THE HIGH TABLE
Established: 2023-11-17
Chat room: #BARBARUS
- No holds barred
- Weapons
- Extreme violence
- Blood
- Death
A worldwide organization of men trained for violent, bloody, and even deadly combat. Their competence is indicated by their qualifications, from the lowest to the highest, reserved for an elite.
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JASON LUNDQUIST
Training to fight Scott again wasn’t easy. It’s not just that he’s as tough as I am, if not tougher. It’s not just that he has as much experience as I do, if not more. It’s that we’ve grown close. Really close. Our last two fights and the nights that followed have built a bond that is hard to describe. And every time we fight, one of us has to lose. One of us has to take something away from the other. The closer we get, the worse that feels.
But, paradoxically, that zero-sum competition is part of what bonds us. There is a thrill in the fight for dominance that survives the fight. And it intensifies what happens in the bedroom after.
We’ve made it to the finals of the Light’s Out Lounge’s Sleeper King Tournament. Unlike other rounds of this tournament, it is three rounds. All go until somebody is strangled or smothered unconscious. The first person to win two rounds wins.
Few things are prohibited. No biting, no eye-gouging, and no fish-hooking. No strikes to the groin, though grips and caresses—erotic attacks and distractions—are legal. Stripping your opponent is legal. Hell, fucking him is legal. But every round must end with somebody unconscious due to lack of oxygenated blood in their brain.
I’m more anxious than usual. No money coming with this trophy. No huge ceremony. But the opinions of the people in this fed, many of whom are now close friends, mean a lot to me. I’ve let them down before—at least that’s how I feel about it. I can’t do it again. The announcer we’ve arranged calls my name and my music—Dire Straits Sultans of Swing—starts to play.
ANNOUNCER
“And making his way to the ring, from Chicago, Illinois, weighing in at 189.3 pounds, he’s The Lights Out Professor, Jasooonnnnnnn Luuuuunnnndddquist!”
JASON LUNDQUIST
Show time. I make the walk in my gi and belt, in red and black slides. I give some smiles and high fives to the gathered fed members. DAM. Scooper. Alex. Greg. Oli. All friends. All occasional opponents. Some even students, of a kind.
I stop at the apron, kick off the slides, take off my jacket, belt, and gi pants, stripping just to my red and black trunks. I fold my gi and place my belt on top, then push them under the ring with my slides, then climb into the ring. I bound around the sides of the ring a little, testing the give, then turn back the way I came, bouncing on the balls of my feet, waiting for my opponent.
THE TATTOOED MUSCLE BRAWLER
Standing backstage in the dim neon glow of the tunnel, I can hear the bass of Sultans of Swing reverberating through the floorboards. I listen to the crowd roaring as you make your walk, Jason. I hear the MC’s voice booming over the speakers, announcing you as 'The Lights Out Professor.' I know what you're feeling out there the weight of this room, the quiet pressure we both carry. Training for this wasn't easy for me either. You talk about us getting close, and you're right. Every time we lock up, every time one of us puts the other to sleep, and every long, quiet night we spend together afterward... it builds a kind of trust that's damn near impossible to explain to anyone outside these ropes. It makes every choke hold feel personal, every smother heavy with everything we are to each other. But you're right about the paradox, too. That absolute struggle for dominance, the raw tension of knowing only oxygen deprivation settles this, that's the spark. It burns through the fight and fuels everything that happens between us long after the arena lights go off.
I take a deep steadying breath, rolling my shoulders back. My 202 lb frame feels primed, ripped, and dialed in. The ink across my skin feels warm, my brown stubble tight against my jaw as I adjust the red singlet with its gold trim. Barefoot, my toes grip the cold floor of the staging area. I’ve logged the hours, both in the gym and on duty as part of the Lounge’s medical team, I know the human body, its limits, and exactly how much pressure it takes to put a man under. The opening chords of Tina Turner’s Simply the Best burst through the sound system, cutting through the heavy air. The crowd in the packed Lights Out Lounge goes absolutely wild a wall of noise, shouts, and cheers from guys who know exactly what we’re about to put each other through.
ANNOUNCER
“And his opponent! Making his way to the ring... standing at 5’10” weighing in at 202 pounds! From Liverpool, England... part of the Lights Out Lounge Medical Team... he is the Tattooed Muscle Brawler... SCOOOOOOTTTT!”
THE TATTOOED MUSCLE BRAWLER
I step out of the dark into the flashing spotlights. The energy hits me like a freight train. I let out a low exhaled breath, taking in the sea of familiar faces. Every cheer from the crowd amplifies the pulse in my veins. I walk down the aisle with a slow, confident stride, the music driving my rhythm. My eyes instantly lock onto the ring, and onto you.
I see you in your red and black trunks, bouncing on the balls of your feet after folding your gi away. You look ready. Focused. Handsome as hell, and dangerous.I reach the apron, spring up onto the wooden frame, and step through the ropes into our domain. The canvas feels firm under my bare feet. I walk to my corner, wiping my hands over my chest, never breaking eye contact with you. I walk to the centre of the ring, stopping just a few feet from you as the referee steps between us to give the final instructions. I look you up and down, taking in your posture, feeling the heat rising off both of us. A tight, knowing smirk tugs at the corner of my mouth."Let's give them a show Professor" I say softly loud enough only for you to hear over the fading music. "And let's see who puts who to sleep first."
JASON LUNDQUIST
I fight a grin, and I'm not successful. I look down and smile. Then I put my hands at my sides, give you a short bow from the hips like the martial arts nerd I am. "We will, Scott," I say when my head comes up, a cocky smile in place of my grin. I know you like it when I try to match your confidence. "I'll try to make this quick and painless for you."
We don't have a referee in the ring, just an official sitting in a folding chair beside the ring to call any serious fouls. He rings a bell loudly to start round 1. I come forward to meet you in the middle. You're a bruiser. Not much bigger than me--only 10 or so pounds--but I know from experience you're significantly stronger. But I need you to know I'm not scared of that. I come forward immediately, hands up for any striking, and I get head to head with you, forcing a lockup. I give you one last longing look, so close I can feel your breath, before the emotion drains out of my eyes and I drop into competition mode.
"Let's go, Scouser," I grunt. Then I yank down on your head and fire a powerful rear knee strike to your abdomen.
THE TATTOOED MUSCLE BRAWLER
When you bow that sharp, cocky smile replacing your grin, my heart does a familiar little jump. God, I love that side of you. You trying to match my swagger, telling me you’ll make it "quick and painless" it sets my blood on fire.
Clang!........The bell echoes through the cavernous lounge, and the roar of the crowd fades into background noise as my focus zeroes in entirely on you.
You don't hesitate for a second. You come right at me hands up, driving yourself head to head into a dirty clinch. For a split second, in that razor thin gap between us, I catch that longing look in your eyes. I feel the warmth of your breath against my lips, smelling the heat radiating off your skin. I want to pull you close right then and there. But just as fast as it appears, the emotion vanishes from your face, replaced by the cold, calculated focus of 'The Professor.' "Let's go Scouser" you grunt.Before the last word even leaves your mouth, your hands clamp onto the back of my neck, wrenching my head down as you drive a heavy rear knee straight up into my abdomen.UFH!........The strike hits solid knocking the air right out of my lungs. My core tightens instantly, muscle absorbing the force, but the shock of it rattles through my ribs. You’re not holding back, and I wouldn’t want it any other way.
I use the momentum of your pull to my advantage. Instead of fighting backward I explode forward, wrapping my thick tattooed arms tightly around your torso to smother your distance and negate any more knees. I drive my shoulder hard into your chest, driving my 202 lbs straight into you to force you back toward the ropes."Nice shot Jason" I growl into your ear my stubble scraping against your neck as I pull your body flush against mine.I sink my hips low, planting my bare feet into the canvas. With a surge of Liverpool strength, I clamp a body lock around your waist, slick singlet rubbing against your trunks, and lift trying to tear your feet off the mat and take us both down into my world of heavy top pressure and submission grinding.
JASON LUNDQUIST
I barely get my knee back down before you start to bullrush me toward the ropes, denying me another knee. I catch you on the collarbone with an elbow but without enough distance to turn my hips there's only so much that can do beyond annoy you and maybe leave a bruise. Before I can re-pummel for at least one under-hook you've got a tight, crushing waist-lock. It's hard to breathe. I can feel my floating ribs I feel your hips drive in and in a moment I'm in the air. Fuck that happened fast, I think. Your power is surprising every time. Every single time.
I round my back, tuck my head, and hook my feet inside your legs, knees out, so that (1) it's awkward to put me down hard, and (2) I can take the fall without extra damage or head trauma. You don't put me down gently, but I survive the slam into the mat. I immediately unhook my legs and throw my legs around your torso to secure a full guard, holding your head with my arms to help keep your posture down. The position is defensible, but it's hard not to be a little scared, feeling that big, powerful chest pinning me down through your thin spandex singlet of yours.
I start trying to hip escape to one side, hoping to generate an angle for some offense while denying you the opportunity to drop hard strikes on my face.
THE TATTOOED MUSCLE BRAWLER
That short elbow you dig into my collarbone stings like hell, a sharp shock of pain radiating up into my neck. It does nothing to slow me down, though if anything, it just turns my aggression up a notch.When I lift you off your feet, I feel you instantly react, your instinct as a technician kicking in. Even mid air, you’re calculating. Smart bastard.
We hit the canvas with a bone jarring THUD! that reverberates through the ring floor. I come down heavy right on top of you, my full 202 pounds driving into your frame. But before I can settle into a dominant mount, you close your guard around me. I can hear your ragged breathing right in my ear, feel the rapid pounding of your heart against mine through the thin spandex of my singlet. You’re pinned under me, and you don't like it, but I'm not in a position to really attack yet. I start getting my feet under me, digging my toes in as I try to pull my head up and posture up. You fight me every inch of the way, but I wedge my forearms against your chest, flexing every tattooed muscle in my shoulders and arms to pry myself upward, my brown stubble brushing against your jaw as I strain."Not getting away that easy Professor" I pant out my blue eyes staring down into yours from just inches away.
The hip escape hits suddenly, and I immediately see the submission threats. I react instantly. As your hips move, I square back up and drive down and forward, my right knee tight against your hip, blocking your rotation and trying to smash you back flat onto your back. I slide my right arm deep under your head, driving my shoulder directly into your chin to pressure your head away, while my left hand reaches down, gripping the waist of your trunks to control your hips, feeling the heat off your skin as we grind against each other on the mat, both of us fighting tooth and nail for control of the pace.
