THE HIGH TABLE

Alex

The bell rings and the first thing I feel is the canvas under my bare feet, rough and warm from the lights. I stand across from you in my black speedos and black knee pads, my chest rising slowly, my beard damp already from the heat of the arena. I step forward first. Not rushing. Not charging. Just closing the space, letting you see that I’m not impressed by the roar, by the flexing, by the red gear, by the way you roll your shoulders like you’re already picturing me flat on my back. “You look ready to fall, Marco,” I say, keeping my eyes locked on yours. You laugh, but I see your jaw tighten. We meet in the center. Collar and elbow. My right hand clamps behind your neck, my left catches your arm, and instantly the match becomes pressure. Chest to chest, beard almost brushing beard, both of us digging bare toes into the mat. Your hairy chest presses against mine as you try to drive me backward, but I drop my hips and push . Then I twist. I slide under your arm, wrench your wrist, and turn your shoulder inward with a sharp wristlock. Your red knee pads bend as you dip, trying to relieve the pressure, but I crank harder.“Already hurting?” I ask. I drive my forearm across your trapped arm and step around you, forcing you to follow or lose balance. You hiss through your teeth. I feel the tension in your muscles as you search for a reversal. Before you find it, I pull you in and snap you down into a side headlock. My bicep tightens around your skull. Your beard scratches against my ribs as I grind your face against my side. I hear you breathing hard, feel your hands push at my waist, but I plant my feet. This is where I want you early: trapped, angry, and wasting energy. You shove me toward the ropes. I let the momentum carry me, hit the strands with my back, and rebound. You drop low for a tackle, but I leap over you. When you rise, I come back fast and smash my shoulder into your chest. You stagger, but you don’t go down. I stop and look at you. The crowd loves it. So I hit the ropes again. This time I come harder, shoulder forward, legs driving. I crash into you, and your feet slide, but still you stay up. You pound your chest once.I nod, then slap my own chest. “All right,” I say. “Let’s see how much red can bleed pride.” I hit the ropes a third time. You move at the last second. My shoulder cuts through empty air. I turn, and your arm catches me across the chest in a sudden, heavy clothesline. My back hits the mat. The arena flashes above me.

Marco

That sound, Alex. That thick slap of body on canvas. That’s the sound I came for. You roll to one side, already trying to get up, but I’m on you before your knees settle under you. I grab your beard with one hand—not enough for the referee to break it right away, just enough to make your eyes flare—and I pull you into a seated position. “You talk too much for a man looking up at me,” I growl. The referee warns me, so I release the beard and replace it with something legal: a heavy forearm across the back of your neck. Your black knee pads drag against the mat as I force you down and hammer another forearm between your shoulders. Your hairy chest heaves against the canvas while I stand over you in red, breathing down at you, letting the crowd see the difference between your confidence and my control. I pull you up by the wrist and whip you into the corner. Your back hits the turnbuckles hard. The ropes shake. Before you can step out, I charge and crush you with a corner splash, my chest smashing into yours. The impact drives the air from you. Your head tilts back, beard shining with sweat, and I stay close enough to speak into your face. “Black looks good on a man getting buried.” Then I grab the top rope with both hands and drive my shoulder into your stomach. Once. Twice. Three times. Each thrust folds you deeper. Your arms hook over the ropes, trying to stay upright. The referee counts. One. Two. Three. Four. I step away just before five, palms raised, innocent grin on my face. The crowd boos, but the boos are heat, and heat is power. You stumble forward. I scoop you up across my chest. You’re strong, heavier than you look, but I hold you there for a second, letting you kick and twist. Then I drop to one knee and break you across it with a backbreaker. Your spine bends over my thigh. You shout.I push you off and cover you fast, chest across chest, forearm hooked under your leg. One. Two. You kick out. Good. A quick match would be a waste. I want every person in the arena to watch you learn the color of pain. I mount your ribs and strike down with short forearms. Not wild. Not sloppy. Sharp shots to the jaw, the cheek, the side of the head. You cover up, but each strike moves your arms a little farther apart. “You feel that?” I bark. “That’s red fury.” You buck your hips, trying to throw me off. I ride the movement and shift into a front facelock when you turn. Your head is trapped under my arm, your beard scraping my side. I sprawl my weight across your shoulders and squeeze. You push up to one knee. Annoying. I tighten the facelock and club your back again.

Stay down, Alex.

But of course, you don’t.

