Wrestling Weekend Part 1

Wrestling Weekend Part 1

by The Defenseman

It was the summer of 1996 and I was just finishing up my dissertation. While I worked on my degree, I earned money any way I could. I sold plasma, worked temp jobs, and did some wrestling for a local pro league: the GLW Great Lakes Wrestling. I wrestled under the name "The Defenseman"; my partner Kevin "The Goalie" Moran and I were known only as "Slapshot" and for nine months, we were undefeated tag team champs. Kevin was a master of high flying moves, while I was the tough little fireplug who could fistfight his way out of any trouble. But then Kevin graduated and took a job out of town and I just lost interest in the whole scene. Actually, the money wasn't bad for forty minutes of work (sometimes when we were short wrestlers, I'd put on a mask and wrestle twice or three times). And I loved the fights the smelly cigars, sweat, stale beer, the buzz of inflicting pain, the dizzying rush of being on the receiving end and then fighting back.



So, when I saw the advertisements looking for wrestlers for an NHB Gay-Oriented Tag Team Tournament with its $2000 first prize purse, it caught my eye. I read the ad again, and checked the bank statement in my wallet-$87.85. In four months, I would start a new job in Denver. I really needed money to get me through the summer and even a few hundred bucks would keep me in food and beer until August. So, I sent a post card to the address and one week later got a personal letter from some guy named Josh. He was staging a tag team tournament (third year in a row) on his 10-acre farm in southern Ohio. He said there would be 10-15 teams and over 100 fans, and everyone would just camp on the farm. The entrance fee was $50 a team, with free food and beer all weekend. Fans pay $100 for the weekend, with half of all the money going for prizes. He included a picture of two muscular young studs, one a shaved headed tattooed biker type, the other a long haired blond beach volleyball type. On the back was written "The Titans of Torture last year's champs!". I looked at the picture and my cock shifted in my shorts at the thought of tangling with these two. It sounded like fun, except for the entrance fee and the fact that I had no partner. So, I wrote Josh back, saying I'd like to wrestle, but I couldn't afford the entrance fee and I had no partner. I thought I'd never hear back from him again.

It was June 1st when I got a letter from Josh. He said he was having problems finding teams, so he would "waive" my fee. He also included a map to the farm and a phone number. No name, just a number. I figured, what the hell, and picked up the phone. It didn't even ring once before a voice answered, "Are you the one who wrestles as The Defenseman'?"

I hesitated, "Um, yeah. How did..."

"Josh said you might call." His name was Patrick and he lived in a basement room in his parents' house in Canton, a town 30 minutes south of Cleveland. He was two years younger than me and had wrestled in high school and in the army. In our three minute conversation, I think I said four words. He kept going on about how psyched he was to wrestle, so I agreed to do it. I really needed the money, but I was also curious to see a former army guy surrounded by a barnful of gay wrestling fans. He gave me his address (he sheepishly admitted to losing his license over a DUI) and we made arrangements to drive to the farm together.

Two weeks later, I pulled into his driveway and laid on the horn. The door opened and out walked a very imposing man, wearing only a pair of black jeans and spit-shined black boots. Patrick was solid, but not muscle-bound, with 225 lbs spread taut across his 6' 2" frame. 30 years old and still living with his parents, Patrick had been a Ranger in the army before he had been tossed out for smoking dope. When I first saw him, I was surprised at how similar we were in appearance, despite him towering over me by at least six inches. Like me, he had a shaved head, dark goatee, and a matful of dark chest hair that tapered into a V before disappearing into his jeans. We got along right from the start as we drove down the rural roads, trying to decipher the crudely drawn map provided by Josh. We drank beers and passed a joint and talked about our wrestling experience. As a joke, we decided to wrestle under the name The Skinheads', even as we sang along to old James Brown tunes on the radio.