JASON LUNDQUIST
I grunt as you grab my head with your right arm, forcing me back down to the mat directly in front of you, leaning in so that your shoulder turns my head the other way. Your knees control my hips, and you're pressed so forward that I can't extend or bring my feet back in between us. My legs are still around you, so I lock my feet behind you again, but I'm well and truly pinned. Stuck. Our bodies glued together from our hips to our chests with you on top. And you know how to make yourself feel heavy. I should...hate this feeling. I usually do. But I feel that warm, hot muscle through your singlet, and you know how much I like feeling that against me. Traitorously, a part of me likes the feeling of being controlled by that muscle. I feel your dick hardening against my ass through your singlet and my trunks. My cock starts to respond.
I feel a flush of embarrassment. I need to think...tactically. Your right arm is committed to my head, if I can shrug it by me there is a free chance at your back. I open my guard and start scooting the opposite direction--to my right, your left, away from your arm--and as you follow I bicycle kick my legs and shrug my left shoulder forward, shooting my hips back, sliding your right arm past my head. I then scramble to your back, securing both hooks immediately. "Good thing it's not wrestling," I whisper to you once I secure the position. "Or I'd already be done."
I try to flatten you belly down by driving my hips into you, but you prove too stable and strong for that, so I start to fish for the choke, using the occasional elbow to force you to block rather than defend your neck. My cock continues to harden against your back as I feel your back muscles working under me, and watch those big shoulders rotate as you try to escape. I'm not so embarrassed by enjoying this now--the part of me that likes to win is always welcome to make itself known.
THE TATTOOED MUSCLE BRAWLER
The heat rising off our skin is suffocating, and being pressed tight against you like this feeling every hard contour of your body underneath mine turns the wrestling match into pure electricity. Through the thin fabric of my red singlet and your trunks, there’s no hiding what’s happening. As I drive my hips down to pin you, my 9 inch cock swells, hardening rock solid against your rear. And I feel you right back your own 8 inch length thickening and grinding hard against my groin and ass with every desperate shift of your body.It’s intoxicating. A heady primal cocktail of competitive violence and raw attraction. You can feel my strength crushing down on you controlling you, and knowing a part of you surrenders to that feeling only makes my pulse race faster.
I keep the shoulder pressure heavy on your chin, thinking I've got you locked down tight, but you’re too damn smart to stay trapped.You open your guard bicycle kick your legs, and shrug your left shoulder with explosive timing. Before I can adjust my base, my right arm slides right past your head. In the blink of an eye you’re scrambling, slipping out from under my heavy chest and taking my back like a shadow.Your hooks slide in tight around my thighs, securing the position before I can even turn my shoulders."Good thing it's not wrestling" you whisper right into my ear, your warm breath sending a sharp chill down my spine despite the sweat pouring off us. "Or I'd already be done."You drive your hips hard into my lower back, trying to flatten me belly down onto the canvas to completely break my base. But I plant my knees wide, digging my bare toes into the mat and arching my thick back muscles, turning my frame into an immovable anvil. You realize quickly you aren't going to flatten a 202 lb heavy hitter that easily.
Then I feel it your rock hard cock pressing firm and unrelenting into my lower back and ass through our gear. The feeling of your rigid length pushing against me as your back muscles ripple under your skin drives me fucking crazy. My own erection stays rock hard, pinned between my stomach and the canvas as I fight your grip. You start throwing short nasty elbows to my ribs, forcing me to cover up and raise my guard. The moment my hand comes up to block a strike your hand snakes in, fishing under my chin for the choke. "Sneaky bastard aren't you?" I grunt through gritted teeth, tucking my chin tight against my collarbone to deny you the neck. I reach up with my right hand trapping your choking arm at the wrist, peeling it down just enough to give myself an inch of breathing room. With a heavy groan of effort I turn my shoulders into you, using my raw upper body power to start turning in your guard, trying to force your hooks out and scramble back into top position before you can lock in a deep rear naked sleeper.
JASON LUNDQUIST
The position never totally stabilizes, and it isn't long before I feel my control starting to slip. I check your arm position as it looks like I might drop in front of you, but there's no obvious triangle choke to be had, so instead I jump off your back and bound a couple steps away, then turn to face you, putting us back on our feet. My hands come up into a Muay Thai long-guard, but I keep my weight balanced between both legs, as this isn't a kickboxing match. I grin at you. "You can't give me an inch, Scouser," I say. "And I can't give you a second." I start to circle inward, away from your power hand. I know how hard you can hit when you want to. I throw a tight, disciplined turning kick to the inner thigh of your lead leg, trying to start to damage your mobility, then I fire a hard right palm-strike at your nose, pivot, and throw a left body hook before trying to hop back out.
THE TATTOOED MUSCLE BRAWLER
As you disengage and bound back, I push myself up off the canvas, standing tall and shaking out my shoulders. My singlet is slick with sweat, stretching tight over my chest, and my rock hard cock is still undeniably visible against the fabric as I face you down. "You can't give me an inch Scouser" you grin stepping into that sharp Muay Thai long guard. "And I can't give you a second.""Keep telling yourself that Professor" I chuckle my blue eyes tracking every subtle twitch of your hips as you start circling away from my power hand.You move fast snapping a tight turning kick right into the inner meat of my lead thigh.THWACK!........The sting fires up my leg making my muscle twitch, but I plant my foot hard into the canvas to absorb it. Before I can reset your right palm strike comes flying straight at my nose. I snap my head back just in time, feeling the wind of it brush my brown stubble, but you use the pivot seamlessly, digging a brutal left body hook right under my floating ribs. UGH!........The hook connects solid, driving the breath from my lungs for a second time. But as you try to hop back out to safety, I don't let you escape the pocket.I step through the pain, driving my heavy 202 lb frame right into your space before you can set your feet. I drop my head low shoot my hands straight past your guard, and wrap my thick tattooed arms completely around your chest and lower back in a tight body lock."My turn" I growl into your ear.I arch my back, drive my hips forward with everything I’ve got, and lift you clean off your feet planning to slam you belly up straight to the mat so I can stack you and start digging my forearms into your neck.
JASON LUNDQUIST
I grunt hard as you lift me again. Fuck, Scott really want this one on the ground, I think. I tuck again for the drop, but this one is a little more violent. I was expecting you to start blasting back, this took me completely off-guard. You don't let me secure my legs around you this time, instead stacking me forward, driving my knees into my chest and trying to smash my neck through the floor with your forearms. It's not a choke, but it's not comfortable. I've got a flexible lower back, but that doesn't help the diaphragm or neck. I'm carrying your weight, burning energy, and not recovering fully as long as I'm here. I have to get out. Then you growl 'my turn' in my ear and I let out an involuntary moan. Fuck you're hot. Goddamn. I pivot and try to swing for an arm-bar, yanking your right arm across and throwing my legs up, trying to shoulder-walk backward to weaken your stack. I can't win by arm-bar in this format, but I can certainly make you back off enough for me to get up.
THE TATTOOED MUSCLE BRAWLER
That involuntary moan you let slip into my ear when I growled at you sends a jolt of heat straight to my gut. Hearing you react like that while I've got you stacked, your body folded and carrying all 202 lbs of my weight, makes my heart hammer against my ribs.You try to shoulder-walk backward, throwing your legs up to threaten an armbar. It’s a slick move, designed to force me off, but as you shift, your hips angle up toward my face. Right there, practically touching my jaw, your trunks are stretched tight across a thick, rock-hard bulge that’s impossible to ignore.The crowd notices it too a chorus of low whistles and catcalls ripples through the packed Lights Out Lounge. Guys are pounding on the canvas surrounding the ring, cheering for the spectacle.I know the rules of this tournament inside and out. Stripping is completely legal. And looking down at your bulging trunks while feeling my own length throbbing against my singlet, an opportunistic grin breaks across my face. I decide to give the crowd, and both of us exactly what this fight is heading toward anyway.Instead of fighting the armbar by pulling away, I drive my weight down harder into your chest, anchoring my left arm over your legs to pin you down. With my free hand, I hook my fingers into the waistband of your red and black trunks."You're fighting hard in these Professor" I pant down at you, my blue eyes dark with intent, brown stubble glistening with sweat. "But I think they're just getting in the way. Let's relieve you of these trunks and get naked give the crowd what they really came to see."Before you can shift your hips away I give a sharp, powerful tug peeling the damp fabric down over your hips and thighs, exposing your thick, rock hard 8 inch cock to the ambient heat of the room and the roaring spectators.The crowd goes absolutely wild, the room erupting into cheers as the atmosphere shifts from intense wrestling to sheer, uninhibited dominance.
I don't stop there I reach down and strip my own singlet down to my waist, popping my shoulders free so my tattooed chest and fully erect 9 inch cock are out in the open, pressing right back down toward you as I re-stack your hips."Now" I whisper leaning in until my lips brush your ear, my forearm pressing hard across your throat to test your neck, "let's see how well you defend from down there completely bare."
JASON LUNDQUIST
My armbar just results in me getting stacked harder and then...I feel your fingers in my waistband, I bring my hands up to defend but it's already too late. You decide to give the crowd a show and yank them off me, and I feet the air on my ass and cock. The crowd roars its approval. I feel a flush of embarrassment, even humiliation, but also...fuck. It's also fucking hot. Then, holding me stacked, you strip yourself to the waist as well. "Fuck...Scouser," I gasp, seeing your rock hard 9-incher unsheathed. "If you wanted us to roll around naked on the ground, you just had to ask," I grunt. I use the momentum of you stacking me again to force a back-roll, landing in a crouch facing you, then I re-shoot with a powerful double leg shot, trying to completely run you over and put you on your back.
THE TATTOOED MUSCLE BRAWLER
Seeing that flush of embarrassment wash over your face mixed with that undeniable flare of heat in your eyes makes my blood surge. Watching your hard 8 inch length spring free while my own 9 inch cock hangs bare between my legs elevates every single touch between us. The roaring crowd in the Lights Out Lounge is practically shaking the ring floor, but all I hear is your ragged gasping. "If you wanted us to roll around naked on the ground, you just had to ask" you grunt fighting through the stack."I like taking what I want, Professor" I growl back leaning in to drive my forearm across your collarbone.But I underestimate your flexibility and grit. The moment I shift my weight to press the attack, you ride the momentum of my stack, tucking your chin and executing a smooth, explosive back-roll right out from under me.You pop up into a low crouch, bare skin gleaming under the arena lights, and before I can even pull my singlet the rest of the way off my legs or reset my stance, you explode into a textbook double leg shot.THUD!........Your shoulders drive right into my hips with the force of a freight train. Without my singlet fully secured and my feet caught slightly out of position, your speed wins out. You run straight through me, driving your full weight forward and driving me flat onto my back against the mat.The impact knocks the wind out of me with a hard exhale. The bare canvas feels rough against my bare skin, and instantly, you're on top of me naked body pressed against naked body, skin to slick skin, cock to cock.My arms wrap around your broad back instinctively, tattooed fingers digging into your muscle as I try to pull you tight into my guard to neutralize your space. My brown stubble scrapes against your shoulder as I tilt my head up, blue eyes staring right into yours, both of our erections crushed together in the absolute chaos of the exchange.
