and suddenly I’m forced down to one knee again. My abs are red, burning, pumped like I just did a thousand sit-ups with iron plates. I punch the mat once in frustration—then stand and fire back, hammering my knuckles into you with everything I’ve got.

Your retaliation hits like someone kicked me from behind. It doubles me over for a second—my abdominal wall feels like a single massive knot of pain. Before I can straighten up, I’m down on one knee again. Second time. I push back to standing slowly, never breaking eye contact. “Count it,” I spit. “That’s two each.”

We stand again—dicks beginning to fly half mast, bare feet planted, sweat dripping down our stomachs, muscles twitching from constant tension. We both know the rule: stay up no matter what. Dominate the body, dominate the man. “Until one of us is alpha,” I growl. You nod once—agreement signed in pain.

We step into punching range—no circling now, no hesitation. I pull every ounce of force from my hips and drive a vicious right-left combo straight into your core at the exact same instant you unload into mine. Our fists land simultaneously—loud, deep, body-shaking. For a split second I think I might withstand it, but my legs just…give.

I feel your fist crash through me and the world blurs. My knees buckle involuntarily—little control left—and I almost collapse forward, feeling gravity wanting to take me. Our dicks are only semi-hard now.

We both hit our knees at the exact same instant, like two pillars finally cracked. I fold forward, breathing hard, but grit my teeth and drive a heavy right into your core from close range. It doesn’t have clean hip rotation anymore, but the intent is pure: hurt you more than you hurt me. My knuckles thud into solid muscle and I feel my forearm vibrate from the impact. I struggle back to my feet. “Still standing,” I force out between breaths. “Still stronger.” Inside, I’m telling myself not to show how bad my stomach feels—like it’s tearing apart.

“You think I’m done? Not even close.” I swing a tight hook upward into your midsection from my kneeling position, refusing to quit. The connection bends you forward halfway, your shoulders tightening as you fight not to fold, but fail and drop to one knee. My abs scream, every punch feeling like thunder hitting bruised steel, but I don’t take my eyes off you. Our cocks are no longer able to stand at attention, but beneath the pain is the thrill of pushing us past what normal fighters tolerate.

 We’re both on one knee now, practically forehead-to-forehead between exchanges, arms hanging low between punches. I pull myself upright just enough and deliver another deep body punch, this one a shovel shot meant to dig under the ribs. It lands with a thick, heavy smack and forces a grunt out of you. Your whole torso jolts. “Factory men don’t quit,” I mutter—then my vision blurs for a second from my own pain. My body wants to fold. Pride stops it.

Every shot feels like a medicine ball slammed into my solar plexus. My entire midsection is one massive knot of fire. I shove myself up just enough to answer, punching low and hard like I’m trying to punch through you instead of at you. You hunch forward, elbow dropping instinctively. “That got you,” I say, chest heaving. My knuckles feel raw, but this isn’t about fists anymore. It’s about who breaks first.

 I swing again—slower but heavier—and you double for half a second before straightening again, defiant. I respect that more than I’ll say. My abs feel like one giant bruise—hot, swollen, shaking. I breathe through clenched teeth and manage another punch, then another, each one costing more just to lift my arm. My body threatens to tip sideways. “No quitting,” I whisper, maybe to you, maybe to myself.

We’re punching slower now but somehow meaner. Each blow connects with a deep, punishing thud. I’m half-crouched on one knee, torso trembling, but I force my arm to move. I drive a short, crushing hook into the center of your core and watch you fold almost all the way over, dropping a hand to the mat for balance. Pride tightens my ribs—you’re hurt. Or maybe we’re both losing perfectly.

My hand hits the mat. I drag myself upright again, barely. The world wobbles, but the fire stays lit. I launch another punch, throwing everything left in my arm at your middle. You absorb it, body shaking, eyes narrowing. The sound echoes like we’re inside a drum. My stomach feels like shattered concrete. My breathing is ragged.

almost drop. I see it. But so do I. I land one more, pushing through pain and exhaustion, and the moment my fist slams into you, yours lands into me at the exact same instant—dead center. Our bodies snap inward. We collapse forward onto both knees fully. My arms hang useless. My abs spasm. “That… was insane,” I choke.

We’re both kneeling, barely upright, hands dangling, chests pumping, stomachs contracting involuntarily. There’s no technique left—just will. You swing again, weaker but still solid, bending me almost in half. I raise my arm, knowing this is the last shot I’ve got, and slam my fist down into your middle. The impact jolts through my torso like a shockwave. My legs give. I fold.

I’m falling before I realize it. Your last punch crashes through what’s left of my core stability and everything goes slack. My knees slide out and I collapse sideways, shoulder hitting first. My stomach convulses. I try to speak and manage only a harsh exhale. All I know is we both hit the mat almost together.

I’m flat on my back, arms stretched wide, staring at the lights. My abs throb above my heartbeat. Every breath is a small explosion in my ribs. I force a slow grin. “Fuck me, we tied again,” I say. “Painful tie. I think I like it better when we tie at wrestling.

lie beside you, just as wrecked—stomach burning, arms limp, breath thin and sharp. “Yeah,” I exhale, “but next time I’m putting you down before I drop.” My whole midsection trembles from the beating. “Hey, I don’t think I will be getting up off this mat anytime soon.”

“Me neither, but this ain’t over. As soon as I can, you know, move, I am coming for your ass in victory.”

“Yeah? I’m more worried about how LONG we are going to lay here in pain until someone finds our dumb asses,” I laugh, and then spasm with more pain. “I bet you can’t even roll over here to kiss me, much less fuck me.”

 “I got a feeling we will be laying in bed for a few days, so I will kiss you all you want in between stabbing pains. Maybe we should just let ourselves be equal and beat on everyone else?”

“Naw, let’s just heal up and go back to training like intelligent sex fighters, and then make out and fuck. No more ab fucking wars.”

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