The Muscle Punishment ﹠ Humiliation Society
Established: 2022-03-12
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You Suffer For Our Pleasure
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Tony LF
my promoter organized me a match in Puerto Rico against a cocky boy who disrespected me in several interviews. Can't wait to kick his ass in front of his people. Enter the arena in my green, white and red trunks, bare feet, hairy Italian body. "From Sicily, Italy, at 177 lbs 5'8, Tony the Italian Stallion!" an Italian opera music plays as I walk along the aisle with the Italian flag on my shoulders, giving the finger to the local booing fans. Behind me, my staff is pushing a wheeled table with many Italian foods on it: pizza, spaghetti, lasagna, tiramisu.
Dadicus
The arena lights blaze down, the heat of my island’s cheers vibrating through the concrete. You think you can march in here draped in your green-white-red flag, giving the finger to my people, rolling out your pizza and pasta like this is your personal buffet? You came to my house, Tony... My ring... My event... Backlash is back in Puerto Rico for a reason... because we burn brighter than anywhere else on earth. You don’t get to disrespect this island and walk out smiling. That’s when my music hits... a thunderous, heavy beat that shakes the ramp. I don’t walk. I explode from the curtain like a damn train, my grey briefs and black waistband tight against me, and I’m already at a full sprint. Your table of Italian food? I plow through it without breaking stride... plates shatter, spaghetti flies, lasagna splatters the front row. I don’t even look. My eyes are locked on you, still soaking in the boos with that flag on your shoulders.
Dadicus
I hit the ring apron, drop to my knees, and slide under the bottom rope straight into you. The spear is pure, brutal impact... your breath leaves you in a gasp as we crash hard onto the mat.
Dadicus
Before you can roll, I’m on top of you, one knee pinning your chest, my fists already raining down. Crack!!! a right to your jaw. Thud!!! a left to your ribs. “What’s wrong, you Italian fucker?” I snarl, my voice raw over the crowd’s roar. “Not talking so much trash now, ah?” Another punch digs into your solar plexus. “You called my home garbage? I’ll show you garbage... it’s what’s left of you when I’m done!” I grab a handful of your hair, wrench your head up so you’re staring into the lights. “This is my main event. You’re just the appetizer.” As the bell dings and the referee rushes between us, I finally let go. I back away, flexing for the roaring crowd before spitting in your direction with a smug grin.
Tony LF
I climb into the ring and drape the Italian flag on the top rope, smirking confident. When your music hits I turn toward you, just to see you rushing throught my buffet table, splattering those art foods all around the concrete floor outside the ring. "Cazzo fai, you third world filthy jobber! Those foods cost more than this shitty arena!" I shout with my heavy Italian accent.
Tony LF
As I speak I notice you're not slowing down and before I can dodge, your shoulders connects with my hairy gut taking me down with a spear "UUUUUFFFFFFFFF" spittle flies from my mouth as my back touches the canvas and you continue your brutal pre match assault. "Uuughh uugghh" I try to block your blows, squirming under you until ref push you aside.
Tony LF
Moaning and coughing I try to get up as you flex for the excited Puerto Rican fans. "You're gonna pay for that piece of shit...I'm gonna humiliate you so much like I did with your boy you won't show your dumb face on a ring again". I spit on the canvas.
Dadicus
You’re down on the mat wheezing, and that’s when you want to talk about my boy? My boy toy? The one I get to humiliate? My property that no one gets to fuck with unless I say so... and you put your hands on Adam? I see red. The ref’s barely pulled me off when you spit your words and try to push yourself up. You make it to one knee, coughing, and I’m already circling the crowd’s roar is a wall of sound. You shift your weight, start to stand fully, and that’s when I lunge. A running, full-tilt clothesline that catches you across the throat and collarbone. The crunch of impact echoes. You flip backward, your legs flying over your head, and you land flat on your back with a gasp that gets swallowed by the arena’s noise.
Dadicus
I’m on you instantly, a knee on your chest, my hand fisting your hair again. I wrench your face toward the hard camera. “Talk about him again,” I snarl, my voice low and venomous over the mic, “and I will break you. You hear me? You fucking useless jobber.” I give your head a shake, making sure the world sees your dazed eyes. “This isn’t your buffet. This is my ring. And you’re on the menu.” as I shove your face to the matt floor.
Tony LF
I slowly get on my feet after the vicious assault I received before the bell. "You cheater bastard I'm gonna cruuuuuugggghhh" you silence me with the clothesline: your forearm connects with my throat sending me on my back, holding my neck and coughing. Puerto Rican fans chanting your name as you kneel on my hairy chest
Tony LF
You grab my salt and pepper hair, a confused expression on my face as I try to remove cobwebs. I grit my teeth, forced to listen to your monologue at the mic, getting cocky and dominant over me, embarrassing the Italian Stallion in front of the camera and the world. As you shove my face to the canvas I reach for your face with my hand and rake your eyes. "Payback time puttana!" I growl pissed off as I take the microphone from your hand and smash it on top of your head.
Dadicus
the world whites out for a second... a sharp, blinding sting as your fingers rake across my eyes. I rear back, instinctively bringing my hands up, and that’s when I feel the mic get ripped from my grip. Thwack!!. A solid, sickening crack of plastic and metal explodes across the top of my skull. My vision tunnels. The roar of the crowd mutes into a dull, ringing hum. I can’t see. Not clearly. Just blurred shapes and the sting of tears mixing with sweat. My head pounds where the mic connected... a hot, spreading ache that seeps down my neck. I hear your voice, distant and taunting, but the words are muddled by the ringing in my ears. I push myself up onto my forearms, shaking my head, trying to clear the fog.