After two hours, I spotted the small sign "NHB Retreat" with an arrow pointing down a dirt road. We followed that road for ten minutes as it wound through the overgrown farm land. Finally, the road ended in a large clearing. In the distance was a huge old wooden barn. I was surprised at the number of people; there was maybe one hundred cars and trucks parked in rows in the clearing. Guys were unloading tents and coolers, drinking beer, smoking jays. To our left, a group of men were standing in a circle, watching two big leather-clad bears roughhouse. As we unloaded the tent, a tall, wiry guy appeared out of nowhere. "Tell me you guys are wrestlers. Tell me you guys are wrestlers..." When I first met Josh, I thought that he must have at least $2000 of coke up his nose the way he was jumping around, his hands flying expressively, repeating everything he said two or three times. But in the two years that I have now known Josh, I have never seen him do a line or smoke a rock. No speed, no crystal meth, no ephedrine. Not even a caffeinated Pepsi. Go figure someone would just be born with that much energy.

Josh introduced himself to us and, I must admit, I found him good looking, in an odd way. 35 years old, short black hair and goatee, and a hawkish nose. He wore a dog collar around his neck with a polo shirt, jams shorts, and docmartin boots. The weirdest combination of SM and prep I've ever seen. He told us that our first fight was at 5PM, one hour away. We set up our tent.

Thirty minutes later, we entered the barn. It was huge, with hay lofts on either side of the high roof letting in light from the setting sun. Four sets of wooden bleachers surrounded an old boxing ring. The turnbuckle posts were rusty metal and unpadded, the ropes rough. In the ring, a toned Hispanic wrestler had a big mountain-man bear in a nasty pec claw. Outside the ring, a muscular black man was getting his forehead slammed into the metal fencing that separated the crowd from the ring. About 80 fans sat in the bleachers, looking more or less bored, drinking beer. We walked to large burlap curtains that served as a makeshift locker room. Josh was there, getting a sloppy blow job from an older leather stud. As we walked in, he grabbed the older man by the hair and lifted his head up. He jacked his thumb. "Screw." Obediently, the man got up and left.

"All right boys, the rules. Each match is 30 minutes long, no exceptions. Except for the final match, which has no time limit. There's a ref in the ring, but only to rule on submission. Otherwise, he keeps his mouth shut. A team can win either by submission or by handcuffing both members of the tag team onto the turnbuckle. Cuffs are located on all four turnbuckles."

Josh stuck his head out the curtain. The Hispanic wrestler was dragging the mountain man towards the far turnbuckle. "OK, guys, your opponents are the Titans of Torture, last year's champs. Just try to give them a good fight." A muffled groan came from the ring. "This is just about over. Just about over. Come out when I announce you."

We stood there, looking into the dusty, cracked full length mirror against the wall. Patrick had a huge grin on his face. He reached over, grabbed my nipples roughly, and slapped his hands on my chest. I returned the smile and did the same. We were ready.

From the ring, we heard Josh scream, "Gentlemen, for today's second match, first from Cleveland, Ohio, at a combined weight of 450 lbs, the Skinheads!" We walked out to little fanfare. No music, no fireworks, only polite applause. Josh definitely was low budget. "And from New York City, at a combined weight of 430 lbs., Ben and Magic, The Titans of Torture!" With that announcement, the crowd suddenly came to life, cheering and chanting their names. From the burlap curtain on the other side of the barn, the Titans of Torture strutted out. Ben came out first. At 5'10", 170 lbs, Ben looked like a tough little fucker who could do some damage. He had a broad, hairless chest with back muscles so big as almost to look humpbacked. His armed were covered in 1950's style tattoos and his head was shaved almost as close as mine. Ben had a wrestler's nose, a wispy moustache that curled into a menacing sneer, and dark, cold, cruel eyes that darted from person to person in the large barn. He flicked his cigarette butt onto the canvas and stomped it out with his big black boot. Magic was the odd man out long, dirty blond hair, tanned, with the physique of a cut, muscle-bound surfer. As he peeled off his tie-dye shirt, I saw that his thick beard matched the mat of blond hair on his chest. He wore tattered acid washed jeans and a pair of black Converse high tops. With skulls tattooed to each bicep, he looked like a Deadhead on steroids.

