The Factory Reading Room

Being in top leadership at the Factory has its downsides. Keeping track of every member’s training regimen, making sure it is fully optimized. Thinking about the various sex fight events on the circuit and do we have enough guys training for each. Who should be training with who in order to create specialized, short-term training programs, as well as making sure all of the seminars (jiu jitsu, wrestling, mma, boxing, yoga) are running smoothly. Assessing the team and coordinating the scouting program for new members and making sure the recruitment process is going well. It can sometimes be A LOT. On the very up side, I live and train with all these amazing men, my teammates, and sometimes I just want to be one of the boys. I’ve worked hard to establish good relationships with them all and I love that they know they can tease me, talk shit to me, and we all know it's good fun. I especially love that they come to me with all their problems, fears and adventures.

Lately, I have been hearing a lot about Bronson Mccormick. We have been trying to recruit Bronson for years, but he’s a fighter that doesn’t love the fight game. He also has a big social media presence, especially on Instagram, TikTok and Onlyfans, where he posted his fight with Mike. His persona is an alpha top with a big dick, full of swagger and dirty talk. Members of Team Factory have been sneaking off for years to fight/play with Bronson in his mat room or in his “Muscle Dungeon.” We don’t limit our members in any way and they all come back saying what a great athlete he is, great grappler and stand up fighter. We co-exist peacefully, but he has refused every offer of membership. The other night Alexander Girard crawled into my bed for a cuddle (We sex fighters are very hierarchical and very physically affectionate.) and told me about his recent experience in Bronson’s dungeon with muscle worship and punishment, then some kind of bondage ab punching battle that escalated into a brawl. 1 A few weeks ago Pau Cabrera told me he had a sex fight to force fuck because of a social medi challenge between them. 2 He tried to recruit him, and though Bronson never followed through, we got massive press from the instagram posts from two classic tops flip fucking. Finally, Mike Anderson

16:07 Andre_Jordan: add this - invited him over (Only fans again!) to film a Bare Knuckle Fist Fight in the Factory’s rooftop Garden where we have a nice piece of grass. They splashed that fight all over social media as also 3.

So I decide to sit down and do a deeper dive into mister alpha top’s social media. My general impression was he was very handsome, but as I check him out more fully I find him hot as fuck. The blue eyes hit you like a freight train. Crystal clear. Stunning. The athlete in me is checking out his frame and body, and he has that classic build of a grappler and fighter. And, of course, he has a big fucking cock. Lord save me but I love a white boy with a big cock who can fight and wrestle and is my size and I am looking at one. My dick becomes tungsten steel between my legs. I start having boy friend fantasies of sexy wrestling and hanging out in the gym together. And then I think, naw, I know his type, this dude needs to be alpha’d to gain his respect first, and to show him he does have a place in the pecking order. I instruct the Factory media department to issue a challenge through our streaming services and through the socials of our members.

I love combat sports, beginning with my first and ever love, folkstyle wrestling. I train in jiu jitsu and mma and boxing and I like to beat other men at these sports. I am gay, so when I beat other gay men of equal strength, size and skill it makes my balls boil. The guys at the Factory call this “Sex Fighting.” I call it a good time. I don’t want to be on a team. But over the years I have hosted sex fighters from the Factory in my muscle dungeon for kink, and/or basement mat room and back yard for grappling and fighting. My last fight happened on the roof of the Factory building and streamed out to millions online through my socials and their PPV. So, it’s not surprising that my old crush on Andre Jordan surfaces. My dick just throbs thinking how he is the gold standard for handsome, masculine men, and his athleticism is staggeringly impressive. In truth, it’s probably this crush that keeps me from saying yes to their offers. I don’t know If I could live and train that closely with him on a team. Then it hits social media. Andre Jordan is challenging me to a fight, just in front of the middle weight class of Team Factory, that if I were to lose, I would have to agree to join. Hell, I think I have been with most of those guys anyway. All 111K on my instagram followers saw this, no way I can say no. And besides, the idea of being the one to take Andre fucking Jordan down on the top of the Factory building is legendary. And, I get to put it on Insta and Onlyfans. My followers will go insane.

It’s a warm and breezy, late summer Friday night and I stand naked across from you in the middle of the large patch of grass that we have as the centerpiece of our roof top garden. I think the designers must have somehow intuited the backyard fantasies all wrestlers and fighters have from their childhood and adolescence, because this grass sees plenty of action. My body feels strong as adrenaline pumps through my blood vessels from a set of push ups and stretches I did on the grass in front of all the assembled members of Team Factory's 175-185 lbs weight class. My cock is in fighter's stance, hard and supremely confident.