"Fast bastard" I choke out with a wicked grin, my hips bucking up against yours to test your base. "Now let's see if you can keep me down here!"
JASON LUNDQUIST
I intend to keep you down, but not to hold you in one place. That's a game for somebody with a size or strength advantage. Before you can lock your legs around me to restrain my movement, I hop up and knee-cut pass to your right, landing in side control, but I don't stay there either, continuing to move until I'm in a deep north south, with my cock right in your face. And yours, therefore, in mine. I reach down, grab your singlet, which you peeled down to just below your balls, and push it down further. "I'm a gentleman, Scouser--take a sec to kick out of that thing so it doesn't get caught around your legs. I'll give you something to think about while I wait." I open my mouth and engulf your cock, licking the head and taking you deep with furious, combative abandon.
THE TATTOOED MUSCLE BRAWLER
The moment you popped your hips and initiated that slick knee cut pass, my combat instincts fired off a fraction of a second too late. Normally I’d have framed hard against your collarbone, braced my hips, and trapped your ankle in half guard to grind the momentum to a dead halt. I had the raw size and weight on you every pound of dense, tattooed muscle built for crushing pins and brutal mat control.But as you slid effortlessly into side control and kept the fluid, relentless motion going right into a deep north south, the heavy, intoxicating heat of the moment completely breached my defenses. My lungs hitched as your bare chest crushed down near mine, the scent of sweat, leather, and raw dominance filling the air. Before I could bridge or throw my arms up to scramble for position, your thick shaft was right in my face, inches from my lips, throbbing with the same adrenaline surging through my own veins.When you reached down, yanked my rolled down singlet down past my thighs, and growled that cocky remark with that infuriating grin, any lingering urge to fight off the pin evaporated."Gentleman my ass..." I wheezed out, my voice thick and raspy Scouser grit giving way to pure, unadulterated heat.I kicked my legs violently, shaking off the bunched up nylon singlet until it flew clear off my ankles, leaving me completely bare on the mat beneath him. But before I could even plant my heels to attempt a bridge, you closed your mouth over me.God damn. The sensation hit me like a physical blow. You didn't just take me in you engulfed me with a aggressive, relentless suction, your tongue swirling over the head before taking the full weight of my shaft right down your throat. The combative abandon in your movement sent a violent jolt of electricity straight down my spine. My lower back arched involuntarily off the canvas, my heavy, ink covered thighs flaring open and tensing hard as I clawed my fingers into the edge of the canvas.
JASON LUNDQUIST
I feel you arch and I know I've fucking got you. Keeping your attention fixed on my aggressive, dominating assault on your cock, I start to reposition my legs, until my left leg is against your head, above your left shoulder, while my right leg is outside your right shoulder. I increase the intensity of the head I'm giving you as the crowd roars, unable to distinguish between your arches of pleasure and frantic attempts to escape as you realize what I'm doing. Using my flexibility I swivel my left leg, raising my butt just enough to slide my left calf under your head. My left hamstring seals itself against your neck. I reach back, lift my left foot, then hook it under the pit of my right knee, locking the reverse triangle. The choke is not immediate--I'm not bearing down--but you can feel it starting to do its work as I bring you ever closer to erupting, using my hands now to fight yours. You're stronger, but gravity is against you here. And some part of you doesn't want to succeed. I keep sucking, lapping, taking you deeper as I hold you, my cock hardening to iron at the feeling of controlling you like this. I feel a spurt of precum and know I'm close. I let my mouth come off your cock for just a moment. "Don't worry, Scouser," I whisper, so only you can hear. "I won't waste a drop." I dive back down on your cock to finish the job, and start squeezing on the strangle by pulling my heels to my butt.
THE TATTOOED MUSCLE BRAWLER
The second that reverse triangle locks over my throat and your hamstring seals tight against my neck, a violent jolt of pure adrenaline shoots straight up my spine. My brain instantly recognizes the trap, but my body is completely paralyzed by the white hot sensation of your mouth taking my cock deeper, lapping up my precum while you hold me in that suffocating leg lock.I try to fight it my taped hands clawing at your thighs, my 202 lbs frame trying to scramble and bridge against the canvas. But gravity your flexibility, and the suffocating weight of your hold have me completely anchored. I want to resist, I want to break free and take control, but as the pressure on my throat builds, my body completely betrays me. I can't stop the overwhelming urge surging up from my gut.When your mouth slips off my shaft for that split second, your whisper burning into my skin" I won't waste a drop" it shatters my last ounce of restraint.You dive back down devouring my cock with a desperate, wild intensity while pulling your heels straight to your butt, bearing down on the hold with total, unforgiving force. The suffocating squeeze on my neck mixed with the blinding, explosive pleasure of your mouth pushing me over the edge creates a mind breaking sensory overload. I try to hold back my load, try to maintain control, but it's completely useless under your absolute grip.“Ah!......fuck!......Jason!”A choked muffled cry is torn from my lungs right into your throat. My vision dims at the edges as the pressure locks me down, and my body completely surrenders to the sensation.I erupt helplessly right into your mouth shooting thick, scorching ropes of cum straight down your throat in a violent, uncontrollable release. My back arches off the mat my toes curling, my internal muscles pulsing wildly as the orgasm crashes over me while you hold me firmly in your grip.
I’m left utterly spent, shuddering beneath you, completely undone and unable to stop the endless pulses of my load as you hold me right where you want me.
JASON LUNDQUIST
The blast of cum in my mouth and down my throat almost makes me cough, but I manage to avoid it. I take all of it, swallow all of it, as rope after rope is blasted down my esophagus. Every drop. Just like I promised. And I squeeze that triangle, compressing your neck and shutting off the flow of oxygenated blood to, and deoxygenated blood from, your brain. I hear your roar my name, then feel you spasming beneath me in pleasure, knowing that every bit of blood going downstairs is not available for your brain. When your shudders stop, I feel how weak, how vulnerable you are, just for a moment. Just for this moment. The thought that I've done that to one of the toughest men I know is exhilarating. It almost makes me cum. But I avoid it. I run my hands over your powerful body, from your inner thighs to your chest, as your resistance continues to weaken. I keep squeezing, feeling you fading out beneath me. I take my mouth off of you, and whisper: "Good night, Scouser. 1-0."
THE TATTOOED MUSCLE BRAWLER
I lie there beneath you, completely shattered, my chest heaving in short, shallow gasps as the fog in my brain slowly begins to clear. The sheer weight of your 189 lb frame resting flat against mine feels like an anchor, holding me down while the world around us spins out of control.The roaring of the packed crowd in the Lights Out Lounge sounds like it's coming from underwater, a distant wall of noise that barely registers compared to the heavy, rapid thud of your heart pressed hard against my ribs. My throat burns from the vise like squeeze of your legs, and my entire body feels heavy, drained, and completely spent from that violent, white hot explosion you forced out of me.I bring my taped trembling hands up, wrapping my thick arms around your back and digging my fingers into your sweat slicked skin, pulling you as close as you'll get. I let out a low wrecked chuckle into the crook of your neck, my Scouse accent completely undone, gravelly, and quiet against your ear."You absolute bastard Chicago" I murmur, a faint, bruised smile breaking across my face as I press my forehead against yours. "You got me. Fuckin' locked me down and emptied me out right in front of everyone." I shift slightly on the canvas, my blue eyes looking up into yours with a mix of raw, unshielded affection and total, unfiltered respect. "Hell of a round, lad." I whisper my hand sliding up to grip the back of your neck, holding you steady right above me. "Now don't just lie there looking pleased with yourself... we've still got two more rounds to finish."
JASON LUNDQUIST
That's what makes you so fucking tough. Not the muscle, lots of guys have that. Not the tattoos or the experience. That attitude. I just sent you into space, then shut you off completely, and...no part of it is in your head. You're not worried. Not embarrassed. You just look at me with pride, respect, and undimmed competitive fire. You know how tough you are. You're not worried that other people will see you differently, not because you know they won't, but because you don't fucking care. You've gotta fucking teach me how to do that.
I get up, then pull you up. I give you a quick hug before we go back to our corners for the one minute of rest in between rounds. The rules allowed everything we just did, including the stripping, but they forbid clothes being put back on once removed, so we're naked for the rest of this thing. I'm hoping that even though I didn't--and probably can't--break you mentally, you're at least tired enough that round 2 will be easier. That was a ton of work. If you get me into deep waters, this could still go either way. I get come water, bounce on my toes, and await the bell for round 2.
THE TATTOOED MUSCLE BRAWLER
I sit on my stool in the corner, bare skin resting against the cold metal, watching you bounce on the balls of your feet across the ring. Every muscle in my body is buzzing a volatile cocktail of lingering orgasm, oxygen recovery, and pure, unadulterated adrenaline.That brief tight hug you gave me before we split off told me everything I needed to know. You think I’m unbreakable because I don't carry the weight of what just happened. But what you don't get yet Chicago, is that there’s no shame in getting stripped down or put to sleep by a man who earns it. When it’s you across the canvas, every hit, every hold, and every drop of seed forced out of me is just the rawest truth two fighters can share. You don't need me to teach you how to not care you just need to realize that out here, under these lights, you've got nothing left to prove to anyone.I grab the water bottle from my cornerman, take a long swig, and spit it into the bucket, my blue eyes never leaving your slick, completely naked 189 kb frame. You took round one by forcing my body to surrender when my mind wouldn't. It was brilliant, tactical, and brutal. But if you think I’m walking into this second round drained, you’re dead wrong. It just lit a inferno right in my gut.The official one minute bell echoes through the roaring room.I stand up off the stool, letting my 202 lb frame stretch out, completely unbothered by being stark naked in front of the packed Lounge. I roll my shoulders, flash you that signature, wicked Liverpool grin through my stubble, and walk straight to the centre of the ring to meet you halfway."You want deep waters, Professor?" I rumble low as the ref steps back, my Scouse accent heavy with an eager, dangerous warmth. "Hope you brought your lungs lad... because I'm dragging you straight to the bottom."