Alex

Your arm is tight around my head, Marco, but tight isn’t finished. Tight isn’t victory. Tight is just something to survive until a mistake opens. I get one knee under me. Then the other foot. Your weight presses down, your chest slick with sweat against my shoulder, but I lock both hands around your waist and start to rise. You feel it. I know you do, because your grip changes. You try to sink lower, try to drag me back to the mat. Too late. I stand with you hanging off my neck. The crowd rises with me. You punch my ribs once. Twice. The shots hurt, dull and deep, but they don’t stop my legs. I lift, turn, and throw you backward with a northern lights suplex. Your body flips over mine and lands hard. I bridge on my toes, bare feet gripping the mat, shoulders arched, hips high. One. Two. You kick out. We roll apart. For a moment, both of us breathe on the mat, staring at the lights. My neck burns from your facelock. My spine aches from the backbreaker. But when I turn my head, I see you pushing up at the same time, and that pulls me back into the fight. We stand. You swing first. A forearm. I block it and answer with a chop across your hairy chest. The sound cracks through the arena. Your face twists. So I give you another. And another. Red marks bloom across your skin. You back into the ropes, shaking your head, trying to look angry instead of hurt. “Still furious?” I ask. You lunge. I duck under your arm, catch you from behind, and lock my hands around your waist. You throw an elbow backward, catching my cheek. My grip loosens but doesn’t break. I pull you back in, chest to back, and launch you with a German suplex. You land high on your shoulders and roll through, stunned, reaching for the ropes. I don’t let you breathe. I grab your ankle and drag you back to the center. Your red knee pads scrape across the canvas. You kick with your free leg, heel brushing my shoulder, but I step around and twist your leg into a standing toe hold. Your body turns with the pressure. I drop an elbow into your inner thigh, then another into the knee joint. Now your swagger changes. Pain does that. I wrap your leg around mine and fall backward, trapping you in a figure-four leglock. Your mouth opens in a roar the moment it’s locked. My legs scissor yours. My hips lift. Pressure tears through your knee and thigh. You slap the mat once—not a submission, just pain. The referee drops beside you and asks. You shake your head hard. “No?” I say, leaning back. “Then scream louder.” You push up on your elbows. Your beard is wet, your chest rising hard, red trunks bright under the lights as your trapped leg trembles. I feel you trying to turn us over. I brace my palms behind me and keep the hold centered. You drag us inch by inch. The ropes are close, but not close enough. I lift my hips again. You curse at the ceiling. That’s when your hand finally catches the bottom rope. The referee counts, and I release at four. I stand and limp once, because your kicks caught me more than I wanted to admit. You roll away clutching your leg. I follow, but you pull yourself under the bottom rope and drop to the floor. Running away. No, not running.Resetting. I know the difference. So I step through the ropes and follow you.

Marco

The floor is colder than the ring, Alex. Harder too. That matters. My leg burns from that figure-four, and every step sends a little lightning through the knee, but anger keeps me upright. You follow me outside like control belongs to you. That’s your mistake. You reach for me near the barricade. I let you get close. Then I grab your black waistband and your shoulder and drive you ribs-first into the edge of the ring apron. Your breath leaves in a hard grunt. The apron is the hardest part of the ring, and now your ribs know it. I grab the back of your head and shove you against the barricade. Fans lean back as your chest hits the rail. The referee starts counting. One. Two. I don’t care yet. I turn you around and slap your chest so hard the front row gasps. Your beard lifts as your head snaps back. I slap you again. Open palm. Loud. Personal. “Still asking if I’m furious?”I hook your arm over my shoulder, grab your trunks at the hip, and lift you for a suplex on the floor. You block it, dropping your weight. Your bare feet spread on the mats. You try to reverse, but I drive a knee into your stomach. Then I lift again. This time you go up. For one hanging second, your body is vertical above me, black gear against the arena lights. Then I drop you stomach-first across the barricade. Your body folds over the rail. The crowd erupts. The referee reaches six. I grab you by the beard again and drag you off the barricade. The warning comes, loud and useless. I roll you into the ring under the bottom rope and slide in after you at eight. Now the match belongs to me again. You crawl toward the center, one arm wrapped around your ribs. I stalk behind you, limping slightly but smiling through it. I stomp your back. Then your ribs. Then I press my bare foot against your jaw and grind your face sideways into the mat. The referee counts. I step off at four. You push up, and I catch you in a seated position. I kneel behind you and drive my knee between your shoulder blades, pulling both of your arms backward over my thighs. A surfboard stretch without lifting, brutal and simple. Your chest stretches open, your shoulders strain, and those injured ribs expand against the pressure. I lean close to your ear. “Breathe if you can.”You refuse to give the referee an answer. Of course. Pride is stitched into you like that black gear. So I change the hold. I thread one arm under your chin and pull back into a seated chinlock, my knee still buried in your spine. Your hands grab at my forearm. The arena chants your name.