16:08 Andre_Jordan: I look around and see the whatsapp alert also went to my whole list of members because I see all the original squad at 165 - 185lbs present naked, and sporting their big sex fighter boners. My long time buddy Liam Jock, his cousin characters/Luis Fernando Granados Luis_Fernando_Granados]], Liam’s best friend Damani Manyo Jones and Mike Smith whose connection other than I always saw them together I don’t know. I remembered the specialized training squad I created for some of them (https://mars.chatfighters.com/story/66760) and it occur to me to start a new one from this group, as well as start a “Friday Night Fights” time for the members to come together and challenge each other to impromptu sex fights of any nature within reason. Good community building experiences, some epic sex fights.

For once the New York air feels fresh up here on top of the Factory building, warm summer wind blowing against and through my naked body, pumped and fully prepared for this fight. I have a handle on the parts of me that crush badly on you, and am closing my eyes, letting my alpha energies rise powerfully within me, spreading through me almost like blood, strengthening and animating my well trained physique. My cock already swinging hard like a baseball bat. I look around and see some new faces, but I also know quite a few. I see Bruno Moya, who I primarily know because that sexy mother fucker sitting right next to him, his Catalonion cousin, Pau Cabrera and I have secretly never stopped fighting and fucking ever since our first epic battle. I see my gut punching buddy Alexander Girard, and my bareknuckle buddy [[characters/Mike_Anderson| Mike_Anderson]. I of course know Noah Oliver, Sean Jackson, and Sam Rojas from watching their fights on the circuit. Seeing them casually naked, jacked and super boned makes me want to fight and fuck them all. I say to you with a steady tone. “You know, I think some of these guys might be rooting for me.”

“I think some of them would love to see you hand me my ass, but they all want you to be on the team,” I reply calmly, as I continue to recognize all that have assembled. I nod at Rahim Ali, one of our boxing coaches and elder statesman, still out here competing with the young guys. It was he and the MMA team that brought us Farley and Ricky Vazquez. We have not seen these guys in awhile but they are two of our best mixed martial artists and boxers. And finally, two of my favorites because they are both so diversely trained, Dante Alvarez and characters/Lucas Diaz, our two Brazilian jiu jitsu black belts that specialize in cock fighting. They will bring some fun to this group of sex fighters.

"We have the whole place wired for sight and sound, to capture every moment of our fight for posterity,” I say, walking towards you and you begin to slowly approach me. In the flash of an instant we have both betrayed our intensely powerful attraction to each other because we can feel that feral, animalistic energy making our dicks thump with blood. That, we both know how to pack away securely before a battle. We stop short of each other’s reach and eyeball each other, as well as give each other the grace to fully take in the circle of naked, highly muscular, and fully aroused sex fighters that surrounds us. “If I win you have to join Team Factory and know that these elite sex fighters will all watch me fully alpha you here in this grass.”

 “And if I win I get to post the whole fight, including me pounding the hole of a Factory champion, and founder, on my Instagram with 111K Followers.” I hear the crowd murmur.

"If you win I’ll come to your Onlyfans and do color commentary on the fight and you fucking me, but you will never win, blue eyes. I get into my fighter’s stance for real and you feel that energy. You ready to become my boy?”

I instinctively get into my fighter’s stance just inside your space. Always cocky, baby. “You ready to tumble, Dre? After I knock you off your little hill here, I can’t wait to fuck that sweet chocolate ass with my big white cock!” I say with a growl now.

You stand across from me in the rooftop circle, Bronson, the city breathing beneath us, wind brushing across sweat-slick skin, grass cool and springy under the balls of your feet. The ring of bodies around us presses in tight, shoulders broad, chests rising and falling, every man here built for violence, every eye locked on you and me. You’re thick through the chest, shoulders round and full, arms heavy with muscles that flex and settle every time you roll them loose. I can see how your back widens when you inhale, how your stance stays light despite the weight you carry. I call you out clean, voice steady, and when I lay out the bet, I don’t raise it, don’t sharpen it. Just a fact. Just certainty.

You nod, jaw tight, eyes sharp, and when we step in to touch knuckles your forearm bumps mine—dense, corded, warm. The contact tells me everything I need to know. You’re strong. Conditioned. Ready to explode. I step back into stance, shoulders relaxed, hands floating, core tight, feeling my own body respond, muscles primed, breath slow. I smile—not for you, but because this is exactly where I belong.

 You talk like you already own me, Dre, and that calm makes my skin itch. I bounce in place, calves tightening and releasing like coiled steel, shoulders rolling as I snap my first jab straight at your mouth. It lands light, just a tap, but I’m already firing another, then another, my arms snapping out fast and loose, muscle memory honed sharp. I talk as I move, telling you how your boys folded one by one when they stood where you’re standing now. I step in and crack a right hand across your cheek, feeling the solid resistance of your skull through my knuckles, and I grin when your head turns just enough.