The bell rings for Round 2. I don't wait for you to feel out the distance this time. I close the gap instantly, diving under your initial jab and wrapping my thick, tattooed arms around your waist in a sudden, explosive double leg takedown, driving us both hard into the mat.
JASON LUNDQUIST
I'm immediately disabused of any notion that you're out of gas as you come across the ring like you're completely fresh. The weave under my jab is almost precognitive, and the double leg is shocking and perfectly timed, overwhelmingly powerful. I'm in the air and on the mat, grunting in pain, before I can do anything. You land holding a tight waist lock, and I can't get my legs up and around you immediately. I post on your face, try to back myself up to get my legs free, but you hold tight, climbing up my legs, threatening a mount. I try to frame on your right knee and slide one of my knees under it, to at least get one of your legs in control, but your strength and the intensity of your effort is making it hard.
"Goddamn Scouser," I grunt, still struggling as you continue to make profess. I almost have to smile, though. You're a fucking beast. I abandon the knee/elbow escape and try to square up and pull my knees back before you can get past them. If this fails you'll be mounted on me, but good chance you're about to be there anyway.
THE TATTOOED MUSCLE BRAWLER
I feel the split second loosening of your frame the moment you abandon the knee and elbow frame, trying to square up and pull those long legs back inside. It’s a classic, desperate scramble, but I’ve been reading your rhythm all night. The second your posture goes to shift I try to pull your knees in, as I go to drive my weight straight forward, hoping I'm gonna be smothering your space before your hips can snap back into position.
With my heavy left arm then trying to pin your lower body down, I planning on my right knee to go right up into your chest, by forcing my way past your guard and locking myself into a tight, brutal full mount. As I go to say "Not this time, Chicago!" I roar through my teeth.I hoping I don't give you a fraction of a second to settle or start bridging. As I intend on staying heavy on your hips, as I go to wind up my right arm and bury a short, punishing gutpunch straight into your solar plexus, planning to sink my fist deep into your tight abs to blow every last drop of air out of your lungs. And hopefully hearing you as you wheeze and instinctively double over.
JASON LUNDQUIST
I try to bridge, but you move your weight well. You know how to ride this position. I see the windup for the punch and bring my hands up, guessing wrong--you're not aiming for my head. Your right fist slams into my solar plexus, and I'm not ready for it. The air shoots out of me with a gasping wheeze, and the force of it sends stabbing pain through my diaphragm and briefly paralyzing it, making it difficult to breath for a moment or two. I bridge again, hoping to use the weight transfer from the punch to break your posture, but it's ill-timed. You're already retracting the punch by the time I attempt it, so your weight is going in the wrong direction, and you retain control easily. I keep moving, alternating between framing, bridging, and shrimping, trying to avoid as much damage as possible while shaking you off here--but I have no immediate luck. It's only a few seconds into round 2 and I'm already in deep trouble.
And it doesn't escape me that your monster cock, which blew its load a few minutes ago, is sitting on my stomach, staring me down, growing ever larger and harder as you hold this dominant position. It fills me with a combination of fear and...something else. I don't need to look up to see that wicked grin on your face. Outside a fight you're a teddy bear, but in one...you love this shit.
THE TATTOOED MUSCLE BRAWLER
I hear that ragged, wheezing gasp as my fist buries into your gut, feeling your diaphragm lock up tight beneath me. The way your body quivers, desperately fighting to suck in oxygen while I ride every single frantic bridge and shrimp, tells me I’ve got you right on the ropes. You’re moving on pure instinct now, battling the sheer, overwhelming weight of my 202 lbs, but every move you make just settles me deeper into this mount.I look down at you watching the pain and the sudden realization wash across your face as you realize you're possibly trapped. My bare hips press down hard against yours, and I can feel my cock thickening....pulsing, and growing heavy all over again grinding right against your lower belly. The heat of our slick naked skin rubbing together, mixed with the absolute high of holding a elite fighter completely helpless under me sets my blood on fire.That wicked unhinged Liverpool grin breaks wide across my face, my brown stubble dripping with sweat as I lean down, bringing my face inches from yours. I don't intend on giving you space to breathe, as I go to smother your head with my weight as I go to slide my hands down, weaving my fingers through yours and hoping to pin both of your wrists flat against the canvas beside your ears."Aye I do love it Chicago" I growl low and gravelly, my Scouse accent heavy with pure dark delight right against your ear. "I love seeing that brilliant mind of yours panic when all your tactics get smashed to pieces." As I go to roll my hips forward in a slow, heavy, deliberate grind, letting you feel the full, undeniable press of my hardening shaft pressing into your stomach, reminding you exactly what happens when I hold you down like this."You're in my world now lad" I whisper my voice dropping into a possessive rumble as I go to dig my knees tighter into your ribs, completely sealing your hips. "No air no room to move and nowhere to run. Now... show me how you get out of this."
JASON LUNDQUIST
The mount only gets worse. You grab both my hands, force your fingers in between mine, and pin my hands by my head. Ordinarily, I could straighten my arms out and up to force you to break the grips or lose your posture, but you pin them tight to me, by my ears, my elbows already extended outward and badly bent, and distribute significant weight onto them. I can't move my arms. And your heels hooked just behind my ass and the weight of your hips stops me from moving my hips effectively as well.
I can feel myself turning red, and not just because it's hard to breathe, and struggling under you is expending a lot of energy. This is humiliating. Deeply humiliating. It's a pin in wrestling and Judo, and I hate being pinned. It's a dominant position in BJJ, the martial art I'm best at. It's a dominating position in MMA, and if you wanted to hit me here, you could. Instead, you want to control me. And you're proving to me, and to everybody watching, that you can. With your hands engaged pinning mine, there's not much you can do offensively here, so if I was smart, I might stop struggling until you try to adjust the position to chase a submission or start striking. But I can't tolerate being here. I keep wasting energy struggling, failing to move.
Because if it was just about being visibly dominated, I might be able to make myself deal with it. But every second I spend under you I feel that traitorous hunger growing. The feeling of your hard, massive cock sliding against me sends shocks through my body. My cock, pinned against my body by your hips, is also hardening. The truth is, being dominated by you is almost as hot as dominating you. I can't afford to give in to that hunger. To stop fighting, for even a second, feels like admitting that my natural place is here, underneath you. It's shameful enough that people can see, and that you can feel, me enjoying this--I can't let it influence me toward surrender. So I keep trying to escape, burning gas, as you completely secure the position, bringing our bodies as close together as two bodies can be without penetration. I avoid your eyes, trying to hide my panic. Knowing that you can see it anyway.
THE TATTOOED MUSCLE BRAWLER
I feel every desperate, frantic surge of your muscles beneath me, burning precious oxygen as you refuse to stay still. The panic radiating off you is palpable, but it’s that traitorous heat the sudden, hard pulse of your eight inch shaft pinned between our bellies that tells me you're losing the war inside your own head. You’re terrified of what it means to lie there and take it, terrified of the crowd seeing you enjoy the sheer weight of my control.I let out a low, dark chuckle, my breath scorching against your collarbone. "You're burning all your gas Chicago" I rumble into your skin my Scouse accent heavy and thick with total authority. "And you know fine well why."I don't hold the standard mount a second longer. If you won't surrender your mind, I'll take away the one thing you need to fight back your air.
With lightning speed I go to release your pinned wrists and shift my weight upward. I go to post my hands on the mat for balance and swivel my heavy frame 180 degrees, as I go to sweep my legs over your shoulders. Hoping to drive my massive, muscular, wet bubblebutt straight down onto your face, completely smothering your mouth and nose under the full, hot weight of my 202 lb ass.The crowd will surely explode into an absolute frenzy as I press myself down tight against your cheeks with success. I will instantly cut off the air, trapped beneath the thick, round cheeks of my seat, your muffled desperate grunts vibrating right into my skin as you try to turn your head. I will be then facing your lower half, I won't give your panic a single second to settle. As I go to lean forward, grabbing your hips to lock you in place, and slide my head straight down between your legs. As I take the head of your rock hard, eight inch cock directly into my mouth, slicking it instantly with my spit and plunging down until I'm taking you deep into my throat.I'll lap at you aggressively bobbing my head in a heavy, ruthless rhythm while my ass seals completely over your breathing passages. I want you to feel the wild, terrifying contradiction of having your air utterly cut off by my body while your shaft is being devoured by my mouth forcing your brain into pure, overwhelming panic as the line between submission and pleasure completely dissolves.
JASON LUNDQUIST
I try to use the opportunity of you changing positions to escape, but you keep your weight bearing down on me the entire time. You swivel your hips and turn, backing up until your ass is planted on my face, then yank my legs up as I try to bridge, pulling my hips up and trapping my legs under your armpits, stacking me up before you drop your ass directly on my face, completely blocking my nose and mouth with your massive, muscular bubble butt. I squirm in panic, then moan into your ass as your mouth hits my cock, precum almost immediately shooting into your mouth. I kick my legs uselessly in the air, the position robbing me of the leverage or positional strength to actually force you to release them. I have the realization that I'm a highly trained fighter and martial artist, being smothered and sucked off despite all my efforts to the contrary, in a round that began even but in which I have simply been overwhelmed like a novice. But the shame of that is eclipsed by the terror of not being able to breathe, the feeling of my lungs on fire as I uselessly try to suck in air, getting almost none. And that, by turn, is overridden, at least briefly, by the ecstasy of your mouth around my cock, bobbing up and down on it. That traitorous part of me that enjoys being controlled by you has waited for this moment, and for just a moment, it breaks me. I want it so badly. I stop kicking. I stop trying to escape. And in that moment of total surrender my balls churn, my lower body jolts, my oxygen-starved body is overwhelmed with intense, humiliating pleasure and I erupt, jet after jet shooting into your mouth.
Then, clarity hits, while I'm still pulsing in your mouth. The panic returns. I start kicking again, my lungs feel like they'll explode, my gasps and moans turning to grunts and yells into your ass as animal terror takes over. Getting smothered is....not like getting strangled. I know you'll stop when I pass out, but my body doesn't. The pre-conscious parts of my brain don't. The fear is hard to describe or exaggerate. I can feel my body weakening as you hold on, my cock's last few spasms dying as you take the last drops, the pleasure chemicals mixing in with the pain and fear, the yells slowly turning into helpless whimpers. Then...darkness.