Tony LF
I get up, breathing hard, finally recovering after your cheap attack before the beginning of the match. "Not so cocky now uh, pezzo di merda?!" I taunt as I grab an handful of your hair, pull your head back and spit on your face in disrespect while you squint. Crowd boos but I just smirk at them and make the rude "I don't care" Italian gesture with my hands under my chin. While you're dazed on your knees I run to the ropes behind me and rush back at you with a shining wizard, smashing my knee on the side of your shithead and taking you to the canvas.
Dadicus
The warm, wet slap of your spit hits my cheek just as I’m trying to focus through the blur. Fury ignites in my chest... white-hot, pure rage but before I can even wipe it away, I see a blur of you bounce off the ropes.
Dadicus
CRACK!! Your knee connects flush with the side of my head. My vision flashes white, then dark at the edges. The world tilts, and I hit the canvas hard, one hand instinctively clutching my temple. The ringing is back, louder this time, mixing with the crowd’s furious boos. I push through it... Grunting, I get to my hands and knees, head hanging. I can feel your spit still wet on my face. I can smell the sweat and the cheap canvas. My own breathing is ragged in my ears. “Ohh,” I growl, the words gritted out between my teeth. I lift my head slowly, locking eyes with you even though my vision swims. “You are going to pay for that, you Italian fucker. I rise shakily on all fours, one hand still pressed to my throbbing temple. I wipe your spit from my face with the back of my wrist. The crowd’s boos have shifted into a rhythmic, eager chant. They smell blood.. mine or yours, they don’t care. They just want war and I'm ready to dish it.
Tony LF
After my knee sends you to the canvas seeing stars I get up quickly, staring you down like a predator with his pray "HERE'S YOUR PATHETIC CHAMP!" I shout to your fans pointing at your body at my feet. As you threaten me from your position and struggle to get on all fours like the dog you are, I move ringside where one of my guys hands me a Puerto Rican flag.
Tony LF
I grab it and show the flag to the booing crowd as I approach you and move behind you. Slowly wipe the sweat from my hairy body, armpits and thighs with the Puerto Rican flag and wrap it on your face. "Let me help you wiping the spit from your jobber face, loser...while you smell some real Italian man scent." I mock as I secure the flag around your throat too, choking you. Ref pats on my shoulder, giving me a warning
Dadicus
The coarse fabric grinds against my skin, soaked through with the sour, acrid musk of your sweat... armpits, thighs... smearing it across my mouth, my nose. I gag, coughing wetly into the cloth as you twist it tighter. My own flag. The one I’d carried with pride. Now it reeks of you as you chokes me on my knees. The ref’s hand pats your shoulder. A warning. It doesn’t matter. The insult burns deeper than the lack of air. My vision swims, but not from the head strike... but from pure rage. I claw at your arm... the flag, my fingers tangling, my lungs screaming. I finally wrench a corner loose, gulping a sharp, burning breath. The ref is counting… you have to let go soon. But the damage is done. The humiliation is etched into the canvas, and it burns deep.
Dadicus
The second the pressure slackens, I don’t retreat. I use your own momentum against you. As you lean back, gloating, I twist my body hard and yank the flag still looped around my neck, pulling you off balance. You stumble forward, and I drive my shoulder into your midsection, flipping you down onto the mat with a heavy thud. Before you can roll, I’m on you. I grab your left leg, wrench it up, and twist your body, flipping you chest-down. In one fluid motion, I trap your ankle, lock my arms around your foot, and bend it. “Hijo de puta…” I hiss, my voice raw from the choking. “Let’s see how you can walk with no leg… cabrón.” I lean back, putting all my weight into the ankle lock. The hold is tight, brutal. I can feel the ligaments in your ankle strain, the joint protesting. You thrash beneath me, your free leg kicking wildly, your hands slapping the canvas. The crowd is on their feet, roaring. I sink the hold deeper, my eyes locked on your face twisted in pain. “This is my flag,” I snarl through gritted teeth. “My island. My ring. You wipe your sweat on it again, I’ll break more than just your leg.”
Tony LF
I yank your head toward me as I grind my knee between your shoulder blades and whisper into your ear "I'm gonna enjoy forcing you to beg for mercy coglione...you're a fucking loser!" just before the ref orders me to release you I give the flag a last pull "THIS IS WHAT I THINK OF YOU AND YOUR SHITTY COUNTRY, ASSHOLE!" I yell. As I'm about to let the flag go, you pull me toward you and drive your shoulder into my hairy gut..."UUUUFFFFFF..." spittle flies from my mouth as I bend over, winded. You grab the back of my neck and toss me in front of you...."Ughhh...what the?!" I grunt.
Tony LF
Before I can understand what's happening you grab my bare foot and lock my ankle under your muscle arm, twisting and pulling it in a nasty ankle lock. Fans begins chanting "PUERTO RICO" over and over while I start crying in pain "AAAARRGGHHH VAFFANCULO DADICUS AAARRGG LET ME GO BASTARDOOOO!". Strain my arms desperately toward the ropes, push my chest from the canvas trying to decrease your leverage, my other leg kicking wildly..."AARRGGHHHHHH FUCKEEEER!" I cry as you run your mouth getting cocky
Dadicus
The chants of “PUERTO RICO!” are a drumbeat in my ears, syncing with the pulse of pain I’m drilling into your ankle. You’re scrambling, your fingers clawing at the canvas, straining toward those ropes just inches away. Pathetic. “Where do you think you’re going?” I snarl, my voice low and venomous over the crowd’s roar. “There’s no buffet over there. No flag to hide behind. Now it’s time for you to pay.” In one brutal motion, I lift you by your ankle... I yank your trapped leg up lifting you higher, pivoting my body. I slam the back of your knee into the back of my neck, forcing your leg to bend.