The ref stood in the corner and the bell rang. Patrick and I just looked at each other. Now what? Ben and Magic were huddled together, apparently discussing strategy. I looked back at Josh, who was sitting at the timekeepers table. "So, who's the legal man in the ring?" Josh looked like he was about to explode, he was so wired. "Legal man? Who are you? Hulk Hogan? This is NHB no rules, no legal man in the ring'. Just kick some ass!" I turned back to pick an opponent, but Patrick and Ben had already locked eyes. Ben pursed his lips and kissed the air. Patrick just scowled. They met in the center of the ring and immediately locked up.

Magic and I circled for a few moments before locking up. Magic was at least five inches taller than me and he used his height to hook his right arm under my left, turn into me, and hurl me over his hip onto my ass. He lunged to grab hold of me, but I rolled out of his reach, turned, and rose to my feet to meet him again. We tied up immediately and Magic tried to hip toss me again, but I grabbed a handful of his hair with my left hand and jerked his head back, breaking his momentum. At the same time, I slung my knee up and slammed it into the pit of his gut, doubling him over and knocking a lot of the wind out of him. I grabbed him by the hair and drove a real haymaker into his right jaw just under his ear. Magic spun around from the force of the blow and dropped to one knee. I head-butted him, sending his chiseled, tanned body sprawling to the canvas.

Patrick and Ben were going toe-to-toe, exchanging vicious lefts and rights to the face. Ben reached up and gouged his fingers into Patrick's eyes. Patrick howled and blindly swung his fists in the air. Ben raked his fingernails across Patrick's chest, leaving long trails of red scrapes. He threw Patrick into the ropes and bent over to set him up for a back drop, but Patrick saw the move coming and countered with a kick to Ben's jaw that sent him crashing to the mat.

Meanwhile, I delivered a series of sharp kicks to Magic's right knee and then dragged him to the ropes. I hooked his leg under the lower rope and threw my entire weight down on it. He howled in pain as he held his throbbing knee. Grabbing him by two handfuls of chest hair, I dragged him to his feet and catapulted him into the ropes. As he sprung back, I hammered a hard fist into his kidneys. The shot stopped Magic in his tracks and he arched his back in pain. I scooped him up and dropped him stomach first across my knee. The fans at first seemed stunned by the way the match was going, but Patrick and I were slowly winning over the crowd. I grabbed Magic's left arm and twisted it back in a hammerlock. With his hand immobilized, I continued throwing hard rights into his kidney, four or five of them, each one knocking a loud, low grunt out of Magic.

"25 minutes!" the timekeeper yelled in that nasal voice.

Locking Magic's left wrist in my left hand and keeping the hammerlock in place, I slipped under his arm and came up in front of him. I threw my right arm around his waist and added a bearhug to the hammerlock, jerking him hard against my chest and digging my arms under his rib cage. Magic howled in pain as I clamped the bearhug on tighter and tighter, putting pressure on the area I'd just softened with the kidney punches. With the hammerlock still secure, I held Magic clamped tight against me and threw hard right uppercuts into the pit of his gut. With his left arm immobilized behind him and his right arm hanging useless over my shoulder, Magic was defenseless against the barrage of fists to his tight belly. Every time I sank my fist into his stomach, Magic's face contorted in pain and spit flew out of the corners of his mouth as he hissed and grunted. After the ninth or tenth punch to his gut, Magic's knees started to buckle, and after a few more well-placed shots, I was literally holding him up to hit him again. I jerked him towards me and buried a knee into his crotch. As he doubled over, I raised both fists high above my head and hammered them down on the back of Magic's neck. He crashed face-first into the canvas.

