Anderson’s arms were flailing around, and I was kinda liking rubbing my dick against his ass…hey, giving isn’t gay…so I guess I wasn’t paying attention to what else he was doing. He brought one of his arms down, hard, and it took me completely by surprise, forcing my hands apart. With one of his hands now free, he reached across our bodies and squeezed a point just above my elbow.
The shock of pain was like nothing I’d ever felt. I yelped as my hands flew apart, and I rolled off of him. As I got to my feet, I could see him smirking. “Pressure points,” he said smugly. “I don’t get to use them much in a regular match, but now…”
He never got to finish the sentence, because I charged him, tackling him right in the middle of his body and driving him down to the mat, with my shoulder driving into his gut and my knee “accidentally” hitting his thigh. Now it was his turn to yelp in pain as my kneecap drove into his muscles.
“You asshole!” he screamed. “Watch it!”
“I am, and it looks great!” I shot back.
He managed to get his legs between us and shoved hard, pushing me off of him and halfway across the mat. We both scrambled to get to our feet, getting there about the same time—and both of us had our fists up.
Any pretense of a wrestling match was gone; we both started throwing punches as soon as we were close enough to land them. Not many of them hit—Anderson was damned good at slipping my shots, and I managed to block most of his with my forearms—but some of them got through. I got in a solid right cross that split the son of a bitch’s lip open, and he planted a hard left hook in my ribs that had me wincing every time I took a breath.
Dad and Mr. Anderson were urging us on at the tops of their lungs, but neither of us could hear it. We’d gone to that place in a fight where nothing exists but the mat and the other guy and your determination that you were going to come out on top, no matter what it took. The rest of the world could have ceased to exist, and the only way Anderson and I would have known was if the mat suddenly disappeared from beneath our feet.
We got each other in headlocks and were still punching each other with our free hands, stumbling around and around on the mat—and then Anderson lost his footing. He went down, face down—with me on top of him.
Before he could stop me, I had my forearm around his neck, pressing into his throat. My legs snaked around his hips to sink my “hooks” into his thighs. I clamped my free arm across my forearm, and rolled over onto my back, bringing him with me.
I squeezed his throat with every ounce of strength I had. This was it; if I didn’t get him to quit now, I had nothing left. Anderson was clawing at my forearm, trying to break my chokehold. Then I suddenly felt something heavy hit the mat right next to me…
WildcatLes (29)
25/3/2014 19:14I thought the end to this match was coming in Chapter 6. You are providing great description of the match, which turns me on.
Hardmatch (99)
23/3/2014 19:58Great stuff! I look forward to the continuation.
JiminQueens2 (51)
19/3/2014 16:25Anderson’s arms were flailing around, and I was kinda liking rubbing my dick against his ass…hey, giving isn’t gay…so I guess I wasn’t paying attention to what else he was doing. He brought one of his arms down, hard, and it took me completely by surprise, forcing my hands apart. With one of his hands now free, he reached across our bodies and squeezed a point just above my elbow.
The shock of pain was like nothing I’d ever felt. I yelped as my hands flew apart, and I rolled off of him. As I got to my feet, I could see him smirking. “Pressure points,” he said smugly. “I don’t get to use them much in a regular match, but now…”
He never got to finish the sentence, because I charged him, tackling him right in the middle of his body and driving him down to the mat, with my shoulder driving into his gut and my knee “accidentally” hitting his thigh. Now it was his turn to yelp in pain as my kneecap drove into his muscles.
“You asshole!” he screamed. “Watch it!”
“I am, and it looks great!” I shot back.
He managed to get his legs between us and shoved hard, pushing me off of him and halfway across the mat. We both scrambled to get to our feet, getting there about the same time—and both of us had our fists up.
Any pretense of a wrestling match was gone; we both started throwing punches as soon as we were close enough to land them. Not many of them hit—Anderson was damned good at slipping my shots, and I managed to block most of his with my forearms—but some of them got through. I got in a solid right cross that split the son of a bitch’s lip open, and he planted a hard left hook in my ribs that had me wincing every time I took a breath.
Dad and Mr. Anderson were urging us on at the tops of their lungs, but neither of us could hear it. We’d gone to that place in a fight where nothing exists but the mat and the other guy and your determination that you were going to come out on top, no matter what it took. The rest of the world could have ceased to exist, and the only way Anderson and I would have known was if the mat suddenly disappeared from beneath our feet.
We got each other in headlocks and were still punching each other with our free hands, stumbling around and around on the mat—and then Anderson lost his footing. He went down, face down—with me on top of him.
Before he could stop me, I had my forearm around his neck, pressing into his throat. My legs snaked around his hips to sink my “hooks” into his thighs. I clamped my free arm across my forearm, and rolled over onto my back, bringing him with me.
I squeezed his throat with every ounce of strength I had. This was it; if I didn’t get him to quit now, I had nothing left. Anderson was clawing at my forearm, trying to break my chokehold. Then I suddenly felt something heavy hit the mat right next to me…