Laundry day at the ring was Sailorboy Spike's least favorite day. Colt 'The Bolt', president and coach of the fed, insisted on cleanliness and hygiene as a part of the Global Spellbreaking Alliance's regiment.
Spike, content to hide a growing stack of pizza boxes under his bed (well, actually his roommate Kengo's bed) would have been content to allow his pile of underwear and jockstraps to likewise stack up. That was until, Buck--Colt's son and Spike's crush--casually mentioned how his father, the Cowboy King of the Ring, had once put a trainee in a Texas Cloverleaf for not cleaning the lint in the communal dryers.
He locked it on so hard, tears filled eyes...and he passed out before he could tap, and he had to wear a brace for a whole month! And then, to top it off, Yank, dad STUFFED the wad of lint in his unconscious mouth!
Colt of course, overhearing his son's tall tale, steamed under the collar and insisted he'd never do such a downright rotten thin as stuff lint in a trainee's mouth, jobber or no.
But, looking directly into Spike's eyes (with certain fatherly knowing) the muscle bound cowboy did say, "But the Texas Cloverleaf knockout is absolutely true, son." Then, distracted, he said, "'Course, I've always put my own spin on it and called it the 'Circuit Breaker'--electricity being my thing--which is just to hammer home to you kids that branding is essential and...hey, where y'all going!?
Spike had just finished his top-rope drills and was feeling pretty confident–and more than a little sweaty–when he noticed the laundry trolley outside the mat room next to the ring.
Great, he thought, as he collected his New York Yankees T-shirt off the floor, I can just toss this and head to dinner before Colt notices anything! Spike's stomach already rumbled; his mind on dessert. It was a churro night, a sacred and highly celebrated occasion among the other fighters. He'd need to get to the mess hall quickly or risk losing out...
And if I snag a few extra, I could probably bribe Kengo to ignore the pizza boxes under the bed. Hehehehe...
As Spike got closer to the laundry trolley, he noticed a splash of bright color sitting atop all the socks, shirts, singlets, and towels that had accumulated Heaven-knows how much sweat (and other bodily fluids) the last few days. Spike peered over the edge of the trolley and a tingle of mischief ran up his spine (which was still awfully sore from the killer backbreaker Icewolf had delivered him the other day as punishment for Spike making fun of his figure skating hobby).
Spike laid eyes on the undergarment that had captured his attention. It was an emerald green jockstrap–expensive looking too–with a generous pouch for whoever the well-endowed owner was.
Now, Spike was respectful of his fellow spellbreakers and trainees...but he was also a slut with an eye for good bulge, and he knew exactly who this sexy jock belonged to--Cian Enbarr, his rival, bully, and crush (the best triple-threat).
Ah, Cian. Red hair. Bulging muscles. Pale as a sheet--but it gave his body an almost Greek statue quality. He was mean and cocky and meaty.
Of course this was his jock strap, Spike thought, lustfully. Who else on the GSA campus could ever look as good in green as as 'The Faeblood Brawler'?
Well, maybe Tian Gio, Spike thought of the hairy muscleman, an Italian Tarzan...with a penchant for animal print. But, still...
Spike had lusted after Cian since their first encounter (on the night of Spike's sensational debut, no-less) but the Irish stud played hard to get. And speaking of hard, Spike was getting harder at the thought of picking up those little green jocks and giving them a good sniff. Dirty, of course, but not beyond Spike’s limits. Cian’s third and forth best physical features–besides his Rugby-champ legs and gorgeous green eyes, was, of course, his distractingly large bulge. Spike had longed to get his hands, or mouth on that…
“What the hell ya doin', boyo?”
Spike nearly jumped into the ceiling. It shouldn’t have come as a surprise. Cian had ninja-like stealth, and had a habit of getting the jump on Spike and scaring him witless.
Spike turned to face his fears. Cian, in his singlet, cheeks bright red and slicked with sweat from a workout. And worse, he had the devil’s look about him.
“C-c-Cian, I can explain!”
“No chance,” Cian grinned wickedly as he tackled Spike and shoved him into the mat room with the force of a freight train. Spike’s glyph activated and took the blow, and the secondary impact from his face hitting the mat, but Spike wasn’t prepared for what happened next!
“N-no!” It was like watching an oncoming train. Cian wrapped his massive, steel-and-concrete legs around Spike before he could so much as squirm away or get to his hands and knees.
“You’re gonna get punished for messing with my stuff,” Cian said, sounding both pissed off and sadistically enthusiastic. “Time to become my newest sacrifice, boyo!”