THE TATTOOED MUSCLE BRAWLER
I swallow every single drop of your hot load as it jets into my throat, feeling the final, desperate spasms of your eight inch shaft dying down against my tongue. The second that post orgasm clarity hits you, I feel the shift instantly the sudden, violent surge of raw animal terror vibrating right through the muscle of my cheeks as you begin kicking and thrashing wildly beneath me. Your muffled yells and frantic gasps echo directly into my skin. I know that exact terror, Chicago. Being smothered, having every molecule of oxygen sealed off while your brain screams that you're drowning, triggers a primal, unholy panic that no amount of martial arts training can ever quiet. I keep my thick muscular ass sealed over your face, holding you completely immobilized as the absolute high of devouring your cock while controlling your very breath surges through my blood. I take those last few drops from your softening shaft, keeping the seal tight even as your violent kicks begin to slow, your desperate thrashes softening into weak, helpless whimpers beneath my weight.
I watch your body go limper and limper, feeling the exact fraction of a second when the fear dissolves and darkness takes you over completely. The moment your legs fall flat against the mat and your frame goes totally weightless beneath me, I pop up off your face with a heavy wet gasp of my own, my chest heaving.The crowd in the Lights Out Lounge is absolutely roaring standing on the chairs and pounding on the canvas, but my entire focus instantly shifts back to you. I scramble up your body, pulling your limp, naked 189 lb frame into my lap. As I go to cup the back of your neck, lifting your head and tilting it back to open your airway, my blue eyes fixed intently on your pale motionless face."Come on lad... wake up for me" I mutter softly my Scouse accent heavy with an anxious, protective warmth as I lightly pat your cheek, waiting for that gasp of air to hit your chest and bring those blue eyes back to mine. Plus the realisation I've equaled the score making it 1-1.
JASON LUNDQUIST
I don't know exactly how long I'm out, but I know I wake up sputtering and coughing in your arms. For a moment I think we're still fighting, some residual fear an panic make me try to scramble off of you weakly, but you hold me in place. Then I see your eyes, and I know I'm safe. I mean, as safe as a man can be in a ring with you. I calm down, but I'm suddenly aware of everyone watching us. Everybody saw what just happened. We're 1-1 now, but round 2...you just dominated me from the bell, purely with grappling. The thing I think of myself as strongest at. Even just a few months ago, that would have wrecked me. Broken my brain.
But recent fights, including those against you, and especially a brutal, pride-destroying loss to another friend of ours in the Lights Out Lounge, have given me some perspective, some resilience, I didn't have before. I still feel the shame. Still feel the wrenching feeling that it's a challenge to who I think of myself as to be dominated like that. But I can bear it.
And I can bear it more because it's you. Because you're one of the toughest motherfuckers I know. You broke me physically, and--for a few seconds--mentally. But almost nobody else could. I don't know if I'll ever be the kind of person who can lose without shame, but with you, at least, I know the shame is irrational. That's a decent start. I put my hand on your face. Look into those ice-blue eyes of yours, which I've seen gleam with wicked glee and shine with compassion, all in the space of a few minutes. I show you all the cool cockiness I can muster, give you a lopsided grin, and say "fuck you, Scouser," with a breathy laugh, because I know that nothing else will better communicate to you that I'm okay.
I sit up, then we both get back up. The timer starts for the rest period between rounds. I put my forehead against yours. "Good round," I breathe. I separate a few inches, fix my eyes on you. "But that's not happening again," I whisper just for you, before turning back to my corner, hoping I can back that up.
THE TATTOOED MUSCLE BRAWLER
I keep my hand firmly behind your head, holding you steady as your lungs reactivate, feeling every tremor of residual panic ripple through your body until your eyes lock onto mine and you finally realize where you are. A quiet laugh breaks out of my chest at that cocky "fuck you, Scouser," relieving the tight knot of worry in my gut. As we get to our feet, I soak in the intensity of your words.
Back in my own corner I sit naked on the cold seat, breathing heavy as my cornerman hands me a bottle of water. I rinse my mouth out, spit into the bucket, and wipe the sweat from my eyes, never letting my gaze drift away from you across the ring. I watch you gather yourself, watching that brilliant mind of yours recalibrate. Part of me was worried I'd broken you, just seconds ago, but the look in your eyes tells me everything I need to know. You're more dangerous right now than you've been all night.
The referee moves to the centre of the canvas, his hand raised. "Final round!" the announcer’s voice echoes through the arena. "One minute of rest is up. Round three... for the Sleeper King title!" I stand up off my stool rolling my broad shoulders and letting my 202 lb frame settle back into a dangerous, relaxed fight posture. I walk out to the centre of the ring....naked....bruised, and completely locked in flashing you one last, respectful grin through my stubble. "Round three Professor" I call out softly as the bell rings. "Let's finish it."
JASON LUNDQUIST
I give you a curt nod. This is a fight. You're still my opponent. And I'd be lying if I said I didn't want to erase the memory of that last round as quickly as possible. I come out in long guard again, but this time there's no circling. I long-step in behind a jab palm-strike at your jaw to bring your hands up, then blast you down the center with a rear-leg teep, firing the ball of my foot into your upper stomach, aiming for the liver, or at least to shove you back against the ropes. Then I weave out to my right and fire a lead-leg turning kick to the body, then--uncharacteristically for me--I shuffle step back out of range. Damage to your core should limit your strength advantage when we inevitably end up on the floor. This--hit and run--is a game I should have learned to play against bigger, stronger guys long before today. My baby brother Johnny has told me, and told me, and told me. Respect the power of the stronger athlete. Hit, and don't get hit. Don't stand in the pocket and bang with a guy who can hit harder than you. I'm finally starting to listen.
THE TATTOOED MUSCLE BRAWLER
That teep cracks straight into my upper stomach with a dull heavy thud, driving the wind out of my lungs and forcing me back two full paces toward the ropes. Before I can even set my stance your lead leg turning kick snaps right into my ribs, the impact radiating hot pain through my left side.I throw a heavy trailing right hook to counter, but my fist cuts empty air. You’ve already shuffled slickly back out of range completely reset, watching me with those sharp calculating eyes. "Smart lad" I wheeze out through a grin, my Scouse accent heavy as I pat my bruised ribs circling back to the centre. "Johnny taught you well didn't he? But you're not the only one who can play tactics."I step in slowly hoping to cut off the ring to shrink your space, but instead of rushing into your long guard, I decide to copy your playbook. I go to fake a heavy step forward, throwing a long left hand palm strike straight towards your chin with intentions of forcing your hands up and drawing your focus high.Ready for the second your guard reacts, hoping to snap my right leg up into a lightning fast rear teep of my own, intending on aiming the ball of my foot directly into your liver to drive you backward and steal your wind. Then without pausing, I'm planning on a hop forward into a tight shuffle step, and going for a snapping heavy lead leg roundhouse kick right into your exposed ribs by using your own hit and move sequence against you before stepping smoothly back out of your strike zone to reset."Let's see who runs out of core first Chicago" I growl low my blue eyes locked onto yours as I bounce on the balls of my feet, naked, dripping sweat, and ready and hopefully for the collision I'm planning on.
JASON LUNDQUIST
I read your intentions the moment you return a jab, so my guard is in place, and I'm braced, for both the teep and the turning kick. Good thing, too, because your foot blasts through my guard, splitting my arms, and smashes into my core anyway, tossing me back against the ropes, driving me back toward you as the turning kick lands with bruising force on my forearms. I gasp. Technique and proper tactics can only take one so far. Power is power, and power with solid technique is difficult to deal with. I hear your taunt. In the past, that would have made me come forward like a maniac. Not now. I circle out and away, forcing you to follow, then cross-step and pivot, signaling a spinning back kick to the body. But that's not what's coming. I turn through and lean hard, swinging my left leg in an arc, heel aimed at your temple. 270 degrees of rotation for acceleration, one big powerful spinning heel kick. Gonna hit you as hard as I can, from as far away as my range will reach, and see if that slows you down.
THE TATTOOED MUSCLE BRAWLER
That spinning back kick tell is convincing, but the moment your hips turn through further than a straight body thrust allows, my instincts scream danger. I drop my posture a fraction of a second before that 270 degree rotation whips your left leg around like a freight train.Your heel cuts through the air directly over my head with a loud, terrifying whoosh, the breeze of it snapping through my hair as I duck under the arc. The sheer momentum of the heavy kick carries you around, leaving your back momentarily turned to me as your foot comes back down to the canvas."Bloody hell Chicago you nearly took my head off with that one!" I growl my voice a rough excited rumble.I don't waste the split second you need to reset your balance. I go to drive straight forward as I go to wrap my thick tattooed arms around your waist from behind, with the intention of slamming my 202 lb frame flush against your back and hoping to lift you clean off your feet to break your base completely.
JASON LUNDQUIST
I feel you before I see you, and while I'm a wizard on the ground, I can't let you be on top in a dominant position. But your momentum can help me avoid that--as you rush in from behind I throw my left arm back, catching your head and shoulder, squatting, and launching you forward over my hips. You crash to the floor in front of me and the crowd goes nuts, delighted at the nice-looking throw, but controlling a guy I've just hip-tossed without a gi to hold onto is another one of those Judo-specific things I need to work on with Johnny. You break-fall correctly, and as much as I can see the impact hurt, you've rolled back up to your feet and turned to face me before I can secure a top position.
THE TATTOOED MUSCLE BRAWLER
The sheer force of that hip toss slams my 202 lb frame flat onto the canvas, knocking a sharp gasp of air from my lungs. But I ride the impact, slapping the mat to absorb the shock, and instantly use the momentum to roll right back up onto my feet, spinning round to face you with wild, hungry fire in my blue eyes.You're right there, trying to close the gap before I can set my base, but you don't have a gi grip to anchor me down. As you step in, I duck slightly inside your reach, lowering my level for a fraction of a second before exploding upward with everything I've got. I drive a heavy, brutal European uppercut straight through your guard, my forearm and fist cracking flush against the point of your jaw with a sickening, fleshy thud.Hoping the blow sends a violent shockwave through your head. As I watch your eyes roll back for a split second in anticipation of your legs going instantly rubbery, sending your 189 lb frame stumbling and staggering backward across the ring until you crash hard into the corner turnbuckle. And read to say......"Stay up Chicago!" I roar through my teeth, my Scouse accent echoing over the deafening roars of the crowd. AsI go to close the distance like a predator, stepping straight into the pocket while you're trapped against the pads, ready to unleash the final barrage.