Alex.

Alex.

Alex.

It irritates me. I crank harder. You rise anyway. That’s the thing about you. Even hurt, even trapped, you keep rising like the story has already promised you a comeback. But stories can be broken. You get to one knee. I pull tighter. You get to both feet. I jump onto your back and lock a sleeper, legs wrapped around your waist. My chest presses against your back, my beard near your temple, my arm cutting across your throat. Now carry me, Alex. Carry the weight of red.

Alex

Your sleeper tightens, Marco, and the world narrows at the edges. The crowd gets distant. The lights stretch into white streaks. Your forearm is under my chin, your bicep against one side of my neck, your wrist locked tight. Your legs clamp around my waist, red knee pads digging into my hips. You’re on my back like a curse. I stagger. You whisper something, but the blood rushing in my ears almost drowns it out. I will not fall. My hands reach for your arm. I tuck my chin just enough to keep space. Not much. A finger’s width. Enough to survive. I take one step backward. You squeeze harder. I take another. Then I run backward into the corner. Your back hits the turnbuckles, but your grip stays. So I do it again. This time the impact loosens your legs. I grab the top rope with both hands, lean forward, then hurl myself backward for a third collision. Your hold breaks. You slump in the corner, arms over the top ropes. I stumble forward, sucking air. When I turn, you’re already coming out of the corner with a clothesline. I duck. You spin around, and I catch you around the waist, lift, and drop you with a spinebuster in the center of the ring. The mat shakes under us. I stay on top for the cover. One. Two. You kick out. I roll onto my knees, sweat dripping from my beard, chest burning, ribs screaming. You lie beside me, one hand on your knee, one on your back. Both of us are paying now. I stand first. I pull you up with me, but you fire a forearm into my ribs. Pain bursts through my side. I answer with a headbutt. Your eyes glaze for a heartbeat. I grab your wrist and whip you into the ropes. You rebound. I drop low and lift you high with a back body drop. You crash down and arch, clutching your spine. I don’t cover. Not yet. I go to the corner and climb. Bare feet on the middle rope, then the top. The crowd stands. I’m not a flyer by nature, and that makes this count more. I look down at you in red, sprawled beneath me, chest rising, beard dark with sweat. I leap.Elbow drop.At the last moment, you roll away. My elbow and ribs crash into the canvas. Agony shoots through me. I curl on my side, gasping. You drag yourself toward me, slow but hungry. A mistake. My mistake. A big one. You cover me, hooking the leg deep. One. Two. I kick out just before three. Your face twists with disbelief. Good. Feel that frustration. I roll toward the ropes. You follow and stomp my ribs again, and this time I can’t hide the sound that comes out of me. You pull me up. My body wants to fold, but my hands shoot out and shove you away. You come back. I catch you with a sudden powerslam. Both of us hit hard. I can’t cover right away. My ribs won’t let me move. The referee starts counting while we lie on our backs, black and red wreckage in the center of the ring. One. Two. Three. I turn onto my stomach. Four. You push up on one elbow. Five. I get to my knees. Six. You stand with the ropes. Seven. I stand without them. We stare at each other again. No smirks now. Only damage.