I lean close as we reset, chest brushing chest for half a second, sweat already streaking down both of us, and I tell you you’re next. I rip a left hook to your body, feeling your obliques tighten under impact, then sling a right upstairs, forcing you to give ground. The circle disappears. The skyline disappears. It’s just your body in front of me, tall, broad, balanced, and I want to break it. My muscle cock bounces with rage between my legs.

You’re loud, Bronson, loud in your mouth and loud in your movement, and I let you be both while I read you. Your shoulders rise just a hair when you throw, your hips overcommit when you chase. I slip your next jab, turning my torso so the punch skims past muscle instead of bone, and I tap your nose with my own jab, crisp and precise. Blood beads instantly, a thin red line tracing down over pale skin, and I see your eyes sharpen.

I answer with a straight kick to your abs, heel driving in clean. Your stomach tightens on instinct, muscle clamping down, but the force still folds you slightly, forcing breath out through clenched teeth. I step in behind it, my right cross snapping your head back, shoulder and hip turning together, power clean and efficient. I drift out before you can answer fully and look you dead in the eye.

“I’m in your head now, boy.”

I say it flat. Calm. Controlled. My muscle cock bounces with rage between my legs! I watch your traps tense, your jaw clench harder, veins rising along your neck. The words land heavier than the punch ever could.

You think you cracked me with that, Dre? All you did was piss me off. I surge forward, feet digging into grass, thighs firing, swinging with bad intentions now. Hooks slam into your arms, your ribs, your shoulder, anywhere I can touch. Your frame absorbs it, muscle rolling under impact, but I don’t stop. I drive a knee into your stomach, feeling your abs harden against it, and talk over the contact, telling you I’m going to tear down everything you built right in front of your pack.

 I whip a roundhouse kick into your side, shin slamming against lat and rib, then step in with a straight right that finally snaps your head sideways. I feel it land clean, feel your balance shift for a fraction of a second. Blood spills from your eyebrow, dark against your skin, and I laugh—loud, raw—telling you this is what happens when leaders forget they can bleed.

You hit hard. I don’t deny it. The kick thuds into my side and my obliques fire to absorb it, breath hissing out slow and controlled. The punch opens my brow and warm blood runs down, mixing with sweat, but there’s no panic in me. I wipe it away with the back of my hand and circle, shoulders loose, spine tall, eyes never leaving you.

I let you chase. Let you swing wide. Let your shoulders load too much. Then I step inside and punish the mistake. My left hook buries itself under your ribs, right where your muscle thins, driving deep. Your body reacts before your mind does, folding just a hair. I follow with an uppercut that lifts you, legs stiffening as your spine jolts. I stay close—knees slamming into your body, short punches snapping into your face, forearms grinding against your neck and chest in the clinch. When you grab me to slow it, your arms wrapping tight around my torso, I lean in and say it quietly, breath steady against your ear.

“You will learn to love me as your Alpha.”

 I feel your entire body tense, strength spiking, anger flooding you hot and reckless, and I feel our rock hard cocks bouncing off each other when we clinch.

That’s it. I shove you back hard, palms slamming into your chest, feeling the dense resistance of your pecs under my hands, and I explode forward. Everything comes out now—fists, elbows, kicks—wild but powerful. I crack you with a right hand that rattles your skull and screams in your face, spit flying, telling you I don’t bow. I don’t kneel. I kick your leg hard, again and again, shin smashing into your thigh, trying to deaden it, trying to take your base away from you.

Your leg absorbs it, muscle twitching, stance adjusting, and I feel rage spike hotter because you’re still there. I tell you I’m going to drown you right here, under your own sky, in front of your own team.

Your breathing is heavier now. I hear it. See it in the way your chest heaves, in the way your shoulders rise faster. I’m not matching it. When you step in too heavy, I change levels clean, back straight, hips driving, and blast through you with a double leg. My shoulder slams into your midsection, legs churning, and I run you across the grass before dumping you hard onto your back.

The impact shakes the ground. I land in your guard, posture low, spine aligned, and immediately go to work. My fists drive into your ribs, knuckles thudding against muscle, forcing your legs to tighten, to react. You punch from the bottom, fists scraping my face, catching cheek and temple, but the snap is fading. I stack you, folding you in half, your thighs compressing against your chest, then slide past your legs with a knee slice, settling heavy into side control. My shoulder crushes your jaw. My hips pin yours. Pressure everywhere.

