No Holds Barred

Kent's arm tightens around Conrad's throat. The smaller wrestler bucks him off, thighs muscling up. He rides the upward momentum to slam Kent onto his back, landing an elbow in his gut that loosens his grip.

The whistle sounds. A disappointed groan rises from the auditorium seats, where the crowd is more than a little hungry for blood.

"Fuck!" He kicks himself for lashing out, even though Kent's been taunting him all night, giving him these I know how to push your buttons looks. Ambushing and retreating. Conrad would rather face off against some brain-dead muscle-wall over him any day; they're much slower, and easier to stay two steps ahead of.

The referee yanks him up by the arm, and suddenly the crowd swims back into focus. Whenever he's on the mat, everything else becomes a dull undercurrent. Some people are watching with close attention, others disinterestedly. A teenager in the front row has his headphones in, playing a game on his phone. Conrad pants with exertion, his breathing slowly returning to normal. Fire flares in his nostrils.

Kent crawls to his feet behind him, and the auditorium echoes with lukewarm applause for the default victor.

After the match, Kent finds Conrad while he's toweling off.

"Nice wrestling," Kent says. His singlet clings tightly to his pecs and the ripples of muscle down his abdomen. The rise and fall of his belly draws Conrad's attention down to the visible bulge between his legs.

Conrad's eyes snap back up to the wrestler's mop of fluffy brown hair and the maddening display of pride on his face. What exactly does he have to be proud of? He scoffs, hoping he'll just fuck off.

"What?" Kent asks.

"What do you think?"

"No, I'm serious. You've got some good moves."

"Whatever." Conrad can't help but think that he's playing with him. There's an insult buried in there somewhere; there always is. He's gotten used to that aspect of being the only openly trans wrestler at his college. He tries not to let it get to him anymore.

"What would you say about a private match?"

Conrad searches the wrestler's olive-toned features for signs of mockery, but finds none. Is he actually being genuine?

"Just you and me. No ref." A toothy smile spreads across his face. "What do you say?"

"Why?" Conrad frowns, unconvinced.

"I just want to see what you can actually take." He crosses his arms. "You know, without all these people around."

Conrad's never been one to back down from a challenge, especially not one shot between the teeth of his fiercest competitor, his dark, mirthless eyes glimmering. And it doesn't sound all that bad, actually. Nobody to yank him off of the wrestler when things get a little dirty, which they're bound to. Maybe that's what it will take to settle things between them.

He stands, stretching his sore limbs. He offers Kent his hand, gripping the other boy's firmly. It's softer than he expects, and warm. "You're on."

"Good." Kent holds on a little longer than necessary, brown eyes dancing over Conrad.

When he starts to get hot under his singlet, Conrad rips his away. "Fine. See you later, then."

-

Conrad comes freshly showered and shaved, which he knows is unnecessary, but he likes the feeling of the tight spandex on smooth skin, even if he'll be sweating from exertion in minutes. The blue singlet hugs him comfortably, skin-tight around his thighs and ass and flat chest, showing off the muscular contours that testosterone has squared out and made more defined.

Kent is already at the mat in the darkened gymnasium, squirting water from a bottle into his mouth.

"All warmed up, I hope?" Conrad asks. He's had time to compose himself, come off a little less flustered than at the match, or so he hopes. He swings his shoulder to loosen the rotator cuff he tore last year. He's supposed to go easy on it. Not that he will.

Kent gives him an almost-sheepish grin from under his dark mess of hair and ruddy cheeks. His teeth are crooked in a charming sort of way that Conrad despises, and he knows exactly how to play it cool until they're on the mat, keeping Conrad subdued. Presenting a false underbelly to soften him up.

"You look thirsty." Kent extends the water bottle to Conrad. When he doesn't take it, Kent's thick eyebrows jerk upward. "Wouldn't want you needing a water break."

It's a challenge, but an odd one. Conrad doesn't know exactly what he's agreeing to when he snatches the plastic bottle and takes a long drink, tasting Kent's spit on the mouthpiece. Something stirs in his belly.