Marco

That look in your eyes, Alex, tells me the match has become something different. Not performance. Not pride. Not even victory. Survival. Good. I limp away from the ropes, and you step toward me with your ribs taped only by pain and stubbornness. The crowd feels it. The air changes. Every movement matters now. You swing a chop. I take it. The crack against my chest is sharp, hot, humiliating. I answer with a forearm to your jaw. Your head turns. You come back with another chop. I answer with another forearm. Chop. Forearm. Chop. Forearm. The crowd counts without numbers, just noise rising after every strike. Your chest is red now despite the black gear. Mine burns like fire. Neither of us backs away. Then I spit to the side and slap you across the face. Not a wrestling strike. An insult. Your eyes harden. You tackle me. Both of us crash to the mat, rolling, grabbing, punching. The referee dives close, warning closed fists, but the match has spilled into instinct. You land on top and hammer down. I buck you off and roll over you. I drive a forearm into your cheek. You twist and grab my beard, pulling me close enough that our foreheads collide. The referee threatens to disqualify both of us. That snaps just enough control back into the ring. I shove away and rise, wiping sweat from my mouth. You stand too, slower, one arm around your ribs. I fake a step forward, then kick your left thigh. Your leg buckles. I kick it again. Not the knee pad. The meat above it. Deadening the base. You try to grab me, but I pivot and drive a roundhouse-style kick into your ribs. You fold. I hook your head. DDT. Your skull spikes into the mat, and your body rolls limp onto your back. I cover. One. Two. Your shoulder rises. For a second, I stare at the referee like the count itself betrayed me. Then I laugh. Not because it’s funny. Because anger needs somewhere to go. I drag you toward the corner by the arm. Your chest leaves a smear of sweat on the canvas. I climb to the second rope and look down. Red knee pads bent, barefoot on the ropes, chest heaving. I raise both arms, and the arena drowns me in boos. Perfect. I jump for a diving knee drop. You move. My knee slams into the canvas. Pain explodes up my leg, the same leg you damaged earlier. I roll away, clutching it, teeth clenched so hard my jaw aches. You crawl toward me. No. Not now. I swing at you from the mat, but you catch my ankle. The crowd rises again. You stand, holding my leg, and there’s no mercy in your face.

Alex

Your knee is mine now, Marco. You try to roll, try to twist, try to kick me away with your free foot, but I hold the ankle tight and step over. The earlier figure-four hurt you. This is worse because now the leg is wounded and you know exactly what’s coming. I turn you onto your stomach. You claw at the mat. I sit back into a single-leg Boston crab. Your body bends. Your red knee pads grind against the canvas. I lean my weight backward, pulling your leg at an angle that makes your thigh tremble. Your hands reach forward, fingers spread, the ropes far away. The referee asks. You shout no. I sit deeper. My ribs burn from the position, but I don’t release. Your pain has to become larger than mine. That’s the math of this match now. “Crawl,” I say. “Show them how far pride can drag a man.” You plant your forearms and start pulling. Every inch costs you. Your beard nearly brushes the mat. Your chest slides against the canvas. The red gear that looked so loud at the start now looks like a target. You get closer. I drag you back. The crowd erupts. You slam your fist on the mat—not tapping, raging. I pull harder. Your leg shakes under my grip. For a moment, I think that’s it. Then you twist your hips suddenly and kick backward with your free leg. Your heel catches my injured ribs. The pain blinds me. My grip breaks. I stumble away, clutching my side. You pull yourself to the ropes and use them to stand. I charge. You drop and pull the top rope down. My momentum carries me over. I spill to the outside and hit the floor hard. The arena floor knocks the air out of me all over again. I lie there staring upward at the lights beyond the ropes, hearing the referee count. One. Two. Inside the ring, you’re standing badly, holding your knee, but standing. You look down at me with that red fury returning.Three.I push to my hands and knees. Four. You step through the ropes onto the apron. No. You’re not thinking about safety. You’re thinking about damage. I rise near the barricade. You run along the apron and leap. Flying clothesline. Your body crashes into mine, and both of us go down on the floor. The crowd loses its mind. For several seconds, nothing moves except our chests.

Marco

The floor hurts, Alex. My knee. My back. My shoulder. Everything. But seeing you down beside me makes it worth the price. The referee’s count climbs while both of us crawl. Five. I grab the apron skirt and pull myself up. Six. You push to one knee, one arm wrapped around your ribs. Seven. I roll under the bottom rope, then roll back out to break the count. The crowd boos, but I’m not taking a count-out. Not after this. Not after all this damage. This ends with shoulders down or a man surrendering. I pull you up near the announce table. Your body is heavy now. Less resistance. More survival. I slam your face against the table cover. You stagger. I clear space with one arm, sending papers and a headset flying. The referee shouts from the ring. I ignore him. I hook you for another suplex, this time aiming for the table. You block it. Your hands grip my waist. You try to lift me instead, but your ribs betray you. I feel the weakness and drive a knee into your stomach. Then I club your back. Again, I hook the suplex. You block again. Stubborn. Always stubborn. You shift suddenly and lift me for a body slam, but my leg slips behind yours. I land on my feet, shove you chest-first into the ring post, and hear the impact through the noise. You stumble backward into my arms. I catch you in a rear waistlock. German suplex on the floor. Your shoulders and neck hit the mats with a thud that makes even me wince. Now the crowd chants both names.