Dadicus
Before you can roll or tuck, I drop my weight into yours. Your left leg is still free, kicking wildly, but I’m already too deep. I trap your ankle under my armpit, wrapping both arms around your elevated shin. Then I arch my back and sit out, pulling with all my strength. The Stretch Muffler. Your body contorts into a human pretzel. Your back arches painfully, your chest lifts off the mat, and a strangled scream tears from your throat. I keep my head tucked, my body compact, evading your one loose leg that wails helplessly at the air. “Now,” I growl, my arms tightening like steel cables around your leg. “Let’s hear that Italian scream I enjoy so much.” I lean back further, applying unbearable pressure on your knee and lower back. The hold isn’t just about pain; it’s about humiliation. It bends you, breaks your posture, exposes you completely to your booing fans and my cheering ones. “Beg for mercy, coglione,” I hiss, throwing your own word back at you. “You wanted to hear me beg? Now the whole world gets to hear you.”
Tony LF
I can see the ropes inches from my hands, my hairy leg on fire as you twist my ankle and knee. "AAAAAARGGHHH VAFFANCULOOO ARRRGHHH" I shout with a last effort, trying to grab the bottom rope...but before I can reach it, you pull me back to the middle of the ring and hook the back of my knee on your neck, sitting on my back, bending me in an unnatural position.
Tony LF
My face is grinding on the canvas, my body and muscles stretched as you expose them for your roaring fans, my growing bulge in display under the Italian flag trunks while my left leg is flailing in a pathetic way. When you sit on me, I feel the air getting squeezed out of my body and you ask me to beg. "Uuuughhh...no way...you puerto rican shit AAAAAAARRGGHHHH" the Italian stallion in troubles.
Dadicus
The ropes were right there. Inches from your fingers. But I dragged you back to the center of my ring, where there’s no escape, and hooked your leg behind my neck. Now I’m sitting on your back, your face grinding into the canvas, your body bent and exposed. My weight settles on you, squeezing the air from your lungs, making every muscle in your leg and spine scream. “¿Y ahora qué vas a hacer, maricón?” I growl “I said beg.” I grind my hips deeper into your back, increasing the pressure. You gasp, but you don’t break. “No way… you Puerto Rican shit AAAAARRRGGHHH!” Your defiance is cut short by a fresh wave of pain as I lean back further. The ref slides in close, his face near yours. “Ref, check on him!” I shout, pointing at your pained expression. As the ref leans in, his eyes on your face, I see my opening. My left hand, hidden from the official’s view by our bodies, darts down. I slam my palm against the bulge in your Italian flag trunks, grab a firm handful, and squeeze. I jerk it from side to side, feeling you convulse beneath me. A different kind of pain, sharp and deep, radiates through you. Your arms, which were flailing from the stretch, now jerk wildly. “I said squirm, maricón,” I hiss, applying more twisting pressure.
Dadicus
The ref’s head turns. He sees my arm moving, my shoulders tense. “¡Let go! ¡Suéltalo!” he shouts, reaching for my wrist. “One… two…” he counts. I start tightening my grip one last time before releasing your balls. I raise my hands innocently. “I think he gave up!” I shout to the crowd, shrugging. As the ref turns to check on you, I lean down one final time and deliver a sharp, open-handed slap to your bulge. “How does that feel, ah?” I sneer, before finally releasing the Stretch Muffler and rolling off you. I get to my feet, breathing heavily, and look down at you curled on the mat. I wipe my hand on my thigh as if wiping off something foul, and raise my arms to my people and go back to make you suffer more for the humiliate you just caused me.
Tony LF
I'm gasping in pain as you bend my older back, my body already covered with sweat and the worst part is I have no idea of how to escape this hold, feeling trapped and embarassed as you talk to me in your jobber language, pissing me off by calling me maricon, hurting my Italian stallion pride and manhood..."UUUGGHHH FUUUCK...CAZZO". My face getting red for pain as I squirm under you...suddendly I feel your palm reaching for my exposed bulge and firmly grabs it, squeezing my poor Italian meatballs. "AAAAAARRGGHHHHH MERDAAAAARRGGG YOU CHEATER ARRRGGHHHH REEEEEF REEEEEF!" I shout with an high pitch voice while you turn my meatballs into ground beef, My hands trying to reach your body, without success "AARRGHGHH BASTARDOOOO!"
Tony LF
When you release me I collapse on the canvas, breathing hard, an expression of pain on my face as I grab my leg and pull it to my torso, rolling at your feet in fetal position as you flex for your fans. My hurted bulge sending waves of pain to my whole body, can't believe this is happening. "Pezzo di merda...cheater...my balls...uuuugghhh..." I complain, overwhelmed by the roaring crowd
T
Tony LF
Slowly I get on all fours, while you take your time showing off your muscles..."Vaffanculo..." I grab your boot, than your leg....and the waistband of your gray trunks, pulling me on my knees in front of you. "This is far from over, puerto rican trash..." I mumble.
Dadicus
I look down at you, still flexing for the crowd as you groan at my feet. You’re clutching yourself, rolling in a fetal position... pathetic. Then I feel your hand on my boot... Then my leg... Then you fist the waistband of my grey trunks, using me to haul yourself onto your knees in front of me. Your breath is ragged, your face a mask of pain and hate. “This is far from over, puerto rican trash…” you mumble through gritted teeth. A cold smile touches my lips. You’re using my body as your crutch. Big mistake. “Who did you call trash, cabrón?” My hands shoot out and clamp around your wrists before you can let go. I yank you forward, off-balance, and at the same time drive my knee upward in a brutal, rising arc. CRACK!.