With Kent watching expectantly, he downs the whole bottle. He wipes his mouth on his arm, catching the drips before they make it down to his chin.

"There. Happy?"

Kent takes the bottle, a playful smile on his lips.

Conrad crosses his arms, taking the defensive. "Look, you don't need to worry about me finding ways to squirrel out of this. I've been looking forward to it." He hopes he sounds more certain of himself than he feels.

"I hope so." There's that sly fucking smile again. He glances at the mat and back to Conrad. "After you."

His calmness is unnerving. Conrad steps onto the mat, finding his footing on the soft foam. He rolls his neck, trying to relax the tension that's been perched there ever since Kent proposed the match, impervious to any hot shower.

Not in any rush, Kent follows him onto the mat.

Conrad plants his feet wide, falling into a shallow squat. He has the advantage here, his center of gravity lower to the ground than the taller boy's. Even though they're in the same weight class, Kent is taller and leaner than him, and stronger than he looks. Taking him down will only be half the battle, and he has a feeling that Kent's not planning on playing nice.

With a glint in his eyes, Kent reaches out a tentative arm. Conrad slaps it--the engaging strike, skin on skin. And now they're off, beginning their shuffling, quick-changing dance around the ring.

Kent will go for the shoulders, Conrad knows. He always does. This will put him off balance and open up an opportunity for Conrad to dive lower, but he can't rush into an attack. He has to wait for the perfect moment. He keeps his footing steady, feigning left then right. His eyes stay locked onto Kent's, whose scrambling reaches, pawing at his forearms and thighs, become nothing more than background noise.

This steadiness, this conviction of strength passed eye-to-eye, forehead-to-forehead, is the most powerful weapon Conrad has. It swells between them.

Kent lunges; Conrad lets him. He drives his shoulders into Kent's abdomen, wrapping his arms around the bend in his legs. Kent grunts with frustration, trying to pry himself free. He rallies at Conrad's back, trying to reach down to unearth him, but the shorter wrestler drives powerfully forward.

Through thin spandex, the soft, unprotected package in Kent's groin presses against the side of his face, his neck. Gripping him tightly around the thighs, which is effective at throwing Kent off-balance, Conrad can smell the sharp, earthy musk coming off of him.

When he feels Kent's thighs quake with the effort of staying upright, he takes his window, lifting Kent's feet off the ground. His weight hurdles over Conrad's shoulder. He throws himself backward, his opponent taking the brunt of his weight. Conrad's fall is cushioned by a landscape of soft tissue and knobby bone.

Whatever stun the slap of the mat must have given him doesn't last long. Kent is immediately grabbing for his ankles, then trying to wrench an arm up and around his neck to put him into a chokehold. They grapple like this for some time, bodies wrapped in each others' heat, locked into straining grips, grunts echoing in the empty gymnasium. Conrad loses track of the time and his thoughts go quiet. All he can feel is Kent's body against his, all legs and hands and gritted teeth.

Exhaustion starts to seep in, and Kent manages to get some leverage, pulling an elbow tightly across Conrad's throat. He has Conrad right where he wants him--pinned against his chest with an arm cinched under his chin and muscled legs locked around his torso.

Usually, Conrad would be in trouble. But neither of them are playing by the rules, are they? And who's going to call them out on it? The match isn't going to stop for a little bruising, and the idea lights a fire in Conrad's stomach.

Kent has a weakness, and Conrad's not afraid to use it to his advantage. He shifts his hips against the wrestler, jamming the bone against the vulnerable tissue of Kent's groin.

It won't take much. He wriggles, adding to the pressure. Kent releases a hiss of air through his teeth, and Conrad knows he's right on the mark.

He wants to hurt him. He owes him that.

He twists, wrenching himself free of Kent's grasp. What he intends to do is turn on his knees, establish the higher ground, and put Kent in another hold. But before he can, he's knocked forward onto his stomach.

In half a breath, Kent is on his back, pressing him to the ground, locking him into a death grip. "Didn't think it was going to be so easy, did you?"