JASON LUNDQUIST
After the fight, I won't remember that uppercut. It makes the room go white, fills the world with a high-pitched whine. Definitely a concussion, just not quite enough to put me down, at least in part because the corner keeps me up. I'm still woozy when I feel how close you are. Too close. I instinctively bring a right elbow up, aimed at your jaw, trying to stave you off for a moment, and I bring my left up to defend my head. Another big shot and I'm out, and you just have to wait until I wake up to strangle me for the official finish. It means exposing my body to a guy who loves body shots, but not much else I can do. I need a few seconds. Just a few seconds.
THE TATTOOED MUSCLE BRAWLER
That elbow comes up blind and wild, scraping sharply against my cheek, but I absorb the sting and push right through it. Seeing you tucked behind that high cover, woozy and leaning heavily into the turnbuckle to stay upright, tells me everything I need to know. You’re holding on by a thread, defending your head because you know one more solid shot to the chin puts your lights out completely.I step directly into the pocket, locking my hips in tight so you can't escape the corner."Sorry Professor" I growl low into the space between us my Scouse accent heavy.....breathless, and relentless. "No breaks!"I go to completely bypass your high guard, dropping my level and with the intentions of unleashing a terrifying, fast paced onslaught of heavy body and gutpunches straight into your midsection.I go to drive a punishing left hook deep into your ribs, and hoping to instantly following it with a crackling right uppercut buried straight into your solar plexus to drain the last remaining pockets of air from your lungs. I don't want to give you a single second to breathe or adjust. As I go to turn my hips into every blow, ripping shot after shot....left, right, left....intending on sinking my fists into your tight abs and soft flanks with a rhythmic, sickening thud that echoes over the screaming crowd.Hoping every punch hammers you deeper into the pads, trapping and tsking your wind, wearing down your body, and forcing your guard to crumble as I relentlessly soften you up for the final takedown.
JASON LUNDQUIST
The first punch slams into my side, arcing up under the line of my right ribs. The second--a short straight to the solar plexus--blasts the air out of my lungs. I wheeze. Grunt. Another shot sends stabbing pains through my left side, then another narrowly misses my liver, leaving me with a nauseous feeling that makes it hard to breathe deeply. But as my body fails, my scrambled brain recovers. Another shot pops a rib, but sharpens my sense back to total clarity. You don't seem to notice, and I make a dangerous decision. I decide to take a little more damage, for the chance of setting up a brutal answer. I continue to guard high, taking another big left that nearly drops me, but as your right hand charges for a final brutal shot I shoot forward, under-hooking it deeply with my left, spinning out sideways, catching your head with my left hand and yanking you around and down, pulling your head straight down into a huge, brutal right knee. This lands, I think, or it's over for me.
THE TATTOOED MUSCLE BRAWLER
I’m so focused on finishing the sequence that I don't catch the sudden, sharp clarity returning to your eyes. I wind up my right hand, throwing everything into what I think is the final knockout blow, but you play the trap perfectly. You shoot under my arm, under-hooking it deep and spinning out sideways to break my angle completely.Before I can adjust my base, your left hand catches the back of my neck and yanks my head violently downward."Ah!....fuck!...."The momentum pulls me straight into the path of your incoming right knee. Your knee explodes upward, cracking with terrifying force flush against my face. A spray of blood and spit erupts between us as the sheer velocity of the strike sends a blinding flash of white across my vision, my brain rattling violently inside my skull.The impact completely steals my legs. My balance instantly evaporates, and my 202 lb frame goes tumbling backward onto the canvas. I crash hard onto my back, thoroughly dazed, my hands coming up reflexively to guard my bloodied face while the room spins out of control.I lie there on the mat, wheezing and thoroughly stunned, staring up at the lights as my body desperately tries to reboot from the shockwave.
JASON LUNDQUIST
I try to follow you down immediately as you fall, but my ribs are screaming at me. Instead of landing in mount or side control I drop to my knees between your legs. The instinctive squeeze of your legs around my battered core draws a yelp, so I try to dive my hands in between your now-closed legs to dig for double-under-control to stack you to pass--or at least protect my core with my arms, even if it means I can't hit you for the moment. It's...not the wisest strategy ordinarily, as it gives you the chance to get your legs around my neck if you're sufficiently cognizant and I'm not careful, but under the circumstances, I don't have much choice.
THE TATTOOED MUSCLE BRAWLER
My vision is still swimming with static, the ringing in my ears loud and metallic, but the moment you drop straight into my open guard, my muscle memory kicks in before my brain even fully boots back up. I feel your hands diving deep between my legs, searching for that double under control to stack my heavy frame and take the pressure off your shattered ribs. You gave me the opening I needed Chicago. Instead of letting you drive your weight forward to stack me I go to use my long legs intending to absorb your momentum. Even through the dazing fog of that knee, I attempt to snap my left leg high up over your shoulder with the intention if sweeping it over the nape of your neck. Hoping at the exact same time I go to shoot my right arm inside, attempting on dragging your trapped arm across my body to isolate it.As I flex my core my hands go to reach up to catch my own right shin intending on locking my left ankle tight beneath my right knee. As I'm hoping to snap my hips up with the intention on securing a deep, deadly leg triangle right around your head and neck. With the thought in my head of saying "Gotcha... lad..."
JASON LUNDQUIST
The triangle is tight almost immediately, and my core won't let me stack and turn the way I want to without sending shooting pains through my body. I can feel the pressure already starting to build behind my eyes. Fuck. You're...you're gonna win, I think. I can feel the panic starting to spread through me. I knew this was possible, we're an even match, but...another loss in front of the whole Lounge. It hurts even to imagine. No. No...it's not over yet. I can't do the traditional escape, but these rules give me more options. Your cock is right in front of my face. I wrap my left hand around it, start to jack you with it as I start to lick your balls and the surrounding area. My right hand goes behind your legs, three fingers prodding at, then driving into your waiting asshole. "No," I say, hearing a gasp and feeling your legs start to weaken immediately. "I've got you!"
THE TATTOOED MUSCLE BRAWLER
The moment your left hand wraps firmly around my cock and your hot tongue hits the slick skin of my balls, every single muscle in my body spasms. The sudden, intense shock of pleasure explodes through the fog of my concussion, instantly short-circuiting the ruthless killer instinct holding that choke together.I let out a loud breathless gasp as your fingers drive straight into my ass, hitting me right where I'm most vulnerable. The sharp overwhelming mix of friction, deep penetration, and raw stimulation sends a white hot wave of ecstasy straight up my spine. My mind completely wanders off the fight, completely undone by the sudden, intense pleasure flooding my nervous system.My hamstrings lose their violent tension. My legs unlock sliding weakly down your back as the triangle completely breaks apart, leaving me gasping for air on my back with my knees splayed wide."Ah... fuck Chicago..." I groan out my voice thick, raspy, and totally undone as my Scouse accent slurs against the roars of the crowd.I give in completely to your advances, my broad, tattooed chest heaving as I arch my hips right into your hands and mouth. My fight instinct vanishes, replaced entirely by the intoxicating heat of your fingers digging deep inside me while you work my shaft. I grip the canvas beside my head, my blue eyes half lidded and unfocused, completely surrendering control as you turn the entire match on its head.
JASON LUNDQUIST
I stack you back further on your shoulders, continuing the erotic assault, then I violently change our positions, throwing your legs sideways and driving you belly down. I secure back control, my left fingers attacking your asshole again as you resist. Your left hand goes down to defend it, and I secure it with my left leg. Then I repeat the procedure on the right side, and roll us over, so we're both face-up. I have both your arms secured behind your back with my legs, leaving my hands free to strangle you from behind.
But not yet. My hands are free for other things, too. I reach down with my left and start to jack you again, while my right returns to your asshole, this time probing your hole deeper but with gentler, slower force. I feel you harden in my hands, feel you buck and resist both trying to escape (still woozy from the knee) and moving involuntarily from the pleasure. "One of us has to lose, Scott. But I'll make it the best loss you've ever taken," I whisper into your hear before bringing my mouth to your lips and kissing you deeply.
THE TATTOOED MUSCLE BRAWLER
The taste of you on my lips cuts straight through whatever's left of the concussion fog, burning away every last shred of fight I had left in my body. When your mouth crashes into mine fierce and claiming, I don't pull away I open up completely, letting out a ragged, trembling sigh that turns into a low moan right against your tongue. My arms are pinned tight behind my back by the interlacing of your your legs, and I've never felt more exposed or more completely alive.Your fingers working deep inside me, slow and deliberate, send a blinding shockwave of pure heat straight up my spine, melting my bones. The frantic rhythm of the fight, the deafening roars of the crowd echoing from the outer edges of the room, the bruises throbbing across my ribs and jaw it all dissolves into the sheer, overwhelming friction of your hand stroking my heavy throbbing shaft. Every time you push deeper every time your whisper brushes against my ear promising the best loss of my life, my hips buck helplessly into the canvas, chasing the friction, chasing you.
"Fucking... hell Chicago..." I breathe out against your lips my voice cracking with a raw, desperate surrender as I kiss you back with everything I've got, my tongue tangling hungrily with yours. All night we’ve traded blows, takedowns, and chokes, trying to prove who owned the canvas, but right here, pinned and dismantled by your hands, I realize I don't even want to fight it anymore. You didn't just break my guard, you stripped away every defense I had left until there was nothing underneath but raw, unadulterated need. If this is how you want to claim the Sleeper King title, if this is how I'm going down, then I am yours to take completely. I lean into your kiss arching my lower back and grinding my hips into the heavy, slow slide of your fingers, completely abandoning any lingering pretense of resistance.
Let them watch. Let the whole damned Lounge see the brutal brawler from Liverpool completely undone, whimpering and melting under the brilliant, ruthless hands of the Professor."Take it all then lad" I mutter breathlessly against your mouth a wicked, trembling smile catching my lips as I yield every last inch of control to you, waiting for the final, sweet collapse of the finish.
JASON LUNDQUIST
I continue my two-pronged assault, the pace only increasing as I see what I'm doing to you, as I feel and hear you surrender yourself completely. Everyone can see everything, and they are...excited. Almost as excited as I am. Not quite as excited as you are. I continue to jack you, and insert another finger, pulsing faster, harder, deeper inside you. I can feel it building. I know how rare it is for you to be undone like this, particularly in public, in front of others. It's a privilege. And...it gets me rock hard knowing that I've done this to you--you can feel my hard cock leaking against your back even as your nine-inch monster starts to leak. I feel your body starting to tense, can feel how close you are. "You're mine, Scott," I whisper, breaking the kiss just long enough to say it. "At least tonight."