Dadicus
It connects squarely with your jaw. I feel the sickening crunch, see the spray of spit fly. Your head snaps back. “¡Italiano de mierda!” I snarl. I don’t let go. As you reel, stunned, I pull you in again, this time I bring my knee up in a short, vicious hook to the point of your jaw. THUD!!. The impact jars up my leg. Your eyes roll back, your body goes limp, and you slump backward like a sack of bricks, collapsing onto the canvas in a heap. I stand over you, breathing hard, looking down at your broken form.
Tony LF
I couldn't recover from the torture and the ball claw I received and I understand I crossed the line with my words when you grab my wrist with a cold smile, calling me cabron. I shake my head no "No..no..wait...Dadicus aspetta...UUUUGGGGHHHH" your knee connects with my bearded jaw, stunning me...my head bounces back but before I can drop to the canvas you hold my wrists in your grip and repeat...BAM...spittle flies from my mouth as my eyes roll back. Crow roaring exalted as you finally let me go and I slump on my back, spread eagle, barely conscious in a puddle of my own sweat. My hairy chest moving up and down with spasms, my Italian flag trunks tenting in an embarassing way as you tower over me
Dadicus
You lay there motionless, spread-eagle in your own sweat. My eyes drop from your heaving chest to the obvious, embarrassing tent pitching up your Italian flag briefs. Like a flag of surrender. A cruel smile splits my face. “¡Ustedes creen que este cabrón aprendió la lección?” I shout in Spanish, my voice booming through the arena. The crowd screams back, a unified, thunderous “¡NO!” “¡¿Debería enseñarle cómo hacemos negocios aquí en PR cuando se mete con nuestra gente y nuestra bandera?!” The stage roars. The noise is physical, a pressure wave that feels like it could bring the ceiling down.
Dadicus
I step over to you, my shadow falling across your dazed face. I fist a hand into your salt-and-pepper hair, yanking your head up. I don’t say a word. I just guide your head between my legs, then hook my arms under you and behind your thighs. I hoist you up, my muscles straining, and lock you into a tight, packaged position a human trophy. A piledriver setup. I hold you there, high above my shoulders, letting the crowd take in the sight. Your arms and legs are trapped, your body folded helplessly. And there, undeniable for everyone to see, is the tent in your trunks. “¡Hasta a él le gusta mi olor Boricua!” I snarl, shaking you slightly for emphasis. Then, with a guttural roar, I leap forward and drop, driving you down head-first. I aim for that same tender spot on the back of your skull that’s already taken so much punishment today. CRUNCH!!.
Dadicus
The impact is sickeningly solid. Your body goes completely limp in my arms. I let you slump off me, a broken doll collapsing in a heap. Your head lolls to the side. I hook you leg. The ref drops beside you, slapping the mat. One… Two… He doesn’t even get to three before I lift you back up... stopping the count" I don't think so... im not done with you yet!"
Tony LF
I'm on my back, head spinning, the chants of the puerto rican crowd overwhelming me. I try to open my eyes, dazed, just to see you standing over me with your cocky expression and mocking me in Spanish...when you bend over and grab an handfull of my ruffled salt and pepper hair I wave my hands in front of me begging both in english and Italian"wait...no...please aspetta...aspetta".
Tony LF
You roughly shove my head between your thighs, my beard rubbing on your skin as I tap on your muscles with my hand, trying to find a way out "NO NO NO CAZZO NO PLEASE!" I yell desperate as you lift me, holding me upside down, blood rushing to my head. My growing bulge exposed for your fans who take pics. Than you drive my head to the canvas...BAM...and everything gets dark.
Tony LF
You lay on me, hooking my leg and going for am easy pin, but break the count at two. Fans on their feet chanting "ONE MORE TIME! ONE MORE TIME!". You keep my shoulders up and I have a dumb expression on my face, drooling on my chest, dripping sweat, at your mercy. I move one hand on your pecs. "No more...no more...ti prego"
Dadicus
“Now ‘ti prego,’ ah?!” I sneer down at your pathetic, drooling face. Your hand is weakly patting my chest, your eyes unfocused. I plant the sole of my boot against your cheek and shove, grinding it mockingly. “Ti prego,” I repeat in a high-pitched, whining mimicry of your voice. I lift my foot and shove again, harder, making your head snap to the side. “Ti prego!” I mock, making exaggerated crying sounds for the crowd’s benefit. I press my boot against the side of your face one last time, leaning my weight into it. “I’m not done with you,” I growl, my voice dropping back to its normal, venomous tone. “I’m going to make you regret ever touching my stuff… ever mocking my people.”
Dadicus
I remove my boot, and in one swift motion, I hook my hands under your arms again. The crowd is on its feet, chanting “¡OTRA! ¡OTRA!” But I’m not giving them another piledriver. I have something slower, something more special for people like you. I haul you up, your body limp. Instead of flipping you upside down, I pull you up and over my shoulders, then slide you down my back. I catch your legs, locking them over my thighs, I reach up and hook my forearm under your chin, cranking your head back. My very own Gory Special.
Dadicus
I lock it in tight, my body arching to bend you backwards. Your spine protests with an audible creak. I start to move, jerking you up and down, sawing my forearm against your throat, bending you into a painful, arching bow. “Say you are sorry,” I hiss into your ear, my voice raw and close. I adjust my grip, tightening the chin lock. “Let them feel how sorry you are. ” I can feel every strained muscle in your back, every gasped breath you try to take. This isn’t about a pin. This is about surrender. This is about humiliation.