He has one of Conrad's arms craned painfully behind his back, and uses his knees between Conrad's legs to pry them apart. And... Conrad can't be sure, but he thinks he feels a growing hardness pressing into his ass.

He's realizing too, with the mat pressing into his belly, exactly what a mistake he's made. They've been fighting and scrabbling so long that all the water Kent pressured into him has worked its way through his system and collected in his bladder, which is starting to form an urgent pressure in his abdomen.

But he's not going to tap out just to take a piss, and Kent sure as hell isn't going to let him up out of the kindness of his heart.

Fuck.

He can get himself out of this and turn it around. He's done worse.

Conrad drives his hips up and back in an attempt to unseat Kent. He does manage to find a little give in the taller wrestler's body, but it has the opposite effect he's going for. Kent lets out a breathy groan and sinks his hips down into Conrad, grinding a now-unmistakeable hardness between his legs.

The worst thing about it is that Conrad is actually getting a little turned on from this. He shouldn't be--he's no stranger to being pinned by bigger dudes, or having his face shoved into pits and balls--but Kent's steady, hot breath on the back of his neck is jostling something free inside of him, something warm, something dripping downward. He's definitely getting wet through his spandex, and it won't be long before Kent can tell.

"Oh, fuck." Kent runs a hand down Conrad's back and settles it between his legs, rubbing his swollen cunt. "You like that, don't you?"

Conrad tries to buck him off again, growling into the mat, but only succeeds in pressing himself firmly against Kent's hand. He feels it slip between his folds, sending a shock of pleasure through his body.

"Fuck," Kent says. He thumbs Conrad's t-dick through his singlet, which gets harder and more pronounced with the touch. It takes every muscle in Conrad's body to avoid grinding himself into Kent's hand.

Conrad feels himself going slack on the mat, even as he continues fighting weakly to throw Kent off. Part of his discomfort, the rocking back and forth of his hips, is the increasing pressure from his full bladder against the floor. He really, really needs to go. And Kent's fingers are only making that sensation more acute.

"I bet you're really feeling it now," Kent pants, open-mouthed, into his ear, breath hot and startling. "Let's see how long you can hold it, pussyboy."

"Get--the fuck off of me, Kent!" But Kent can tell from the warm wetness soaking through his singlet that he doesn't want him to.

"Say it."

"Fuck you!"

"Say it," Kent moans, biting down on his ear, sending an involuntary throb through Conrad's body.

"Fuck! I have to fucking piss, man! Now will you let me--"

He feels Kent's deep exhale, rifling the hairs at the nape of his neck--"Good"-- as he slips one hand under Conrad's body, sliding down his abdomen and resting just above his pubic bone. Like this, the weight of both their bodies drives it painfully into his overfilled bladder without Kent having to do much of anything.

Conrad lets out a pitiful moan. "Please, just let me go."

Kent chuckles, hand sweeping lower--at first granting Conrad a moment of relief, then bringing a sharp pang of pleasure as his fingers dip to his throbbing t-dick. This position is hardly any better, though, with Kent's forearm and wrist still pressed flush against his abdomen. He writhes, trying to get free, but only manages to grind himself into the wrestler's touch.

Kent's hard cock, barely contained by his singlet, rubs against his hole from behind. "I'm gonna open you up, Con. Gonna make you my fucktoy." He slips his fingers under the leg of Conrad's spandex, slowly creeping up his thigh.

Despite himself, Conrad opens his legs, allowing Kent better access to his pussy. It's difficult to think through the throbbing of his bladder and his cock; all he knows is that he needs more.

He twitches with arousal at the sudden feeling of skin on skin as Kent glides his fingers over his slick opening. "God, you're so wet."

He teases Conrad's entrance, running his fingers up and down, massaging his t-dick, until Conrad is rutting against him, trying to work his fingers inside.

"How bad do you want it?"

