The Mirror and The Tulip Ch. 02

The Mirror wrote down "Bearhug" on the dry erase board, then drew two circles next to the word. He checked one with the flick of his marker. The other, he left blank. I did not know what these meant, nor did I inquire. Meaning was far from my mind.

The Mirror moved behind me and kissed my neck--as much as he could, at least, while wearing a mask. His little zipper smile nibbled up and down my skin, and while it scratched a bit, I gathered that was the point. He mixing pain and pleasure, and after the rough grip of his leather gloves as they kneaded from my stomach up to my aching, needy nipples, I was learning the value of both.

"The next hold," he growled through his mask-zipper, "is the 'Abdominal Stretch.'"

I was too buzzed by his hot breath on my neck to understand the words, but I was more than eager to be molded by them.

I followed his motions in the mirrors around the room. His muscled, ebony leg stepped over to cover my own. The size difference between his quad--a barrel of power--and my own were stark. Leg planted firm, he squatted slightly, and forced my knee to bend. He then snaked his torso to my side, his coiled strength trailing up my flank. His left arm slipped under my right and slowly drew leather fingers up my waist, and ribs, then finally, he hooked my arm under his. His other arm sneaked across my face, and those leather hands clasped tight. I heard the crinkle of the leather, but I didn't need a visual to know how my body was bent in his grasp--I could feel it in my core. My oblique was exposed, curved into a bend I had not normally known.

My voice broke and cracked unwillingly.

"You will find," he said, as he brushed a gloved thumb at my quivering lip, "that in this position, your spine, your sides, and your abs will burn. And it will burn you up, too."

His left hand moved away, satisfied that I would not try to break out of the hold. A gloved thumb found my lips and danced its way into my willing mouth. It slid deep. I sucked. Thick leather dominated tongue. He murmured something, but I could understand little beyond the waxy flavor and hot pain. My flank tightened. I wanted to surrender to his touch, him. But I knew the rules, and, with the suction of my mouth and the crumbling infrastructure of my torso, I obeyed them.

As my eyes fluttered shut between the boundary of agony and ecstasy, The Mirror spoke to me.

"This is where it gets serious," he said. With the aid of my suction, he pulled his hand free from the leather glove. I kept it in my mouth, a makeshift gag. And I sucked, as I believed he wanted me to without any explicit instruction to do so.

"Let's see what my sweet sissy jobber has learned."

The threshold of pain and pleasure were slurred at this point in my mind and memory. What I do distinctly remember is that his gloveless hand stroked down my front and played with my nipples through the soft pink crop top he had dressed me in. He tweaked them between his digits, the friction of cotton combined with his pinch changed the pitch of my groans.

"You look like you're enjoying it," he ran his gloved hands down my hips and kneaded. He tugged at the side of my flower-patterned thong. The pressure and heat of his body bending made my skin feel raw, like every inch of myself was open, exposed to audience unseen. He reached down into my twitching thong-briefs and pressed his palm along the shiny tent, pushing, pulling, letting it go, gripping it again.

I wasn't sure how much more I could take. In my mind, in my sides, in my loins I burned.

He began to stroke it. The cool, smooth spandex rubbed and coaxed my member with pleasure that battled against the torrent of suffering in my bent body. I groaned pathetically into the leather I eagerly kept in my mouth.

"Time has passed," he said. With those words, my pain felt victorious. His strokes were more deliberate now. More thorough. The fuzz of my vision could make out that the tip of my flower-thong, distorted by my tent, was stained with pre-cum. Though I was fading, there was a certain profound clarity to the moment; once granted the chance to leave the hold, I also removed myself from potential release. This training session was not just about taking wrestling holds, but was an attempt to program me, mold me into something that received the bend and beating of grappling with the same desire as the desperate need I had now to explode in his grip. Submission prevented my climax. Find the pleasure in pain, and I'd find release.

And I tried. And I panted. And I held, and held, and held. My balls ached. My hips rolled as much as they could in their forced lock. I sweat. I squinted.

But, new student that I was, it became too much. The fire of the stretch was stronger than the flame of the friction in my thong. I dropped the glove from my mouth.

"I'M A JOBBER FAG!" I choked out in defeat.