Tony LF
I hear you mocking me, speaking Italian with your accent, imitating me and making fun of me and my language..."Ti prego...no..." I repeat, but you rub the sole of your boot on my face, using my drooled beard as your personal doormat. You keep repeating "Ti prego" pretending to cry, disrespecting me again. I can barely grab your ankle and try to lift your foot in a pathetic way, squirming under you, helpless. When you pull me up I let out a "Noooooo....Dadicus...enough..." but you ignore me and continue your torture. You hoist my exausted body on your back, hooking under my chin with your forearm, trapping my legs on your waist.
Tony LF
I feel my whole body on fire, my back like it is about to snap, my hairy chest stretched and my tenting bulge now completely exposed for the puerto rican fans and they're taking pics of my body on display. Sweat pouring from my body to yours, my muscle shaking in agony. "AAAAARRRGHHHHHHH LET ME GOOOO AAAAAARRGGGGGGG..." you ask me to beg and saying I'm sorry...tears running down my face..."VAFFANCULO BASTAAARDOOOO AAARRGGHH" I insult you but you yank my neck..."AAAARRGGHHHH OK OK I'M SORRY I'M SORRY AAAAAARRGGG MI DISPIACE!" I cry
Dadicus
The words are music to my ears “Mi dispiace!” a wet, broken sob choked out through tears and pain. I can feel your whole body shaking against mine, your muscles trembling, your sweat soaking through my gear. You’re squirming, begging me and the paying crowd to just stop. “Oh, it’s going to stop alright,” I growl, my voice low and venomous in your ear. “But not how you think.” In one fluid, brutal motion, I go from the Gory Special to a devastating powerbomb. My left hand, still hooked under your chin, yanks your head back hard. I pivot, heave you up, and flip your entire body over my shoulder. For a split second, you’re suspended in the air, horizontal across my back. Then I drive forward and down, planting my feet and using all my strength to slam you straight down into the canvas. It’s not just a powerbomb. It’s a statement. Your back and the base of your skull connect with the mat with a sickening, hollow THUD that cuts through the crowd’s noise. The impact is so violent it bounces your limp form back up an inch before you settle, spread-eagle and motionless, in the center of the ring.
Tony LF
"Mi...mi dispiace...I...I'm sorry..perdona..." I sob...unable to breath, my sweaty hairy muscles trembling, my tenting Italian flag trunks completely drenched in my own sweat, fans chanting your name over and over and "PUERTO RICO". When you say "Oh it's going to stop alright" I understand something bad is going to happen. "NO...DON'T..PLEASE...WAIT..." I stuggle, trying to flex my biceps and pull my arms but I'm too weakened by the piledriver I received soon earlier. You quickly flip me over, showing your strenght, my body do a 360° flip like a ragdoll and you drive me hard to the canvas...BAM...ring shakes when my head and my back hits the mat...I bounce, for e moment it seems I'm about to get up, but I slump on my back, out cold, legs spread open, demolished
Dadicus
The arena is a thunderous roar... Chanting the phrase " YO SOY BORICUA PA’ QUE TÚ LO SEPAS! " over and over. Your sobbed apologies are just pathetic whimpers swallowed by the noise. I look down at you... demolished, spread-eagle, a broken doll in soaked Italian flag trunks. You bounce once from the impact and go still. I step over, placing the sole of my boot directly on your throat, not with full weight, but with enough pressure to make a point. I flex for the crowd, my arms raised, the muscles in my back and shoulders corded with tension. The ref slides in, then slams his hand to the mat. One! He looks at you, then at me. My boot is still on your neck. Your chest doesn’t move. Two!...
Tony LF
I hear crowd chants like it was muffled around me, not moving at all, the powerbomb put me out for good and I lay halpless on my back in a puddle of my own sweat as you kneel next to me and go for a cocky pin with your boot on my throat. I make no resistance at all, my hairy chest heaving as I try to breath, no more fight in the cocky Italian stallion, foam and drool on my mouth. The ref looks at you and goes for the third count
Dadicus
The ref’s hand slams the mat a third time. THREE. Ding! Ding! Ding! The bell rings, sharp and final. The crowd erupts. The announcer’s voice booms, “The winner by pinfall… DADICUS!” I slowly rise from your broken body, a cold smirk spreading across my face. My boot leaves your throat. The victory is mine, the pin is clean… but I’m not done. You thought you could just humiliate me, mock my island, and this would be it? No. Victories are celebrated. Lessons are taught. As the ref moves to raise my arm, I brush him aside. I grab your limp, sweaty form by the trunks, and with a grunt, I roll your dead weight toward the ropes. Rolling you under them, as you slump to the floor outside with a heavy thud.
Dadicus
The ref shouts, “¿Qué haces? ¡La pelea terminó!” He steps toward the ropes. I turn, fixing him with a glare, and gesture sharply for him to stay back. “Yo gané,” I snarl, my voice low and dangerous. “Así que me lo chingo donde quiera.” I slide out of the ring after you. I grab your face, turning it toward me. Your eyes are half-lidded, breath coming in shallow gasps. “Don’t worry,” I say, my voice dripping with false comfort as I pat your cheek. “I’m going to make this visit to the island unforgettable. I’m going to show you just how hospitable we Puerto Ricans can be.” I stand up, looking over at the ringside table where your Italian flag and the ruined remnants of your food buffet are scattered. I smile, then turn back to the roaring crowd. I raise a fist, soaking in their cheers. This isn’t over. The bell may have rung, but my point is still being made. I turn back to you, crouching down again. “You wanted a main event, Tony? You’re getting an encore.”