Patrick was kicking the holy shit out of Ben, pinning him against the turnbuckle and delivering kicks and punches to his face, gut, and crotch. He whipped Ben into the ropes and met him with a clothesline that nearly decapitated him, sending him flipping in the air before hitting the mat shoulders-first. As I bent over to pick up Magic, he elbowed me right in the chin. As I backed up, he grabbed me in a headlock and jabbed him thumb into my throat. I stumbled backwards, coughing up spit and phlegm, and Magic lowered his shoulder and drove me into the turnbuckle. He turned me around and slammed my head into the buckle, tears welling in my eyes as I realized it wasn't padded. Magic turned me around and applied a double pec claw, kneading at the muscles in my chest. His hands felt like vice grips and I grabbed his wrists, trying to dislodge his prying fingers. Digging his fingers in even deeper, Magic hoisted my up onto the top turnbuckle, my feet dangling from the mat, my body hanging in agony from his entrenched fingers. He climbed up the ropes and, towering over me with his basket just inches from my nose, Matt spit in my face and laughed. He released the claw and I slumped over on the top turnbuckle, holding my throbbing chest. Magic pulled back his arm and plowed his knuckles into my forehead just above my eyebrow. He punched me again and again, each shot causing me to see stars. Just as suddenly, Magic was gone, tumbling backwards over Patrick's shoulder and slamming neck-first hard into the mat.

"20 minutes!"

Ben was on all fours when Patrick grabbed him by the neck and raked his face across his boot laces. Ben wailed in pain, but Patrick just dropped a knee to Ben's back, grabbed his head and grinded his face into the mat. Sensing a possible victory (and ignoring the pain in my chest), I shot across the ring and dropped my leg across Magic's throat. He was gasping for air, so I tried to wind him more by stomping on his stomach a few times. Patrick had thrown Ben back into the turnbuckle and was delivering a series of vicious chops across his chest. Each one echoed throughout the barn, leaving irregular red marks on Ben's heaving chest. I had backed Magic up in the opposite corner, feeling the muscles in his abs soften as I pummeled him with punches to the gut. Patrick and I made eye contact, grabbed our opponents by the arm, and hurled them towards the center of the ring. I could feel that Magic was going to try to reverse it, but I was ready. My only hope was that Patrick was ready too. As I felt him reversing it, I planted my feet and spun off the throw, as did Patrick. In the end, we were in the center of the ring, facing each other. For a brief second, we smiled, until we realized that our opponents were nowhere in sight. I felt an arm around my neck and then, POW, double-DDT.

It felt like hours passed, my body one big blob of confusion and pain. When I finally focused my eyes, Magic was kicking Patrick out of the ring. Magic slid out after him and tossed a metal chair back into the ring. I instinctually crawled towards the corner and curled up to protect myself. Ben deliberately set up the chair in the far corner of the ring, came back and, grabbing my pecs in a painful double claw, hoisted me to my feet. Without letting go of my pecs, he delivered a quick headbutt which dropped me back to my knees. As I looked up at him, trying to focus, he was shaking his head and slowly softening the hard muscles in my pecs. "My, my, my, you have no idea how much pain you're going to be in, do you?" Again, he hoisted me to my feet by my burning pecs, grabbed my neck, drew me in close and kissed me hard on the mouth. "That's for luck." Suddenly, I was flying into the ropes. As I sprung back, Ben grabbed me around the neck, took two huge steps and rammed my face, bulldog style, into the metal chair.

Everything went hot white and I felt the intense, blinding pain shoot up from my nose into the center of my brain as I laid sprawled across the mat. Ben grabbed me by the pecs again and dragged me into the corner. His fingers ripped into my pecs and I screamed in abject pain.

Ben whispered in my ear, you know, that was a lot of fun. But since you weren't ready for it, let's try it again. I want to see the look in your eye right before your face hits the chair. He dragged me over to center ring and lifted me high in the air, suspended by the excruciating claw holds. His fingers were literally wrapped around my sternum bone and I was close to screaming my submission. He just looked up and smiled at me, Are you ready? He positioned my body over the chain, then released the claw. My body fell face first in the metal chair, my nose exploding in a shatter of blood and bone.

