Chapter 11 Wrestling Demons #2
I swept his legs. He went down but rolled immediately, came up in a crouch. Breathing hard. Eyes bright with fury and arousal. His cock straining against fabric.
“Again.”
We went again. And again. Each round, I increased pressure. Each round, he adapted. His body learning what his mind couldn't process fast enough. Each round, our cocks rubbed together when we grappled. Each round, the contact lasted longer.
On the fourth round, he caught me off guard. Ducked under my guard, got behind me, drove his knee into the back of mine. My leg buckled. I went down on one knee. His arm wrapped around my throat from behind.
Not tight enough to choke. But the position was sound.
And his cock was hard against my back. Grinding.
“Yield?” he asked. Voice rough against my ear. Breathless. Triumphant. His hips rolled, dragging his cock against me.
I could've broken the hold. Could've used my weight advantage to throw him off.
I didn't want to.
“Da,” I said. “You win.”
He let go. Stepped back. I stood, turned to face him.
He was grinning. Feral. Wild. Covered in sweat that made his skin gleam. His cock was obscene in those shorts. Thick and hard, the outline clear. Wet spot spreading.
“Where did you learn to fight like that?” I asked. Voice rough.
The grin faded. Something shuttered in his eyes. “Around.”
“Around does not teach you to move like trained killer.”
“Maybe I had good teachers.”
“Who?”
“Does it matter?” He moved to the water station. My eyes tracked the bounce of his cock with each step. “You wanted to see if I could handle myself. Now you know.”
I did know. And it changed things.
“One more round,” I said. “Full contact. No holding back.”
His eyebrows rose. “You sure about that?”
“Are you?”
“Oh, I'm sure.” He set down the water bottle. “Question is whether you can handle losing twice in one night.”
“Will not lose.”
“Confident.” He moved back to the center of the mat. Dropped into a ready stance. His cock still hard. Still obvious. “I like that. Makes beating you more satisfying.”
I matched his stance. We circled each other. Predators assessing. My cock throbbed. His cock twitched.
Looking for excuses to touch.
He moved first. Fast. Low kick aimed at my lead leg. I blocked, countered with a jab. He slipped it, came inside my guard, drove his palm toward my solar plexus.
I caught his wrist. Twisted. He spun with it, used the momentum to drive his elbow toward my face.
I ducked. Released his wrist. We separated.
Circled again. Both breathing hard. Both achingly hard.
“You telegraph your kicks,” I said.
“You drop your right hand when you jab,” he countered.
We engaged again. Faster now. Trading strikes. His style was fluid. Dangerous. Every movement purposeful.
Every touch deliberate.
I caught his leg mid-kick. Swept his other foot. He went down but grabbed my shirt as he fell, pulled me down with him.
We hit the mat hard. I landed on top, his legs wrapped around my waist, his hands gripping my shoulders.
Our cocks pressed together. Hard lengths separated only by fabric. The friction made us both groan.
Suddenly we weren't fighting anymore.
His legs tightened around me. Pulled me closer. His hands slid from my shoulders to my neck, fingers threading into my hair. Not gentle. Possessive. Claiming.
“Viktor,” he breathed. His hips rolled up, grinding his cock against mine.
The friction was maddening. I bit back a groan.
“This is bad idea,” I managed. But my hips rolled down, answering. Grinding back.
“Probably.” His thumb traced my jawline. “But you're still here. Still hard. Still grinding your cock against me.”
I was. God help me, I was. My cock throbbed, pressed thick and aching against his. I could feel every inch of him. Could feel how hard he was. How wet.
“We should stop.”
“Should we?” His voice dropped. Dangerous. His hips rolled again, harder. Deliberate. Dragging his cock against mine in a slow grind that made my vision blur. “Because it feels like you want to keep going. Feels like your cock is about to burst.”
It was. Pre-come leaked, making my briefs stick. Making each grind slicker. Easier.
His hand slid from my jaw into my hair, fingers tightening. Painful now. Controlling. His other hand gripped my hip, nails digging in through fabric.
“Move,” he commanded. “Grind that cock against me. Show me how badly you want this.”
The order broke something in me. My hips rolled hard, grinding my cock against his. The friction was perfect. Maddening. His cock was thick and hot even through layers of fabric.
“Fuck,” he groaned. His legs tightened around my waist, ankles locking behind me. Trapping me. “Harder.”
I ground down harder. Faster. Lost in the friction. Lost in the heat of him. Lost in the sounds he made. Small gasps and bitten-off groans that went straight to my cock.
“That's it,” he breathed. “Fuck, Viktor. Your cock feels so good.”
My hips pistoned, grinding against him in short, hard thrusts. My cock dragged against his, the friction building, building, building.
His nails dug deeper into my hip. His hand in my hair yanked my head down, forcing me to look at him. To watch his face as we ground together like animals.
“I'm going to come,” he warned. Voice wrecked.
“Do it,” I growled. Couldn't stop myself. “Come. Let me feel it.”
His back arched. His cock jerked against mine. I felt it pulse, felt warmth spread as he came. His mouth opened on a silent cry, eyes rolling back, whole body going rigid.
The sight of him coming undone destroyed me. My cock jerked, pleasure slamming through me as I came hard. Filling my briefs. Making a mess. Still grinding against him through the aftershocks.
We stayed like that. Breathing hard. Pressed together. Both covered in sweat and come and the evidence of what we'd done.
His legs slowly loosened. Released me. His hands slid from my hair and hip, falling to the mat beside his head.
I pushed up. Off him. Put distance between us before I did something stupid like kiss him.
We both sat there. Breathing hard. Not looking at each other.
My briefs were soaked. Sticky. My cock still half-hard, sensitive against wet fabric. His shorts showed a dark stain. Large. Obvious.
“I need to shower,” he said finally. Voice rough. Raw. He stood, didn't bother hiding the wet stain. “Before dinner.”
He grabbed his gear and walked toward the changing rooms without looking back. Without another word.
I stayed on the mat. Hands shaking. Cock aching. Briefs ruined.
What the fuck had we just done.
I forced myself to stand. To walk back to my quarters on unsteady legs. To peel off clothes that reeked of sex and desperation.
The cold water didn't help. Didn't wash away the memory of his body under mine. The sounds he'd made. The way he'd commanded me to grind harder. The way he'd come with my cock pressed against his.
When I closed my eyes, I felt it all again. His legs around my waist. His hand in my hair. His cock pulsing against mine as he came.
One more second and I would've kissed him. Would've stripped us both and fucked him right there on the training mat.
One more second and everything would've changed.
But he'd walked away. Left me wrecked and wanting. Left me knowing exactly how he tasted when he fell apart. Left me knowing I'd never be able to look at him the same way again.