You’re heavy, Dre. I won’t lie. Your weight sinks into me, chest broad, hips glued, but I refuse to stay flat. I frame with my forearms, muscles shaking, bridge hard, twisting my torso, eating short punches to make space. I sneak an underhook, grit my teeth, and scramble up, catching your ankle as you adjust. I yank, dump you with an ugly ankle pick, and finally I’m on top. I drop into your guard and rain fists down, shoulders and triceps burning as I hammer your ribs, your jaw, your brow. Blood smears across your chest now, streaking down over muscle, and I tell you this is where kings drown. I posture up and drop elbows, forcing reactions, forcing you to move.

I stay calm beneath you. My breathing stays slow. I let your punches land where they can, absorb them through tightened core and rolling shoulders, waiting. When you reach too far, I clamp onto your arm, threatening the kimura. Your shoulder strains. You yank back instinctively and that’s all I need. I swing my hips, shoot for the triangle, then transition seamlessly to the omoplata when you defend, my legs scissoring around your arm, hips turning sharp. You roll to escape, strength and desperation mixing, and we come back to our feet slick with blood and sweat. Our chests rise and fall hard now. Muscles are pumped, veins standing out, shoulders heavy. I step forward while you hesitate. Jab. Cross. Another knee into your body, digging deep. You groan despite yourself.

You’re relentless. Every time I think I’ve slowed you, you’re there again. I swing anyway, looping a hook that lands, then charge into the clinch, dragging you down with me in a rough fireman’s carry. We crash to the grass together, bodies slamming, muscles straining, breath blasting out of both of us. I land in half guard and start smashing, fists slamming into your head and body, arms trembling with effort. I talk through clenched teeth, voice hoarse now, telling you I won’t break. That you’ll have to kill me.

I hear you. I ignore it. I flatten you out, hips heavy, spine aligned, and slide my knee free. I pass clean to mount, knees wide, balance perfect, my weight centered and crushing. I punch just enough to make you react, then slide off as you turn, taking your back in one smooth motion. My hooks sink in deep, calves locking, thighs squeezing around your hips. Your back is broad under my chest, muscles twitching as fatigue sets in. I slide my arm under your chin and lock my hands for a rear naked choke. Your breathing changes immediately as it feels me ensnare you, and it feels my flagging cock harden quickly against your backside. You fight it. Hands claw. Neck muscles strain. But I’m patient. I squeeze steady. “Yeah, blue eyes, you’re mine.” The team members sense it and come closer for the finale.

You’ve got me. I know it even as I fight it. I burn what’s left trying to peel your arm away, trying to turn into you, but your pressure doesn’t break. My vision narrows. Chest heaves. Strength drains out of my arms. I can feel myself slipping and all I can feel is your dick grinding on my ass.

I slap the grass hard.

 Andre

I feel you exhaust yourself struggling, then slump to the blood and sweat smeared grass utterly drained of energy. I loosen my rear naked choke enough for you to begin to take in large breathes of air again, but I remain dominantly on top of you. My big thighs lay on top of yours, my abs ripple, massaging your lower back, while my chest digs deeply into your thick upper back. I slowly push my champion sex fighter cock inch by inch inside you and let my wide cock head just nudge your prostate, but I don’t begin thrusting. I just flex it like a muscle inside you. “Yeah, Bron, you feel me inside you as your alpha?” I squeeze my choke a little more. “I didn't hear you, Bron. You ready to be my boy?”

Bronson: “Yes, sir.”

 Andre: “Good boy! Now I want you to sound off. Are you gonna be a good teammate for my guys?"

Bronson: “Yes, sir.”

 Andre: “And you will train by MY side for your first month here?”

Bronson: “Yes, sir.”

Andre: “You will win fights for me on the underground sex fighting circuit.”

Bronson: “Yes, sir.”

 Andre: “You gonna stay kinky for your alpha?”

Bronson: “Fuck yes, sir.”

Andre: “Outstanding blue eyes! You can report to my private suite every night after mess hall to service me. Do we understand each other? With each “Yes, sir” I have loosened the choke a bit and now do so significantly, though I remain in full control of you.

Bronson: “Fuck yes, sir.”

Andre: “Fantastic! Now, your teammates want to welcome you.” I roll off you completely and stagger to my feet. Laughing how no one seems to notice how banged up I am as well because my guys, my beloved teammates are dog piling on you. Pau, Mike and Alexander are the first to dive on you, then carefully roll off as they know not to hurt you in your condition. The rest follow suit, laughing, enjoying being naked together and being a part of this special recruitment ceremony. My heart swells as they get you to your feet then lift you into the air to carry you off to the medic, then the showers, and then to your new private suite to rest. How could you know I would be visiting you later that night…