He let me go. He treated the release of the stretch with gentleness I was too drained to appreciate. Without his arms, I am certain I would've wilted to the floor. He let me down slowly to my knees, and cradled me in his lap. He stroked the tips of my glittery wrestling mask as I leaned on his chest. He murmured praise for my taste in pain.

"That's right," he said. The zipper kissed my vinyl mask. "You are. And you did so good, little thing. You held out for much longer than I anticipated."

This praise shot through me an electric charge. I didn't just feel pride in my defeat, I felt powerful in it. I realized all at once I had passed two different holds now, and in my first training session!

I looked up into the reflective mask of The Mirror, and felt that the zipper grin was a reward for my tolerance. "I want to do another one."

The Mirror chuckled, and I felt the bass of his voice vibrate through his chest. "And you will, little flower. Stay on the floor for a moment."

He lifted me out of his lap and sat me on the mat. I watched his dark, massive body slink across the room. He went to the whiteboard and wrote "Abdominal Stretch" underneath "Bearhug." It had the same circles and the same checkmark in only one column. If my assumptions were correct, the columns without the checkmarks were my orgasms, and checks marked my successful survival past the time limit.

"Your next hold will be more difficult," he said as he put the cap back onto the pen.

He came back to me, and crouched down to the ground. He drew his gloveless finger under my chin, and scratched as if I were his pet. And, perhaps, I was, because with an animal's simplicity, I did not register how serious the next words were to my fate.

"We will now see how you can handle a body scissor."

He crawled behind me and seized my torso in his arms, pulling my back against his wide chest and thick stomach. I found it romantic in a way, spooned in his grip. The tenderness in which I was held did not prepare me adequately for my trial. I watched one thick leg wrap around my waist, then the other. He hooked his heels. He squeezed.

And I screamed in surprise. My voice bounced off the walls.

There was no pretense in this hold. He meant business. While I was sure that this was not his full power--the girth of his quads convinced me I likely could never take his full power, and I'm certain he knew it, too--the pressure against my already worn sides was far beyond anything else I had faced that night, or before. My breath had been taken away in a near instant by the rippling muscle of his legs. Survival instinct guided my hand to press in-between his knees and my ribs. There was no space to take, and none that he would give.

My head dropped back against his shoulder. He had propped himself up quite casually, his effort solely focused in his thighs and quads.

"That's right, little one," I felt his deep chuckle in my body. "Daddy's legs are pretty strong."

His grip loosened, then tightened. His quads flexed and bunched, and the air leave my lungs in a long, loud, sigh. Then he relaxed. I gasped. I tried to breathe. I saw stars enter the fringe of my vision, then disappear. I clawed the mat with my hands. There was no way I could make the time limit. Absolutely no way.

As if to encourage me, I felt his hands move over my chest. He kneaded my pec. Amazingly, my erection had sustained even though this torment.

But with another squeeze that rolled my eyes to the ceiling, I knew my limit. This was it. With a pathetic yelp, I gave up, "AHH! I'M A JOBBER FAG!"

His legs immediately unhooked and I fell back into the wall of fat and muscle that made up his torso. "I'm a... ohhh..." I was already ready to scream it again even after he let go, just in case for some reason he didn't.

"Shhh. It's alright, jobber fag. No big deal. You're a great jobber. You were so brave going through that. I'm proud of you." His deep baritone voice rumbled in my skull.

Then, his voice lowered. "Too bad you didn't make the time limit. Let me know when you're ready to be punished, my little flower."

Ah. Punishment. Yes. What I went through just now wasn't punishment, it was the lesson. It was hard to believe, given the toll it took on me, but the memory of the rules scuttled back to my dizzy mind.

Still, he reminded me, "A jobber fag is punished for not taking wrestling holds like he should. His punishment is administered with slaps to his face, chest, and ass. Do you understand?"

I nodded. "Yes, Sir."

He continued stroking my head. My body relaxed. I leaned heavily against his chest. He patted my shoulder.

Then he asked softly, "Are you ready for punishment?"

I nodded.

"Good. Get on all fours."

When I did, he told me to put my hands out in front of me, palms down, and to spread my fingers. He stepped back and walked around me. I was trembling, but I could see in the room's reflection he was all business, focused on his task with a rehearsed confidence.