Tony LF
"uuughhhh...cosa? Cosa è successo?" I moan, trying to open my eyes as I hear your music playing and your fans chanting, really don't know what hit me. Ref kneels next to me to check my conditions and if I need medical attention, but you grab the waistband of my sweat drenched Italian flag trunks and roughly roll me toward the ropes and under them on the concrete dirty arena floor, giving me a wedgie in the process. "Ooooghh.." I grunt landing outside the ring, my hairy ass cheeks exposed, I try to crawl toward the aisle between the remains of the Italian buffet and my flag, but you're quickly on me, grabbing my bearded face and forcing me to look at you..."Uughh...no...c'mon..you won...you won.." I whisper with feeble voice, my hands on your forearm. Puerto Rican fans excited, the cameraman zooms on us.
Dadicus
“Uughh… no… c’mon… you won… you won…” Your whisper is pathetic, your hands feebly pushing at my forearm. I don’t listen. I don’t even acknowledge it. My eyes are on the ramp. I gesture sharply with my free hand, a single pointed finger toward the back. On cue, my staff starts rolling a long table down the aisle. Not a wrecked buffet this time... a fresh, loaded one. It’s heaped with Puerto Rican food: golden, garlicky mofongo; crispy tostones; bowls of arroz con gandules; pastelón; sweet, creamy flan. The smells of sofrito and roasted pork begin to cut through the sweat and blood in the air. The table rolls right next to the barricade where the fans are.. The crowd’s chants shift, morphing into a mix of cheers and hungry, taunting laughter. I turn your bearded face toward it, forcing you to see. “You’re right, Tony. I won,” I say, my voice loud enough for the nearby camera mic to catch. “So now it’s my show. And I think it’s time I treated our… guest… and let him taste what we really have to offer.” I drag you by your hair toward the barricade. You scramble, your hands slipping on the concrete, but I’m too strong. “You brought your pasta. Your pizza. You wiped your sweat on my flag. So let me show you some proper hospitality. Mi casa es tu casa, right?”
Tony LF
"Uuughh...no...basta...please" I continue begging, but my voice is drowned out by the crowd when they see your staff taking into the arena the long table. At first I don't understand what's happening, maybe another pro wrestler coming to save me, than I see the Puerto Rican buffet coming toward me. I feel disgusted when I see it, my precious Italian food wasted on the floor, the best food in the world ruined by this stinky savage and that shit on a plate is getting served. I have motion of sickness at the idea you usually eat that, I try to push you away but you're too strong and I'm too weak after the beating I received. You yank my sweaty ruffled salt and pepper hair, forcing me to follow you an all fours, like a dog, toward the table, my flag trunks still wedged in my ass as you take me in front of the first row fans for this walk of shame
Dadicus
With practiced ease, I hook your arms over the top of the barricade, your wrists caught between the padded sections. You’re trapped, bent forward, your back exposed. My hands go to the waistband of your sweat-drenched, wedged-up Italian flag trunks. With one sharp yank, I pull them down to your knees. There’s a collective gasp, then a wave of cheers and jeers as your naked body is put on full display under the bright arena lights. Cameras flash incessantly from the crowd. My staff moves along the front row, passing out small plates of the Puerto Rican food mofongo, tostones, pastelón. The fans take them eagerly, their eyes glued to the scene.
Dadicus
I step back for a moment, my own hands going to the waistband of my grey briefs. I pull them down just enough, and my thick, heavy cock springs free. I spit into my palm, lubricate myself roughly, and step close behind you again. “Buen provecho,” I growl into your ear, my voice thick with contempt and intent. I grab your neck with one hand, holding you steady against the barricade. With the other, I guide myself. There’s no gentle push. I shove myself inside you in one brutal, unforgiving thrust. A choked, guttural sound is forced from your lips. Your body goes rigid against the barricade, your arms straining where they’re hooked. “Let him have it!” I shout to the fans over your shoulder. On cue, as you gasp for air from the shock and violation, the fans in the front row begin. One shoves a forkful of mofongo into your open mouth. Another presses a tostone against your lips. Another pours a bit of flan onto your tongue. With every ragged gasp you take, they force-feed you, the food smearing across your face, some of it going down your throat, some of it dripping onto your chest and the barricade.
Dadicus
I set a rough, punishing rhythm, my hips slamming against you, my grip on your neck unyielding. The scene is a grotesque feast of food, of humiliation, of absolute dominance. The chants have morphed into a rhythmic, primal beat that matches my thrusts. “This,” I snarl into your ear, my voice raw, “is how we welcome putas like you to our island. You swallow our food. You swallow your pride. You swallow everything.” I hold you there, impaled and force-fed, as the crowd screams its approval. Your world has shrunk to the taste of garlic and plantain, the pain in your arms, the violation filling you, and the overwhelming sound of an entire arena celebrating your destruction.
Tony LF
As you turn me toward the audience and lock my wrists between the padded sections I shake my head worried. "Cosa cazzo fai?! No...what?!". Panic increases when you roughly pull my sweaty Italian trunks down to my knees, revealing my hard Italian sausage. Your fans grabbing the plates and you move behind me whispering "buen provecho" to my ear. "Fuck no Dadicus...that wasn't a stake match...I'm the Italian Stallion you can't OOOOOOOOOOOOGGGGHHH"
Tony LF
You interrupt me shoving your rod inside my rounded virgin Italian ass, brutalizing me in front of the laughing crowd. "Oooggghhg nooo stooop" I cry in desperation but someone in the first row shove something in my mouth "mmmggghhh" gagging on that disgusting food, trying to swallow while others fans try to push something in my mouth, smearing the most part on my face and hairy chest.