Alex.

Marco.

Alex.

Marco.

I hate that. They’re giving you equal space in my moment. So I drag you up and roll you back into the ring. I slide in after you and hook both legs tight, stacking your body. One. Two. No. You kick out again. I sit back on my heels, hands on my head, staring at the referee. His fingers show two. Only two. My knee throbs. My chest burns. My lungs feel scraped raw. I stand slowly. If the normal finish won’t keep you down, something heavier will. I drag you to the corner and sit you on the top turnbuckle. Your head hangs forward. I climb after you, one foot on the middle rope, one on the top. I hook your head under my arm. Superplex. The crowd senses it. You come alive. A punch to my ribs. Another. A headbutt. My grip loosens. You shove me. I fall backward and land on the mat. I roll once and stop. Above me, you stand on the top rope. That’s when I know danger has become desperate.

Alex

The top rope cuts into my bare feet, Marco, and my ribs scream with every breath. You’re below me, flat on your back in red, one hand on your knee, the other reaching for nothing. The arena is a storm. This could end me if I miss. It could end you if I land. I jump. Frog splash. For a moment, there’s only air, heat, lights, and the roar. Then my chest and stomach crash across yours. Pain detonates through my ribs, but the impact crushes you under me. I hook the far leg with everything left in my arms. One. Two. Your shoulder comes up. I roll off and stare at the ceiling, laughing once because there is nothing else to do. Not joy. Not disbelief. Just the sound of a body pushed past reason. You turn onto your side, coughing. I push up, slow and shaking. The referee checks both of us, but neither of us wants him. I reach for you. You shove my hand away and slap me from your knees. Even now. Especially now. I slap you back. You rise. I rise. Both of us unsteady. The crowd is standing. You throw a forearm. I absorb it and fire back. You kick my ribs. I nearly drop, but I catch your leg. Your eyes widen. I spin you around. When you turn back, I lift you onto my shoulders. Fireman’s carry. You elbow my jaw before I can finish. Once. Twice. My grip falters. You slide down behind me and shove me into the ropes. I rebound and turn straight into your spear. Your shoulder drives into my stomach like a battering ram. We hit the mat with you on top. One. Two. I kick out. Your forehead drops against my chest. For a second, we’re both too exhausted to move. Then you push yourself up, rage returning in pieces. You pull me up by the wrist and signal for something final. Maybe a short-arm lariat. Maybe that red-line cutter you’ve used to finish everyone else. I don’t know. I only know that when you yank me forward, I duck under. I catch your arm. I hook your head. I drop backward into a sudden arm-trap neckbreaker. You land hard. I cover. One. Two. You kick out. The match refuses to die. So I go to what I know best: pressure, leverage, punishment. I grab your arm and drag you toward the center. I step over your head, trap your wrist between my thighs, and sit back into a crossface. Your body jolts. My hands lock across your face and jaw. I pull back, bending your neck and shoulders, my chest pressed to your back. Your injured leg kicks weakly. The ropes are far. “Nowhere, Marco.” You groan, hands searching. Your palm hovers over the mat. The crowd screams.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap. 

You don’t. You crawl. How? I don’t know. But you crawl. Inch by inch, dragging both of us, my ribs grinding against your back with every movement. Your fingertips reach. Miss. Reach again. Miss again. I pull back harder. Your hand rises. For a heartbeat, I think it’s over. Then your fingers catch the bottom rope. The referee calls the break. I release at four and roll away, staring at you with something close to respect and something closer to fury.

Marco

That crossface almost takes me, Alex. Almost. The word almost is all that keeps me alive. My jaw aches. My shoulder feels torn. My knee is half-dead. But the rope is under my hand, and that means the match still has breath. I pull myself beneath the bottom rope and lie on the apron, trying to make the air work again. You stand inside the ring, black knee pads stained with sweat, beard dripping, ribs marked red from everything I’ve done. You reach over the ropes to grab me. I snap your throat down across the top rope. You stumble backward, hands at your neck. I roll in under the bottom rope and force myself up. You turn toward me, and I explode with what’s left. Red-line cutter. I jump, catch your head, and drive you face-first into the mat. The crowd erupts. I roll you over and cover, hooking both legs, pressing my chest against yours.