THE TATTOOED MUSCLE BRAWLER
The sensation of rolling face up under you completely exposed to the blinding lights and the wild, screaming crowd sends a thrilling jolt of heat straight to my chest. Every single person in the Lounge is watching the feared Scouse brawler lying pinned, arms trapped, completely helpless and utterly undone on my back while you work me like a master technician. Your fingers driving deeper, pulsing faster, hit that exact spot inside me over and over until my vision blurs with pure white pleasure. I feel your rock hard eight inches leaking against my back, the slick friction of your shaft pressing into my skin while you stroke my own throbbing nine inch length. My whole body tightens, muscles quivering, toes curling off the canvas as the tide of an uncontrollable climax rushes up to take me under.When you break the kiss to whisper "You're mine Scott. At least tonight" a low shuddering growl breaks out of my throat. My head falls back against your shoulder, my breath coming in short, frantic hitches as my hips arch helplessly upward into your hand, chasing every fraction of an inch you're giving me."Aye... I'm yours Chicago" I gasp out my voice completely broken and dripping with surrender as my Scouse accent slurs with heavy bliss. "Fuck... take it... take it all lad!"I give in to the overwhelming surge, my entire frame locking up as a violent, intense orgasm hits me like a freight train. Jet after jet of my seed erupts over your hand and my chest, my body trembling violently in your grip while my hips buck against your fingers, taking every deep, rhythmic pulse of pleasure right up to the very edge of consciousness.
JASON LUNDQUIST
I feel you violently buck as the wave overtakes you, feel your cock jolt in my hand as it spurts ropes across your chest, a massive load for your second of the night. The crowd roars in satisfaction. My left hand continues to jack you as you cum all over yourself while my right fingers slide out of your asshole and then across your defenseless neck. The one-armed rear-naked choke is tight immediately, I could put you out with just forward pressure with my head and chest, but you deserve to feel the entire orgasm. I keep jacking you until every single spasm is spent, until every drop is spilled on you, and only then do I relent, slide my left arm slowly up your exhausted, spent body, up your abs and to that magnificent chest, then, finally, behind your neck. I bear down on the final choke. The one that will end this tournament.
I kiss you on the back of your head as I squeeze, but I find I have an urge to say something more. There are words on my lips I've wanted to say, waited to say, for a long while. Almost since that first night in Liverpool, after you beat me like a drum in front of your hometown crowd. They catch in my throat, and for a moment I think I won't have the courage. Then I remember the kind of man I'm fighting, and the kind of man he inspires me to be. So I say it, just a whisper, as your struggles start to slow, as the room starts to fade for you:
"I love you."
THE TATTOOED MUSCLE BRAWLER
The heat of the choke seals over my throat, but with my arms pinned and my whole world exploding in pure white bliss, I don't feel an ounce of panic. Every last spasm of my load spills across my chest, your hand riding me through the absolute peak of the pleasure until I am utterly drained, completely weightless, and entirely yours.As your right arm locks into that deep rear naked choke and your left arm slides up my spent body to seal the grip, I feel the heavy, inescapable pressure squeezing my carotid arteries. The roar of the Lounge begins to muffle, fading into a warm, rhythmic buzz as the edges of my vision start to darken.Then, through the fog of my closing consciousness, I feel your lips press against the back of my head.And I hear it. Three words, soft as a feather, cutting straight through the noise, through the violence, through the years of bloody wars we've dragged each other through.A soft, breathless chuckle vibrates in my chest, completely unbothered by the darkness pulling me under. I tilt my head back just a fraction into your neck, my heart swelling as everything I’ve felt since that first night in Liverpool catches in my throat.
"I love you too."
I whisper back the words light and faint against your skin as my voice finally fades.My eyes slip shut. My body goes completely limp in your arms, peaceful and satisfied, as the darkness takes me completely leaving you sitting victorious on the canvas with the Sleeper King crown, holding the man who is wholly, undeniably yours.
JASON LUNDQUIST
I release you as I feel you go slack in my arms. There's a lump in my throat. Tears in my eyes. I hadn't expected to say what I just said tonight. And hadn't expected to hear it back. I extract myself. Lower you off of me. I'm turning you on your side when the medical team--your colleagues--comes in and gently pushes me out of the way. The crowd is going nuts. I try to smile, I stand, put my fist up, but I'm watching you. You'll be fine, but I realize--what I said was true, and as exhilarated as I feel having won, it hurts that I took this thing away from you. I won, at your expense. I feel a little swell of guilt. I stand, useless, waiting for you to come around, while the crowd continues to roar, some of them yelling my name, or yelling "Professor!" Sam is probably making his way toward the ring, but my attention is fixed only on you.
THE TATTOOED MUSCLE BRAWLER
The smelling salts hit my nostrils like a shot of pure electricity, snapping my eyes open with a sharp, gasping inhale. My chest heaves as my lungs drag in the cold, thick air of the Lounge, and my vision slowly focuses through the blur of overhead lights. The white-coated medical guys are crouched around me, but my eyes bypass them completely, searching the ring until they land on you standing there naked, slick with sweat and our combined seed, holding a fist up for the crowd while looking down at me with those anxious blue eyes.I push the medics hands away, coughing once as I roll onto my side and shove myself up onto one hip. My jaw aches, my ribs are throbbing like a bastard, and my body feels completely hollowed out but the look on your face is what catches me. You’ve got the win, you’ve got the crowd screaming your name, but you’re standing there looking at me like you’re carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders.I let out a low, breathless laugh, my Scouse accent raspy as I reach up, grab the top rope, and pull my heavy 202 lb frame up onto my feet.I stumble slightly, shaking off the last lingering fog of the choke, and walk straight across the canvas toward you. I ignore the medics, ignore the roaring crowd, and step right into your space."Wipe that look off your face Chicago" I rumble low, my voice thick with emotion as I wrap a heavy, tattooed arm around your neck and pull you in close, pressing my forehead hard against yours right there in the center of the ring. "You won it fair and square. You dragged me through hell, broke me down, and took it. Don't you dare feel guilty for being the better man tonight."I pull back just enough to look you dead in the eye, a genuine, warm smile breaking through the stubble and dried blood on my face."I meant every word I said before the lights went out" I whisper softly, just for you, completely unbothered by the arena echoing around us. "Now hold your head up Professor. You're the bloody Sleeper King."
JASON LUNDQUIST
Once again you show me how much I have to learn from you. That laugh, that...fucking grin of yours...quenches the guilt. I let you wrap me up, and I hug you back tightly, blinking away tears, and for a moment, it all falls away. Everything but this. The feeling of being pressed together with a man I admire, respect, and love. "Thanks, man. Rematch anytime. Always," I whisper. I start to break away, then grab your left wrist, raising your hand with mine as the crowd cheers.
Sam, callsign Chokeout, the Lounge CEO and my boss, is in the ring now, holding the cup. We turn to face him.
CHOKEOUT
I wasn’t surprised it was these two in the final. Scott is a tough bastard who took me out in an earlier round, and the Professor is talented as hell. And I wasn’t gonna be surprised whichever of them won—they were 1-1 before tonight I understand—though I guess I wasn’t expecting quite the fireworks we got. I look Scott in the eyes and give him a firm handshake, then I turn to Jason. I summon my best announcer voice.
“You’ve all seen it, folks, after a hell of a hard-fought and hotly-contested match, Jason “Professor Lights Out” Lundquist, our very own Head of Lights Out Security, is our first Lights Out Lounge Sleeper King!” I give Jason a handshake, then hand him the cup. I look at both men, then smirk. “Jason don't you have…work to do or something?”
JASON LUNDQUIST
“Not tonight, Boss,” I say with a laugh. Then I give the cup a kiss and hoist it above my head. Another round of cheers. I turn back to Scott. “Ready to go, man?” I ask, inclining my head toward the door, and a night I think we’ve both spent some time planning.
THE TATTOOED MUSCLE BRAWLER
When Sam hands you that massive cup, I step back half a pace, resting my hands on my hips and watching you hoist the silver high above your head. Seeing you standing there naked....victorious....dripping sweat....with the crowd chanting "Professor! Professor!" fills my chest with a fierce, burning pride. You earned every single inch of that title tonight. When Sam hits us with that cheek about having work to do, I let out a heavy booming Scouse laugh shaking my head at him while giving his hand one last rough, respectful pump."Not a chance Sam" I call over the noise, my accent thick and bright. "Security details can wait. The King's got celebrating to do, and I'm on personal escort duty."
I turn back to you as you incline your head toward the exit, the wild roars of the Lights Out Lounge fading into the background as our eyes meet. My bruises are throbbing, my jaw feels like it’s been hit by a truck, and my body is utterly spent, but walking out of this ring next to you feels better than any victory I've ever taken. I sling one heavy, tattooed arm over your shoulder, pulling you in flush against my side as we start making our way down the steps toward the private back rooms."Ready when you are lad" I rumble low into your ear, my voice dropping into that warm, wicked tone as I give your hip a firm, possessive squeeze. "You might have taken the cup Chicago... but that night we planned? We're just getting started."
JASON LUNDQUIST
We exit the ring, walk side-by-side down the aisle between audience sections toward the door. Crowd still on its feet congratulating us. I stop in front of Greg Stein, that big mountain of friendly muscle. One of our closest friends in the Lounge. And the guy who beat me 3-0 in the Crucible earlier this year. I hand you the cup for a moment, then break off for a second to hug Greg.
GREGORY STEIN
“Congrats, Professor,” I say quietly as Jason hugs me. I don’t squeeze back too hard. I can feel him trembling trying to squeeze as hard as he is with that wrecked body.
JASON LUNDQUIST
I listen. Stay quiet for a second. Try to figure out how to put what I need to say into words. Then, finally, I say just loud enough for Greg to hear. “If I hadn’t lost to you, I don’t know if I’d have won today,” I start. “I don’t think I’d have gotten my head back on straight after round 2. Thanks for the lesson, man.”
GREGORY STEIN
I nod solemnly. Then I grin. “Is that maybe worth a couple stripes on my white belt?”
JASON LUNDQUIST
I smile back tiredly. “I told you, you have to learn to tie it first.”
I feel your hand on my shoulder, give Greg one final squeeze, and then we turn and keep walking out. As we reach the door out I look up at you and ask: “Before we get to the real fun tonight, do I keep calling you Scouser, or is Scott better?” I grin, leaning to give you a kiss on the lips. “For what it’s worth, Chicago still works fine for me.”