Tony LF
My ass on fire, my hard cock leaking precum as you ride the Italian stallion, unable to beg, puerto rican food filling my cocky mouth as you talk trash to my ear, verbally crushing my ego. Cameras recording everything doing close up of the scene
Dadicus
Your cries of “Oooggghhg nooo stooop” are pathetic, useless against the rhythm I set. Your ass is on fire, your ego is crushed, and the crowd loves every second of it. Your mouth is full, your chest is covered, and your dignity is completely gone. I don’t slow down. I keep ramming my cock faster, harder, my mushroom head hitting that prostate over and over, grinding into the exact spot that makes you weak. “You like that… don’t you…?” I growl into your ear, my breath hot. “You fucking Italian pig.” That’s when I feel it... a warm, slick slide down my shaft as your precum mixes with the sweat. I don’t care about comfort; this is humiliation. I keep jerking your leaking cock, watching the precum bead up. Then, a fan in the front holds a plate of flan right over your face. It tips, and the sweet, creamy dessert falls from your mouth, splattering directly onto your hard cock.
Dadicus
I don’t stop the edging. I smear the flan with my hand, all over your shaft, mixing it with your precum, coating your sensitive head. The cold dessert against your hot skin makes you shiver. I take my hand, now sticky with your mix of sweat, flan, and precum, and hook two fingers into your mouth as you gasp. I open your jaw wide, forcing you to swallow the mess I made of you. “The Italian Stallion needs a drink to down all this food,” I mock, staring into your glazed eyes. I smear the food and cum across your face again. “Bevi tutto,” I command, gritting my teeth. The fan reacts instantly. He pour the coquito down your throat, the liquid splashing all over your face, running down your neck, mixing with the food on your chest. You choke and gag, drinking the mixture, unable to spit it out as I keep thrusting into you, marking you as mine in every way possible.
Tony LF
"MMMMGGHHHHH...MMMGGHHH..cazzo..merda...MMMGGG" I grunt, trying to sputter the food from my mouth, moaning in pain as I feel your cock diggin deeper, riding the Italian stallion, your words like knives in my ear, getting under my skin, completely dominating me. You reach for my hard Italian cock and keep jerking it, quickly taking some precum from me.."MMGGHH...Noooo...stooop..." and while I beg, your fan drop the flan right on my cock, creating a mixture you take with your fingers like a dessert and hook my mouth with them. I can feel your fingers pulling my mouth, forcing me to lick them clean with my tongue, tasting that disgusting mix of my own cum and puerto rican flan. It's terrible and degradaing, forced to suck on my loser precum in front of the camera.
Tony LF
You pull my mouth wide open, talking to me in Italian with your terrible accent and the fan pour the creamy coquito in my mouth, down my throat and all over my body...the liquid running down my chin, pecs, abs and groin...my bearded face and hairy pecs are a messy disaster with foods, beverage, sweat and cum...trying with all I got to hold my Italian load while you continue having your way with me ramming your cock in my ass
Dadicus
I grin through the messy, sloppy sounds of skin on sweat-slicked skin, my hips never slowing their deep, punishing rhythm. “I think the only hole that needs to be filled is…” My voice is a low, controlled growl against your ear. Then, in one fluid, powerful motion, my arms snake under yours, locking behind your neck. I lift you up, your body lifting clean off the floor into a brutal, suspended full nelson. The mess... flan, coquito, sweat, sheets down your chest and abs with every upward drive of my hips, putting the entire degrading spectacle on full display for the fans and cameras.
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Dadicus: “Ohhh yeah,” I grunt, my thrusts becoming shorter, sharper, and deeper, “that fucking loose ass is ready to be bred.” On the word, I pull you down hard onto my cock while surging up, burying myself to the hilt. The tight, clutching heat is all the signal I need. With a ragged, guttural shout, I let go. Ropes of warm cum pulse deep inside you, my throbbing cock seeding you with every jet. I grind up, breeding you relentlessly, pushing you down onto me to milk out every last drop. “Take it… take all of it,” I pant into your ear, my body shuddering with the release as I hold you locked in the vice of the full nelson.
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Tony LF
I'm crying in shame and moaning as you dig deep into my ass using me as your fucktoy. No more arrogance in the Italian stallion, just a broken man. You lock me in the full nelson, your arms under my sweaty armpit, lifting my body, exposing my dirty hairy pecs for the roaring fans. My handsome face twistes in embarassement and pain, pieces of Puerto Rican food smeared all over me. "Uuuughhhh...no...please...no more...uuughh". Begging compulsively, my hard cock leaking precum and flan on the floor.
Tony LF
You continue your verbal abuse, crushing my ego until you erupt in my ass, filling it with your cream like a cannolo and keeping me in that position to be sure to shoot every drop of your seed inside me...I spread my mouth, shoked, while ropes of cum drops from my ass to the Italian food wasted on the floor. My body trembling, as I try to reach for your haie with my hands. "...no...cosa hai fatto...no...."
Dadicus
Your hand feebly reaches for my hair. Pathetic. I don’t give you a second to process. As my cock slips out of your leaking hole, I grab your own hard, dripping cock again. My fist wraps around it, slick with sweat, food, and precum. I start jerking you, fast and rough. “You think the fun’s over?” I snarl. “You got to finish? No. I decide when you’re done.” With each downward stroke of my hand, I slam hard... into your balls. Thud. Thud!!. THUD!!!. You gasp, your body jerking, but I don’t stop jerking your cock.