The zipper on his mask smiled, teeth bared. He raised his gloved hand, and brought it down sharply on my left butt cheek.

The sharp sting snapped through me like a rubber band. As much as I tried to push through the pain, I couldn't hold still. I tensed up, and he slapped my other ass cheek.

He gripped the thong and pulled it out from between my cheeks. I twisted and squirmed, but he had me.

"Ahh!" I wailed as he tugged at the elastic waistband between my cheeks. My breath caught in my throat. He yanked at it hard, and lifted my hips up with the sudden wedgie. All of this was orchestrated in time with a series of slaps on each cheek. My ass seared. Tears ran down my face. "Ow! Oww!" When he finally stopped, my cheeks felt raw, battered.

"That's enough," he said.

I panted.

"For your ass, at least. Now, your chest."

I gulped. He walked in front of me, and grabbed my chin. With just enough encouraging force, he brought me to my feet.

"This is called a 'knife-edge chop.' It's common strike in wrestling, and can be administered safely while still appearing quite powerful. I'll only give you one, but I think you'll find it sufficient."

I nodded, but still found myself tingling with fear. I knew the type of strike that he meant, the sort of back-hand chop that filled stadiums with audible whip-cracks. I had seen chests run raw from only a few blows--much like how my rear, still stinging, felt right now.

He stood in front of me, then turned his body. He put his palm, thumb down, onto the center of my chest, slowly lining up his shot.

"Relax," he said sweetly, "it'll hurt the right way only if you don't tense your pecs up. Let it happen."

He was right--I had not realized I had bunched my chest and shoulders up, preparing for impact. I exhaled and dropped my shoulders back, presenting my crop-top covered chest to him.

He gave a sharp slap to the middle of my chest, then followed through with a sweeping motion off the pectoral. My body jerked in response. A wordless cry opened my jaw, but I was more rattled than damaged--it stung, but the thunder-snap sound it made was far worse than the pain itself.

"You took that correctly," The Mirror held my chin between a large thumb and finger. "Excellent."

His free hand rubbed against my chest, reddened in the shape of his palm. I trembled. It climbed. The Mirror's mask reflected my eager expression.

"But your punishment," he whispered, tracing a finger over my lip, "is not done."

Smack! With light restraint, he slapped me across the face. I doubt he even left a mark, but it was enough to surprise me.

The hand that held my chin slipped away, then smacked my other cheek.

"These are things... you should get used to, faggot."

I did not even have to feign my reaction this time. Another alternating slap, with slightly more speed, turned my head.

Then another.

And another.

I whimpered. My pulse raced. Hesitance chipped away with each swat, and The Mirror put something new in its place. It was like I had been wired up to an outlet, recharged through my own knock-kneed humiliation.

"Are you going to take your holds like a good little jobber slut?"

"Yes, Sir," I squeaked. I was breathless.

"I'm glad to hear that, Tulip. Let's do one more set of slaps just to make sure."

My eyes widened at the prospect of more. And more, I received; The Mirror smacked my face with his palm a few times while running a hand down my torso. I could feel his fingers stroking over my flowery thong. I felt him tugging, pulling. My hips swayed as I my face was rocked side to side with palms and even a backhand with perfectly measured strength and aim. He smacked me, then caressed my cheek with his thumb. Sweetness always came after the mark of dominance, and in my mind, the two became one. Though it was not a wrestling hold, I was certain that with one or two more slaps, with his hand on my dick, and I likely would've exploded in my thong right then and there.

But there must've been something particularly pathetic in my expression; The Mirror's slapping hand drooped, and he brought both arms under mine. He combed the back of my head and rocked me against his wide chest, whispering sweet songs of praise.

"You did good. You did so good, little Tulip," his large hand stroked my glittery mask. "Your punishment is complete. We can move on to the next hold whenever you're ready."

I laid against the Mirror's cool umber pecs, slightly drooling, eyes dizzy. I stayed, and moaned, and faded in-between the vibration of my stung cheeks. Stung face, stung ass, stretched body, sweaty and twisted and hungry. So hungry for more.

When my breath slowed enough to match the surprisingly slow heartbeat of my dominate heel, I said, "I'm ready for more, Sir."

"Good little jobber," he murmured. He trailed his hands down to my hips, "You have two more holds to go..."