One.

Two.

No.

No.

Your shoulder rises. I shout at the referee. Not words. Just rage. He holds up two fingers again, and I want to break those fingers. But anger won’t pin you. Not yet. I stand, shaking. I drag my thumb across my throat and pull you up. Your legs barely hold you. I hook your arms behind your back for the Red Fury Driver. Double underhook. Head tucked. Lift and drop. That’s the end. That has to be the end. I pull. Your weight rises halfway. My knee gives. You drop back to your feet. Pain opens the door for you. You back body drop me, but I hold on and roll through, landing behind you. I shove you forward into the corner. You hit chest-first. I limp after you and climb to the second rope behind you, hooking your head. Maybe a bulldog. Maybe anything. You grab the ropes. I pull. You don’t move. Then you throw your head back into my face. My nose bursts with pain. I fall from the ropes and land on my back. You turn slowly. I sit up, dazed. Your knee comes up under my chin. Running knee. My head snaps back, and I collapse. You fall on top.

One.

Two.

I kick out.

Barely.

The crowd is beyond noise now. It’s a living thing, shaking the ring. You roll to the corner and pull yourself up. I do the same across from you. Opposite corners. Black and red. Both barefoot. Both bearded. Both chests heaving, bruised, marked, shining under the lights. The referee looks between us like he’s watching a storm decide where to strike. I nod at you. Not respect exactly. Recognition. Then I charge.

Alex

You charge from the corner, Marco, and I charge too. No tricks. No feints. No escapes. We collide in the middle with double clotheslines, arms crashing across each other’s chests. Both of us fall. The mat takes us again.The referee starts counting.

One.

Two.

Three.

My fingers flex against the canvas.

Four.

You roll to your side.

Five.

I push up.

Six.

You get one foot under you.

Seven.

I’m standing.

Eight.

You’re standing too. The arena explodes. I step forward and throw the hardest chop I have left. Your chest absorbs it, red and raw. You answer with a forearm that nearly turns my knees to water. I grab your beard and pull you into a headbutt. You stagger, then grab my beard and return one of your own. Pain flashes white. I laugh through it. You laugh too. Then the fight becomes pure. I hit a forearm. You hit one back. I knee your ribs. You elbow my neck. I shove you. You shove me harder. I swing for a lariat, but you duck and catch me in a sleeper again. Not this time. I drop my weight and snap you over my shoulder. You roll through and rise. I rush. You scoop me for a slam, but I slide behind you and push. You hit the ropes, rebound, and I catch you with a tilt-a-whirl backbreaker. Your body bends across my knee. I cover. One. Two. Kickout. I don’t argue. I don’t have the energy. I pull you up and hook your head. Suplex position. Your arm drapes over my neck. I lift, but my ribs scream and my strength falters. You reverse. You lift me instead. Vertical suplex. You hold me upside down, and the crowd counts.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Then you drop me. My back hits hard. You roll into the cover.

One.

Two.

I kick out.

You sit up and slap the mat. Your knee keeps twitching, punished by every movement. I see it. I need it. You stand and pull me up for the Red Fury Driver again. Double underhook. Head tucked. This time you roar as you lift. I twist my hips midair.NI slip free, land behind you, and chop block the bad leg. You go down hard, clutching the knee. Boos and cheers mix. It isn’t pretty. It is necessary. I grab both of your legs. The crowd knows. I step through and turn you over. Sharpshooter. Your body twists beneath me. I sit back, locking your legs around mine, pulling pressure through your knee, thigh, and lower back. You’re trapped in the center. You roar. I lean back.

“Tap, Marco.”

Your hands claw at the mat. Your body trembles. The referee asks again and again. Your face is twisted, beard pressed close to the canvas, chest slick with sweat, red gear stretched as your hips fight the hold. You start crawling. No.NI drag you back. The crowd explodes. You slam both hands down, refusing. Not tapping. Refusing. I sit deeper.NYour hand rises. For a second, the whole arena seems to hold its breath. Then you make a fist and punch the mat, dragging yourself another inch. I can’t believe it. I almost admire it. Almost.