THE TATTOOED MUSCLE BRAWLER
I step up beside you as you pull back from Greg, extending a hand to that giant of a man myself. Greg pulls me into heavy bear hug, careful of my own injuries, and I clap him hard on the back sharing a warm, heavy laugh with our old rival before taking the cup back from your hands. I slide my fingers through yours, locking our hands tightly together. Without missing a beat, I wrap my other arm around your waist, pulling your naked frame flush against my hip. Right there in front of Greg....the crowd, and anyone else still watching, I lean in and press a deep, lingering kiss to your lips."I love you Chicago" I murmur against your mouth my Scouse accent soft, thick, and buzzing with heat. "So fucking much. And you have no idea how much fun we're going to have tonight lad."
We turn and walk the final few paces out of the arena, hand in hand, letting the roar of the crowd wash over us one last time as the heavy doors of the back hallway swing shut, cutting off the noise and leaving just the two of us in the quiet corridor. When you pause at the door looking up at me with that brilliant grin, asking if you should call me Scouser or Scott, a quiet low laugh rumbles through my chest.I lean down, catching your lips in another warm, tender kiss, tasting the salt and sweat on your skin before pulling back just enough to look into your ice blue eyes."You can call me whatever you like, Professor," I whisper, my thumb tracing the line of your jaw as a wicked, affectionate smile breaks across my face. "Scott, Scouser... as long as you say it while you're in my arms, it's all music to me."
Published: 2026-08-25, viewed 127 times.
Dadicus
26 days agoGreat match, guys! Really fun read. I loved how technical it was while still having that erotic edge, and the ending was great. Very happy for Jason getting the win, but Scott definitely put up one hell of a fight! ^^
Jason Lundquist
25 days ago(In reply to this)
Thanks Dadicus! He sure as hell did. Run that one back ten times and I bet we each win five. Glad you enjoyed!
Freaker
2026-08-26 10:05Three rounds was exactly what Jason and Scott needed for this final. Jason taking the first with that reverse triangle, Scott coming back and completely smothering the Professor in round two, then both having to rethink everything for the decider makes the 1–1 score feel genuinely earned. The final round is especially good: Jason fighting through that brutal uppercut and the body shots, Scott nearly catching him in the triangle, and Jason finding a very different way to break the hold before taking his back. But the moment that really stays with you comes right at the finish. After everything these two have done to each other, hearing “I love you” and “I love you too” just before the final sleeper says more about their rivalry than any trophy could. Congratulations to Jason Lundquist, and thanks to Jason and Scott for sharing a great Sleeper King final with THE HIGH TABLE.
Jason Lundquist
2026-08-26 11:58(In reply to this)
Thank you Freaker. If Scott and I ran that fight back a thousand times, we'd probably each win exactly 500 of them. It was close until the end because we've each genuinely found our match, at least in that format. I have a lot to learn in Pro. I probably have the edge in MMA. But in the Lights Out format, we're as even as two men can be. But that would still only create a rivalry. It's a love story because the more we fight, and the more we celebrate after, the more I admire him. And the more it seems he admires me back. Thank you for the kind words, and I'm so glad you enjoyed.
The Tattooed muscle Brawler
2026-08-26 10:59(In reply to this)
Cheers, Freaker, nice one mate.
That third round... fucking hell. By the time we hit the decider, there weren't any secrets left between us. I thought I had him pinned down with that triangle, but Jason’s always got some filthy, genius way out of a tight spot. That’s the thing with the Professor you think you’re breaking him, and he just turns it into a different kind of trap entirely.
That 1-1 split was the only fair way into the final stretch. I had to make him drown in round two after what he did to me in the first, but when you're 40 odd minutes into a proper war, all the strategy in the world gives way to pure instinct.
Those words at the end... yeah. It wasn't about the crowd, or the mat, or even the Cup right then. It was just two men who’d put each other through hell and realized there’s nowhere else on earth they’d rather be.
Appreciate you watching and supporting the fight at THE HIGH TABLE.
thank you Scott
Gregory Stein
2026-08-26 06:12Well holy fuck. That exceeded all my expectations... And they were already pretty high. You two produced two previous matches that were just amazing clinics of technical fighting and how to translate that into a storytelling context. The fight wasn't just something where some drama happened but it was the actual drama and not just the drama of who's going to win and who's going to lose.
Two amazing skilled fighters who have spent years of their lives expressing themselves through physical actions? Just made perfect sense ... your fights were courtship.
Professor Bou-Gi and I fought and we fucked, but with Scott it was different. Professor met a man whose fighting skills are just as terrifying and self-defining as his own and the best way, the only logical way, these two would fight is a different kind of emotional rollercoaster than simply who beats who.
Fights are foundational to both so of course true romantic connection can only be created in a fight. The declaration of love after a fight as brutal as this one makes complete sense for these two.
I feel privileged that these two thought enough about me and my place in their orbit to include me in this story.
So Congratulations on being the Sleeper King Professor. And congratulations to you Scott for making him earn the Title. I'm sure the fact that he won the Cup by beating Scott will be a source of pride for Professor. The victory sweeter because it was so hard to secure.
Jason Lundquist
2026-08-26 11:51(In reply to this)
You were there with me in the match before you showed up in the text, Greg. You can't assume aggression and skill will be enough to beat the Scouser Brawler. You also need the resiliency to take a hit and keep coming. My fight with you, and what happened after, gave me the extra toughness I needed to make this happen. And it was still a near-run thing, because you actually can't ever count Scott out. His toughness is more than physical.
But if he were just one hell of a fighter--just another skilled, brutal dude--I would not have said what I did. I would not have been so grateful to hear him say it back. But I've seen the other side of him from the start. From the very first night I knew him, after he crushed me in front of his hometown crowd. The kindness. The compassion. The care. How he looked at me and treated me after that fight, when I'd failed to show anything all that impressive to him, told me everything I needed to know. There's a reason this guy is a nurse, and is so fucking good at it. That combination of traits, coupled with the fact that for some reason he likes me back, is hard to pass up.
Thanks for the review, Greg. I hope to do the Lounge and the Cup proud.
The Tattooed muscle Brawler
2026-08-26 09:32(In reply to this)
Greg, mate, appreciate the words. Means a lot coming from you.
You hit it right on the money it was courtship. Pure and simple. Me and Jason, we don't do deep fucking chats over candlelit dinners to figure each other out. We do it on the mat, with five hundred pounds of muscle colliding, breath running out, and blood on the vinyl. That's the only language that actually counts when you're made the way we are.
Fighting the Professor isn't just physical, it's a mind game. He tries to dissect ya, piece by piece, until he finds where you crack. So I had to give him everything I had make it bloody, make it dirty, and make him bleed for every inch of ground. If he was gonna leave with that Cup, I was gonna make sure he felt every single second of earning it in his bones for the next month.
Having you as part of the orbit made the whole thing hit proper. You get how he operates, and you know what it takes to push a man like Jason to his absolute limit.
He might be the Sleeper King now, but he knows who holds his leash when the lights go down. Next time we're all at the Lounge, drinks are on him, he's the one holding the trophy, after all.
Thank you so much cheers Scott
Jason Lundquist
2026-08-26 12:01(In reply to this)
This is the first I'm hearing of leashes but I won't deny I'm intrigued.
The Tattooed muscle Brawler
2026-08-26 13:39(In reply to this)
Jason you will certainly find out in our next installment hehehe 😄 😉 where gonna have lots of fun 😁
Dan Freyr
2026-08-26 01:40Fuck me. That was a proper scrap.
Jason and Scott din’t just fight for a cup. Nah, they tore into each other like two men who already know every scar, every weak spot, and still cain’t stop goin harder. Round one Jason plays the smart bastard, locks that reverse triangle, drains Scott dry and puts him out while the whole Lounge watches. Round two Scott answers the only way a proper brawler should: takes the Professor’s pride, mounts him, smothers him under that thick ass, and makes him cum while he’s drownin. Equal. Dirty. Perfect.
Then the third round… that’s where it got real. Jason’s takin shots, ribs screamin, still finds the knee, still turns the triangle into fingers up Scott’s ass and a hand on his cock. Forces the big Scouser to melt in front of everyone, then chokes him out while whisperin “I love ya.” And Scott, half-gone, answers it back.
That’s the part that sits with me. Most fighters hide from that shit. These two lean into it. The closer they get, the meaner the holds get, the hotter the sex gets after. Zero-sum on the mat, everythin shared off it. I been in that exact headspace more times than I can count…tryin to break a man ya respect, maybe even love, and knowin the only way either of ya walks away satisfied is if one of ya ends up unconscious and claimed.
Jason earned that cup. Scott earned the respect. And the way they walked out hand-in-hand, still naked, still leakin, still lookin at each other like the fight never really ended… yeah. That’s the real prize.
The Tattooed muscle Brawler
2026-08-26 09:26(In reply to this)
Nice one, Dan.
You hit the nail right on the head, lad. Most guys look at a fight like that and only see the bruises or the sweat, but you actually get what it means to go to war with a man you’d take a bullet for.
Jason’s a sneaky, brilliant bastard with those legs of his I’m still feel'in that reverse triangle in me bloody ribs today, but there’s nothin’ on this earth like standard issue Scouse power to make a point when you're mounted on top of him. When you’re that deep in it, beat'in each other half to death and making each other melt at the same time... that’s where the truth is. No bullshit, no fronting. Just two men taking every piece of each other until there’s nothing left to hide behind.
He got the cup, aye. But like you said, the real prize is know'in I’ve got a man who can wreck me, claim me, and still walk out of the fire right beside me, holding me hand while we’re both bleeding and leakin'.
Appreciate the review, mate. Next time you're around the Lounge, pint's on me. Cheer thank you so much Scott
Jason Lundquist
2026-08-26 01:52(In reply to this)
Wow Dan! Thanks so much for the comment and the vote. From our first match, Scott and I discovered that we've got some good chemistry (at least, we sure think so). Different people, different attitudes, but a lot of overlap technically and in terms of what we want out of a match, both physically and dramatically. And it helps that we're pretty evenly matched, but with contrasting fighting styles. As you saw, that match could have gone either way until the very end. Respect, competition, intimacy, it's a heady blend. This won't be the last time we fight. I'm really glad you enjoyed!
Dan Freyr
2026-08-26 12:11(In reply to this)
Well even though I aint in the Lounge...I wouldnt mind gettin a chance to take either one of ya on again sometime...yer both tough guys who always give it yer all every time!