I was rolling on the floor, holding my crushed nose, screaming in pain. Ben grabbed me by the back of my jeans and hoisted me into a sitting position on the chair. It seemed like everything was moving in slow motion--I could see Ben catapulting himself against the ropes, but I couldn't even raise my hands to protect myself. Ben's size 12 black jump boot hit my jaw like an anvil, followed by the crash of the mat against the back of my head as the metal chair tumbled backwards. Instinctually, I rolled out of the ring and landed with a resounding thud on the concrete floor below. I blinked my eyes a few times, clearing my head just in time to see Ben's awesome physique silhouetted in the dim barn lights baring down on me from the top turnbuckle, his knee catching me squarely across the forehead. The force of the blow snapped me into a sitting position for a second before I fell back, my head pounding the concrete, half-unconscious.

The next thing I remember is the splash of cold beer in my face. "Hey, man, wake up. Your partner's getting the shit kicked out of him." I opened my eyes and looked up. It was one of the fans in the first row, prodding me in the ribs with his boot. I turned towards the ring (even moving my head made me almost puke from dizziness) to see Patrick getting double teamed in the ring. Patrick was flung into the ropes and caught a double clothesline that sent him to the mat hard. Ben threw Patrick into the corner and followed him in, catching him with a double forearm to the face. Magic was right behind him, grabbing Patrick by the waist and tossing him with a snap suplex. As Patrick sat dazed on the mat, Ben flew over Patrick's shoulders, grabbing and snapping his neck. Patrick's body seemed to fold in half before snapping back, Patrick writhing on the mat, holding the back of his head, Ben and Magic laughing and joking with the crowd. Slowly and painfully, Patrick dragged his broken body to the edge of the ring, his head and arms hanging over the bottom rope. He looked down at me, blood trickling from his mouth. He spat.

"Shit..." was all he could groan before Magic leapt over the top rope and grabbed Patrick by the back of the neck as he landed on the floor. Patrick snapped backwards and let out a gargled scream, clutching his throat. He was instantly met with a boot in the lower back from Ben. Patrick rolled off the mat and onto the concrete floor, desperately gasping for air. Ben followed him out of the ring and delivered a boot to Patrick's exposed abs. Locking arms, Ben and Magic each grabbed one of Patrick's ankles and lifted up, suspending him with his legs spread apart. Letting out a loud whoop, they took four running steps and ran Patrick crotch-first into the metal ring post. Patrick let out a high pitched wail that could probably be heard in the next county and curled up into a ball. Ben stood over Patrick, spitting on him, posing, rubbing the soles of his boots into his face.

"15 minutes!" the timekeeper yelled.

Struggling to my feet, I grabbed the first heavy object I could lay my hands on, the old fashioned microphone stand that Josh used to announce the wrestlers. It was about five feet long, with a heavy round base. Ben was holding his boot against Patrick's mouth, while Magic had applied a brutal ball claw to Patrick's crotch. As I stumbled over and drew back the stand, the crowd let out a roar. Ben turned around just in time for me to drive the heavy round base smack in his forehead. Ben didn't even have time to yell as he hit the cement floor with an unceremonious thud. Magic tried to block my next swing, but I buried the butt end of the microphone stand right into his abs. As he doubled over, I swung up, catching him in the chin and knocking him onto his back. I knelt down to try to help Patrick, but he just kept rolling back and forth, groaning, trying to find relief for his throbbing nuts. I turned back Ben was barely moving and Magic was still sitting on his ass, shaking his head, swearing a blue streak. I grabbed Magic by the back of the neck, pulled him to his feet, and dropped him with a roundhouse kick to the jaw. I grabbed him by the back of the jeans, pulled his head between my knees, let out a whoop for the crowd, and delivered a devasting pile driver into the concrete floor. Magic's head was pounded three inches down his neck, and, as he hit the floor, the only movement was his barely twitching leg.