Marco

The sharpshooter is tearing my leg apart, Alex. The pain is bigger than the arena, bigger than the lights, bigger than pride. But tapping would make the pain mean nothing. So I crawl. You drag me back, and something in the crowd breaks open. They think it’s over. Maybe it should be. Maybe any sane man would slap the mat and live to fight another night. But sanity never won a war in a ring. I push up on my forearms. My knee screams. My back locks. You sit deeper, and the pressure nearly blanks my vision. The rope is too far. So I change the plan. I stop crawling. I twist. Just a little at first. Enough to shift your balance. You try to sit lower, but your ribs are hurt, and the hold costs you too. I feel the weakness through your grip. I twist harder, rolling my shoulder under my body, turning into the pressure instead of away from it. You fight to keep me down. I roar and turn. The hold breaks just enough for me to kick you away with both legs. You stumble forward into the ropes, clutching your ribs. I can’t stand. Not fully. So when you turn, I’m on one knee. You rush me, thinking I’m finished. I rise into you. Spear. Not clean. Not perfect. But desperate and heavy. My shoulder drives into your ribs again, and both of us crash down. I crawl over you.

One.

Two.

Your shoulder rises.

I don’t even react. There’s no anger left for the count. Only the next move. I pull myself to the corner. The crowd is chanting now, not for one of us, but for the match itself. Fight forever. Fight forever. Fight forever. Nothing lasts forever. I stand in the corner and wait for you to rise. You push up slowly. Black gear, black knee pads, bare feet unsteady. Your hairy chest is marked with red welts, your beard wet, your face locked in pain and will. You turn toward me. I run. Red Fury Spear. You leap at the last second and catch me in a guillotine choke. Your arm wraps around my neck. Your legs lock around my waist as we drop. My momentum becomes your trap. My throat closes. I land on my knees, then hands, carrying your weight under me. No. Not like this. I push forward, trying to stack you. Your shoulders touch the mat. One. Two.

You release the choke to kick out.

That saves me. I roll away, coughing, clutching my neck. You roll to your knees, frustrated but moving. Both of us stand again, somehow. You charge. I catch you. Red Fury Driver. This time the lift works. I hook both arms, pull you up, and drop you down hard, driving you face and chest into the mat. I turn you over.

One.

Two.

Three

The bell rings.

I release and roll away instantly, collapsing onto my back. The crowd explodes. The sound hits like a wave. I don’t stand. Not right away. I can’t. The referee raises my hand while I’m still on one knee, red speedos soaked with sweat, red knee pads scuffed, bare feet planted wide just to keep balance. My chest rises in broken pulls. My beard drips. Across from me, you lie in black, clutching your leg and neck, staring at the ceiling.

I won.

But victory feels less like standing over you and more  like surviving beside you. I grab you by the hair and force you to stand up, I see that your legs are struggling to hold you. I look you straight in the eyes and grab your wrist, raising it in a sign of respect. We present ourselves to the public with our cocks hard and our muscles covered in sweat. Then all of a sudden I grab your sackball and squeeze it hard feeling it leaking pre like I am squeezing a ripe fruit. I see the pain in your eyes “no one and I say it again no one can win against the champ, motherfucker!” I make you wall on the tips of your toes and thengrab your neck with my other hand and bodyslam you on the ground putting my naked stinky foot on your bulge. Your fans boo me loud. 

Alex

I can’t believe it you make me land on my back, pain erupts from my spine. A guttural sound from my mouth. Then you squeeze my bulge with your dirty sole and my body convulses. The ref pushes you away leaving me with my pain on the mat. The wet tips of my cock showed out from my speedos leaking pre. Humiliated, my body destroyed I can’t move a single muscle without feeling pain. 

Marco

I push the ref away and quickly I am back on you I grab your shoulders and hung you to the ropes, your ass exposed, I rip off your speedos displaying your bubbled ass and your leaking big cock, then, roughly, I put two fingers into your hole, cracking it, smirking I say “you like it? Fucking loser say to everyone you’re my bitch now”

Alex 

I arch my back starting to moan loudly, my cock is out of control bouncing up and down between the ropes “Ok ok Marco I am your bitch please stop!” But I can feel your feral sounds and your finger start to crack my hole to stimulate my prostate until I start to beg you pathetically “please please have mercy champ, I am your bitch now stop please” and suddenly my cock shoot my dense load out of the ring right on the horny crowd, leaving me empty, panting in pain”

Marco

“Good boy” I say letting you go. I raise my arm showing to everyone my fingers, with them I humiliate you in the ring after the match. Then I rol outside the ring and cockily walk backwards keeping my eyes on you laughing out loud. “You’re my bitch Alex you will remember this day for a lot of time”

END

Published: 2026-08-02, viewed 114 times.