"Please..." He isn't sure what he's begging for anymore. He needs relief, wants desperately to let his bladder go, but he can't stand the idea of pissing all over Kent's fingers. Nothing would be more humiliating. He has no choice but to clamp down and hold it. But he also needs Kent inside of him, needs to feel his fingers plunge deeper. "Please..."

"Fine."

Conrad gasps as the wrestler shoves two fingers into his pussy, pushing open his tight walls. His ears ring with the pulses of sensation as Kent fucks him with his fingers. He grinds into them, driving them deeper, worsening his throbbing agony.

"Look at you, you fucking slut." Kent curls his fingers downward, pressing into the spongy, sensitive tissue of his g-spot.

Conrad clamps down hard. "Fuck! I'm going to piss..." He tries to squeeze his legs shut, but Kent muscles them back open.

"Not yet. I'm not done with you." He yanks Conrad's singlet to the side, allowing full access to his pussy and ass. Fingers still pumping inside of him, he slaps Conrad's ass, sending a sharp jolt through his cunt and bladder.

He isn't sure how much more of this he can take, but he doesn't want Kent to stop. Not now.

Kent pulls out his fingers and wipes the dripping wetness over Conrad's ass. Conrad groans with frustration at how empty he feels, but he isn't quite ready to beg for his fingers back inside him. He's desperate, and without Kent's fingers to focus on, all he can think about is the fluid that feels like it's about to burst out of him.

He hears shuffling behind him and tries to push himself up on his elbows, but he's met with a firm shove between the shoulder blades, driving his face into the mat.

"Did I say you could get up, fucktoy?"

And then, fuck, Conrad feels something hard and warm pressing against his hole. Just the thought of Kent's cock sliding inside him makes him whimper. Kent rubs it up and down his slit, making him disgustingly wet.

"God, please..." Conrad arches his back, hoping to get more contact against Kent's body, get him inside his needy hole.

"Fuck yourself, if you want it so badly."

He doesn't want to obey, but it's not his conscious, logical mind calling the shots anymore. It's the hungry, ravished creature inside of him that nudges him backward onto Kent's cock. It hurts at first, a sharp stinging at being stretched open, but then Kent sinks in deeper, sighing, and Conrad's muscles yield to accept him. He can't help the moan that escapes him as his ass cheeks press flush against Kent's hips, Kent's cock bottoming out in his pussy.

He wants--no, needs Kent to fuck him, but infuriatingly, the wrestler refuses. Groaning in frustration, Conrad slides himself back and forth on Kent's cock, shivering as it stretches his tight entrance and plunges against his aching bladder. It's all so much, and he needs even more.

After minutes of this slow, needy fucking, Kent grabs him by the hips and slams him roughly onto his cock. Conrad yelps, the sudden thrust exerting an almost-unbearable pressure against his bladder. He feels himself squeezing around Kent's cock, trying desperately to hold it. But he's opened up now, throbbing, and losing control. Wetness drips down his thigh, though it must be from his pussy, because he's nowhere near feeling relief. Every thrust brings him closer to the edge--of what, Conrad isn't sure.

Achy pressure balloons inside him, creeping closer and closer to the point of no return, swelling to the surface. He's making low, guttural noises while Kent fucks him savagely, skin slapping against skin, fingers digging into his hips.

And then--Conrad cries out, muscles clenching uselessly--he can't hold back anymore. Piss spurts out around Kent's cock, the stream intensifying as he finally lets go, finally starts to feel a wave of immense relief. It splatters noisily onto the mat, coming out in bursts with the rhythm Kent drives into him even more excitedly.

"Fucking slut, you can't even hold your piss!" Kent fucks him harder, and the pleasure of his building orgasm rushes up to meet the blissful relief of emptying his bladder.

He's still letting out spurts of urine when he comes, his muscles spasming around Kent's cock. He croons into the mat in ecstasy. Still spinning and high, he feels Kent empty a load deep into his cunt, then finish off with a few hard thrusts. He pulls out, leaving him empty and dripping in more than a few bodily fluids.

"Good slut," Kent says. "Now clean up the fucking mat."