I looked back at Ben, who eyes were just coming into focus as he shook his head. I turned back to Patrick, whose eyes were finally beginning to focus. I figured that, with his help, we could get these two back into the ring and cuffed to the turnbuckle. I knelt down next to him and firmly slapped his face. "Patrick, man, clear your head, we've got to..."

Suddenly, I felt someone grab me by the back of the neck and propel my head into Patrick's balls. I was aware that Ben was standing above, delivering kick after kick to my back and head, while Patrick rolled around next to me, holding his crotch, his face distorted in a silent scream. Ben pulled me to my feet, reapplied the pec claw, hoisted me into the air, and delivered a reverse atomic drop, driving my balls far up into my pubic bone. I wailed as the force of the drop traveled painfully up my spine and catapulted me back into the ring. Ben was right behind me, dragging me to my feet and locking me in a painful full nelson. Walking me to the edge of the ring, grinding his package into my ass, he forced my pecs into the top rope at tit level. He playfully bit my ear and said, "Who loves ya, baby?" I let out a prolonged scream as he dragged me along the ring rope,

ravaging my nipples. He repeated this maneuver four times before releasing me. I clutched at my chest, trying to ease the pain, as Ben threw me into the ropes. In a last ditch effort, I instinctively grabbed the top rope and hung on with all my might. Ben was already four feet into the air before he realized that no one was home. He hit the mat with a loud crash. I hung onto the ropes for a minute, trying to catch my breath. Finally, I staggered over to him, pulled him to his feet, and delivered a neck breaker. Ben lay on his back, groaning loudly as I stood over him, cussing, holding my mangled chest, my crushed nose spurting blood onto my chest, but enjoying the surprised reaction of the crowd. I dragged Ben to his feet and whipped him into the turnbuckle. I followed him in for a smash, only to run face first into his size 12 jump boot. WHAM! The canvas below me was spinning and I could taste the blood running down my nose into my mouth. It was almost comforting as my mind wandered through a haze of pain.

I cleared my head in time to see Magic lift Patrick high off the mat and delivered a back breaker. Ben joined him and together they delivered three double back breakers. They whipped his body around like a rag doll, driving knee after knee into his damaged back. I tried to scramble to my feet to help him, only to find that I had been handcuffed to the turnbuckle. Patrick was on his own.

"Ten minutes!" the timekeeper yelled.

Patrick was hoisted over the top rope and landed chest-first on the metal fencing that separated the ring from the crowd. His whole body seemed to bend impossibly as he hit the floor convulsing in pain. Magic was there in an instant, scooping Patrick up and, holding him parallel to the floor, rammed his lower back into the ring post. Again. And again. And again. Again. The crowd, smelling victory, counted out loud as Magic battered Patrick's back. After the ninth or tenth time, Patrick seemed totally out of it. His arms hung limply at his sides and spit flew from the corners of his mouth with each impact with the post. But Magic just kept plowing him, again and again, into the rusty post.

"Eight minutes!"

Ben joined Magic outside of the ring. Each took an arm and carefully walked Patrick to a position near the metal stairs leading to the ring. I gasped in shock as they hoisted him into a double suplex and dropped him, back-first, across the stairs. Patrick let out a colossal roar of pain and nearly passed out.

Magic rolled Patrick back into the ring and Ben put him in an over-the-shoulder backbreaker. He put his left hand under Patrick's chin and, with his right hand, he grabbed Patrick's crotch with a painful claw. He pulled down with both hands, nearly bending him in two, Patrick's long arms flailing wildly. Patrick screamed his submission and the ref signaled for the bell, but Ben continued the painful hold. Finally, he hurled Patrick to the mat and standing over him, spit into his face.

I was just relieved that they didn't hurt Patrick any worse my body was a knot of pain, but I was okay. I figured Patrick might need a stretcher. I looked around for someone to undo the cuffs, but the crowd was going crazy, hollering louder than they did during the match. I looked over at Josh, who was damn near jumping out of his seat, a shit eating grin from ear to ear. From the timekeeper's table, I heard that same nasal voice "Six minutes!"