Dadicus
Then, I bring my now-free hand up and clamp it over your mouth and nose, palm sealing your lips, fingers pinching your nostrils shut. I smother you, cutting off your air. Your eyes bulge. “I think,” I growl, my face inches from yours, my hand working your cock relentlessly, my fist jerking and pummeling your balls. My palm suffocating you, “you’ve had all the fun for the day. And it’s only fair…” I tighten my grip on your nose and mouth. “…to help you go to sleep.” I keep jerking you, the stimulation relentless and brutal, combined with the lack of air and the pain in your groin. Your body convulses, caught between unwanted arousal and sheer, overwhelming agony. "Buenas Noches Cabron"
Tony LF
You reach for my food and cum smeared face with your hand and clamp it on my nose and mouth, smothering me. "Mmmghhhnnnmmm" I grunt, tapping on your arm with mines, trying to force you to let go, failing. My face getting red for the lack of oxygen and you continue jerking my cock "mmghh..no...mmmmgh" unable to talk, my sweaty Italian trunks down to my knees as my cock is leaking precum and flan.
Tony LF
I'm getting sleepy, weaker and weaker, until one of my arms drops along my side. Puerto rican fans excited as I'm about to pass out when you say "buenas noche cabron". My eyes closing as the other arm drops motionless. "Mmmmgghh...zzz...mmmgg..zzz..zzz..zzz". The Italian stallion out cold in your hold like a sleeping baby. In the moment I pass out, my cock erupts like the Etna Volcano in my city, shooting ropes of Italian cream everywhere: on your hand, on my hairy thighs, on my trunks, on the floor and on the foods. My precious seed wasted like my precious food. Hanging from your hold, broken, sleeping, dripping sweat and cum
Dadicus
I feel your body go rigid in my arms for one final, convulsive second. Then, as your consciousness slips away, your cock erupts a warm, thick burst of Italian cum shooting out in ragged ropes. It splatters across my hand, the fan in front of us, the already stained fabric of your trunks pooled at your ankles, and the ruined food on the floor. Your precious seed, wasted just like your precious food, adds to the mess. Your body goes completely limp, hanging from my hold like a broken doll, dripping sweat and cum. I feel the last few pulses against my palm. With a grunt of disdain, I let you slump to the mat. You collapse in a heap, utterly defeated. I look at my hand, glistening with your release. I wipe it clean on the only patch of your face not covered in food, smearing your own cum across your cheek. I work quickly. I grab the waistband of your stained, filthy Italian flag trunks and yank them off your legs completely. They’re soaked a disgusting mix of sweat, flan, your cum, and mine. I whirl them over my head like a luchador’s mask, my hips swaying side to side, my own cock still slick and shining under the arena lights for the whole world to see.
Dadicus
I kneel over your unconscious form. With one hand, I grip your jaw and force your mouth open. With the other, I ball up your own cum-stained trunks and shove them deep into your throat, packing them in until your mouth is forced wide around the fabric. A fan at ringside is leaning over the barricade, phone held high, trying to capture the scene. I see the screen glowing. “Here,” I say, my voice hoarse but loud. “Let me help you get the shot.” I reach out, take the phone from their hand, and turn it toward us. I lean in next to your unconscious, violated face, giving a thumbs-up and a savage, victorious grin. I snap the picture. Then another. I hand the phone back and repeat the process with a few other outstretched phones, giving the fans the ultimate souvenir: a selfie with the conquered, humiliated “Great Italian Stallion.” and "El León Boricua"
Dadicus
I stand up, looking down at my handiwork. You’re out cold, naked, your mouth stuffed with your own soiled flag, lying in a puddle of everything you brought here. I grab a nearby plate, the last one from the Puerto Rican buffet, with a single, perfect piece of flan left on it. I pick it up. “Bienvenido a Puerto Rico, mi amigo,” I say to your unconscious body, my voice dripping with sarcastic warmth. “Que la pases bien en tu estadía.” I give your face one last, sharp playful slap with my clean hand and a parting kiss. Then, I turn my back on you. I raise the plate with the flan high above my head like a trophy, waving to the ecstatic, roaring crowd. My music hits its crescendo. Pyro explodes on the stage. I walk back up the ramp, not once looking back at the wreckage I left in the ring. The image is burned into everyone’s mind: you, broken and used, and me, victorious, walking away with your pride as my spoils and a bite of the creamy delicious flan de queso.
~THE END~
Published: 13 days ago, viewed 139 times.
BraveAjay
9 days agoNamaste, The handsome and erotically brutal Dadicus continues his winning streak, this time defeating the sexy Tony LF. I've always liked Flan de Queso. Thank you for sharing your story on The Shelter
Dadicus
9 days ago(In reply to this)
Glad you liked it !! I will save you a piece next time ^^.
Samuel Sabian
9 days agoHot Match guys, Love seeing Dadicus whooping Tony ass 😝
JIMMY DEAN - Can-Am Heel
12 days agoDamn! DADICUS IS A FUCKING BRUTE! And, how hot is Tony as a total rag doll?
JJayJace
12 days agoDadicus now has beat both of the Italian veterans humbling them. Good job and love humilliation for them. Proud of you 😊🫂
Tony LF
12 days agoYeah Marco, he has to pay.
Dadicus
12 days ago(In reply to this)
Pay? PAY?! Haha, pay for what? A facial reconstruction for that ugly mug of yours? That’s not on me… take that up with your mother. The only thing you two will do is kiss my feet... since you both already take it so well. "Wink"
Marco the champ
12 days agoWhat a match! Great job! But next time we will both come for you Dadicus
Dadicus
12 days ago(In reply to this)
TY!! Bring it