A shot of adrenaline went through Spike's heart! No...the dreaded Pillars of Sacrifice! Spike had seen Cian trap his opponent's in this move before. There was no getting out--aside from a painful transition into unconsciousness! Cian had famously stated that nobody, heel or face, was allowed to tap out from it either--a promise he had made to his Celtic gods in exchange for power.
Little did Spike know, this was just a work Colt had cooked up for Cian, but Cian wasn't about to break kayfabe if it meant making his fellow trainees squirm just a little, and think twice about getting into the ring with him. The move had backfired only ince, when Robbie 'The Icewolf' seemed...quite insistent about asking Cian to practice it on him.
All of that was well and good, but not even Spike--the self-proclaimed 'Strongest Twink in the World'--could pry about Cian's massive, concrete-strong quads and thighs.
It was no use. Spike’s head was caught, like a fox in a brutally iron-clad beartrap. He felt the weight of Cian’s quads come from either side, compressing his throat and head like a vice. As much as he struggled and tried to back bridge his way out of it, there was no fighting it. His pretty head was being squashed like a grape!
“Cian…I give! I give!”
“Hahaha!” This only made the thick grappler squeeze harder, and Cian even positioned himself so his bulge was now right on Spike’s head. “After humiliating me in that match the other day, I thought I’d return the favor. Didn’t you want this in your face?”
“I…” Spike struggled to breathe. His feet struggled wildly, trying to grip the mat for any leverage. “I...never even touched your damn jockstrap.” He began tapping, annoyed he'd submitted but not wanting to get choked out in such an embarrassing way. Besides, he couldn't get KO'd now--it was churro night at the mess hall!
“I know–and I don’t care! You’re going out now, boyo. Going out for a nice little snooze…” Cian reared his head back in laughter. "Now...hear me gods, I consign this pathetic little calf to the Pillars of Sacrifice. Lord of the Dead, accept him into your abode! Night, night...boyo."
Spike’s vision blurred. He could hear the pulsing of his rapidly beating in his heart, as the oxygen and blood cut off from his system finally took effect and he thought his head might crack like an egg.
“...I…gi…..”
For good measure, Cian cranked his legs one last time, giving Spike a little squeeze. A gurgle of air escape Spike's lips...and that was it.
 |
Done. Out cold. Sacrificed. |
Cian thought it was cute how Spike's pretty, blue eyes rolled up into his head and his limbs went slack. Still keeping his prey squeezed tight, Cian picked up Spike’s limp arm for good measure, letting it drop for the count.
“One…two…and…three.” The Irish beefcake kept his pretty blond friend locked up tight against his hardening bulge, and then got even harder as Cian flexed his bicep, giving it a good look over. “Who’s the fucking winner now, eh, boyo?”
Finally, Cian let deeply unconscious Spike free, his head falling against the mat like a brick. Poor little guy. Cian couldn't help but reach down and pat the side of his face in almost gentle manner, before he stood and planted his wrestling boot right on the pretty boy's washboard abs.
“Sweet dreams, loser,” Cian said, as he wiped the sweat off his brow and flicked it down on the slightly twitching, defeated twunk laying flat on his back. Then, a wicked eye came to mind.
How could he make this even more satisfying?
Cian reached down and pulled Spike up, easily flinging the twunk over his back in a fireman's carry. He was a lot lighter than he expected! Cian carried his opponent real slow, over to the laundry trolley outside.
He laughed. This is too good! Wait, but am I being too mean? Then he remembered what Spike had done to him. He'd put him in his Sailor's Knot submission, splaying Cian's legs open for Victor, Gio, and Kengo to leer at.
 |
| A humiliation he would not soon forget... |
Nah, this was perfect!
Like dropping a sack of potatoes, Cian flung Spike onto his back amid sweat-stained shirts, underwear, and other pieces of fighter-worn laundry that was a few days past when it should have been clean.
What a nice little bed for a nice jobber, Cian thought, as he yanked his green jockstrap out of the bin, right next to Spike's face. He'd actually been wearing this one when Spike had submitted him two days ago--and wouldn't it be a bit of poetic justice, some salt in the wound, if he used it to pile on some extra punishment?
“You enjoy your dreaming session, Ol’ Spike. Sorry you’ll miss dinner--but I got you your dessert right here....you know, since I'm such a nice guy." He pressed his finger to Spike's lips, parting them slightly, before he slowly shoved the pouch of his sweaty, worn jockstrap into Spike's mouth, making sure it was tucked in there real tight. "Awww, don't that taste better than cinnamon and sugar? You can suck on that for awhile, loser."
Spike, worlds away, his brain still trying to reactivate, only responded with a muffled, unconscious groan. As if to add insult to injury, one of Colt's tight, well-worn, white briefs fell over his face. Double the humiliation.
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