"Josh, man, what the fuck's going on here? Come unlock me!"

"Can't babe. Six minutes left in the match!"

"What do you mean six minutes left? Patrick submitted for chrissakes!" But Josh just kept grinning and repeated, "Six minutes left, six minutes left..."

Meanwhile, Ben had dragged Patrick into the corner and handcuffed him to the ring post just under the bottom rope. He slowly sauntered around the ring, finally picking up Patrick's left leg and untying the boot lace. Patrick, regaining some sense, began to struggle, only to catch a mouthful of Magic's sneaker. Meanwhile, Ben threw Patrick's boots into the center of the ring and stripped him out of his jeans. The crowd let out a resounding cheer and paper cups of beer were hurled into the ring. Patrick's 7" flaccid cock hung limply in a thick bush of jet black pubic hair. While Ben held down Patrick's legs, Magic hurled himself off the ropes and planted an elbow drop right into the Patrick's exposed crotch. Patrick's face contorted in silent pain. The partners each grabbed one of Patrick's legs and, with an evil wink, threw their bodies back, splitting Patrick's groin like a wishbone. The screams were incredible. I slumped against the turnbuckle, my arms uselessly cuffed behind my back. It was painful to watch.

Ben and Magic each grabbed a leg again, and I thought they were going to repeat the crippling move. Instead, as if on cue, they pulled Patrick's legs over his shoulders and hooked them over the middle rope, on either side of the turnbuckle. They pulled up the lower ropes and hooked them under Patrick's feet, essentially tying his legs over his shoulders. Patrick's pink puckered asshole gleamed with sweat in the barn lights. Before I could even scream a warning, Ben pulled his rock-hard dick out of his jeans. 8" cut, it bent with a wicked arch that seemed to match Ben's supermuscular back. His spit into his hand, stroked his prick twice, positioned the head against Patrick's defenseless asshole, and just shoved with all his might. 5 inches disappeared immediately and Patrick arched his back in agony. This gave Ben the extra leverage he needed to cram the rest of his cock past Patrick's protesting hole and deep into his bowels. Meanwhile, Magic was kneeling with Patrick's head between his legs. He, too, pulled out his thick 9 uncut prick and began slapping it across Patrick's bald forehead and face. Ben reached into his jeans pocket, pulled out a cigarette, and lit it. "I always smoke during sex," he beamed for the crowd, "that way, there's more time for later!" The crowd went nuts.

"Patrick, man, get up! Flop around! Do something!" I yelled from across the ring. Magic looked up, annoyed. He stood up, deliberately scraping the sole of his sneaker across Patrick's face, and walked towards me. "Did you say something, pussy faggot?"

"Fuck you!"

Magic bent over and picked up Patrick's boots. "Do these belong to you?" I just spat at him.

"Are you sure? Maybe you need to see them a little closer..." With that, he clubbed me across the face with Patrick's boot. My ear was ringing and my cheek felt white hot. That was followed by a series of stinging blows to the face, chest, and crotch with Patrick's boots. I tried to deflect the shots the best I could, but one caught me square in the nuts. I doubled over and Magic delivered a double tomahawk chop across the back of my neck with both of the boots. I slumped over, my arms pulled painfully backwards. As I lost consciousness, I could see Patrick's face, contorted in pain, as Ben, cigarette hanging between his lips, laughed and mercilessly reamed his ass...

The next thing I remember is the sound of the bell. I could barely hear it over the pounding in my ears and the screaming crowd. I opened my eyes to see Magic kneeling over Patrick, shooting a huge load in his face. Patrick's eyes were rolling around in his head, his cock erect and oozing precum from the ass reaming. Ben used the sole of his boot to smear his cum into Patrick's chest and crotch, randomly kicking at Patrick hard dick. Ben tossed his butt onto Patrick's chest and stomped it out with his boot. He and Magic gave each other a double high five and hopped over the top ropes. Outside the ring, a frenzied crowd was slapping their backs and giving them beers.

I felt Josh undoing the handcuffs behind me. "You were a lot of help. What the fuck was that?" "I told you guys that the matches last 30 minutes. No exceptions."

Josh and I each took one of Patrick's arms and dragged him to his feet. He let out a muffled groan and grabbed for his throbbing lower back. We slowly led him out of the ring and right out the door to the clearing outside the barn. Josh kept jabbering, "That was great, guys, fuckin' great. You guys are awesome, gonna be a big fan favorite this weekend...". Josh put down the tailgate of one of the nearby pickup trucks and we carefully hoisted Patrick up. Josh disappeared around the side of the barn and returned a few seconds later with a hose. He turned the nozzle and proceeded to hose Patrick down. Cum, spit, and blood mixed with water to form a river down his chest and into his crotch. Patrick shook his head and splashed water on his face. I handed Patrick the hose and he held it over his head. He gingerly lowered himself off the truck bed and washed his crotch and ass. He handed me the hose and I held it up to the side of my head, which was caked in dried blood. Josh disappeared again and came back with Patrick's pants and boots. He threw the pants to Patrick and handed me the boots.

Josh was talking a mile a minute. "You guys were the best! Really! What a show! That was better than any match we had last year. The Titans didn't have a match longer than 7 minutes! 24 minutes! Wow! That was so hot! Your next match is at 4AM. Don't worry about falling asleep. We'll give you a wakeup call over the PA system. Grab some beers and burgers. All you want. Did you set up your tent yet?"

I nodded, which almost made me puke.

He just smiled and shook his head. "Fucking awesome..." and Josh bounced back into the barn to announce the next match. "I'll grab us some food and beer," I said to Patrick, but he was already stumbling towards the tent. I grabbed two big plastic mugs from the car and filled them up. Guys kept coming up to me, congratulating me, slapping my back (which hurt like hell I tried not to wince). I put six cheeseburgers on a plate and, accepting one last compliment, headed towards our tent. My head felt light and I almost fell once or twice as I staggered the last 200 feet. I unzipped the large, walk-in tent. Patrick was already laying down on his stomach, letting out low groans with each breath. I put the plate of food down next to him and sat in the lone folding chair.

Without looking up, Patrick said, "That was fuckin' embarrassing."

"Quite the ass reaming."

Patrick shot me a deadly look and for a second, I thought he was going to attack. But his aching body had the final word, and he just looked back at the ground and sighed. I retreated a bit. "Hey, man, how do you think I feel? Magic kicked my ass with your boots." I looked down at his feet. "I don't think I can spend the night in the same tent with those traitors." Patrick laughed and then instantly regretted it. I handed him his beer and, chomping down on a burger, said, "Have you ever seen anything like this? Those guys were sadistic fucks. And the crowd! I thought they were going to rush the ring when Ben ripped off your jeans."

"I've been in a lot of fights in my life, but nothing like this. You should of heard the sick shit Ben was saying to me when he was fucking me. "I'm going easy on ya this time...Next time we meet, I'm gonna make you my fuckin' bitch. Oh, by the way, Ben says next time, you get the ass reaming."

"Great. Is there going to be a next time?" Until that moment, I was sure that Patrick would want to just pack up and head back north. But Patrick just stared at me.

"Why? Do you want to leave?"

"No. Do you?"

"No way." I looked at my watch. Only 6:30. "We've got 9 hours to recuperate."

Patrick pulled out a bag of dope from his backpack and started to roll a joint. I got out my first aid kit, put a small butterfly bandage under my right eye, and scooped out a handful of icee hot. I slowly rubbed it on Patrick's lower back. "Oooh...that feels great." I continued to massage his back as we smoked and ate and talked strategy. We finished the beers and were fast asleep by 8.