The Wrestler

The Wrestler

FemdomFanboy85

Little by little, the day was rapidly approaching, and he found himself stirring with nervous energy and quiet anticipation. There had been times like this before, where he found the wait to be both insufferable and reassuring, but this one seemed to outshine them all. When those feelings were especially intense, he would sometimes have to patiently talk himself down from backing out. The times he had actually backed out were numerous enough that they became a distressing source of private, eternal shame to him.

He wanted to get a grip and do better. Over the years, he started to question how bad anything could really be compared to that shame he felt. What was losing compared to forfeiting? What was facing the consequences compared to being known as a quitter?

Not everything he reneged on was a contest or a competition, but in Brad's mind that was frequently how it appeared. It might have cost him a lot in the past -- scholarships, promotions, relationships -- but there was no real way of knowing. That fear of failure had ended plenty of opportunities for him before they even had a chance.

Still, he couldn't help thinking about what all was at stake now. Was he crazy? Had he been out of his mind when he agreed to it? What the hell had he been thinking, if he'd been thinking at all? It wasn't going to ruin him to lose, but the consequences this time were hardly trivial. It was scarcely imaginable what he'd get if he won, and it was scarcely imaginable what would happen if he lost. That was even true if he tried to back out. He supposed in a twisted sort of way that gave it all a sense of fairness.

The doubts had descended over him from the moment he replied to the ad, though. For weeks, he had seen that posting circulate on the classifieds site he'd check out from time to time. He had gone there looking for love, or more likely for someone to fuck, and that ad stuck out like a sore thumb. It was straight to the point, seemed pretty authentic, and it raised an incredibly intriguing idea.

As soon as he had sent his reply and his inbox confirmed it with the standard notice that the email was successful, he found himself suddenly wishing he could somehow jump into cyberspace and take it back. It was such an unusually impulsive thing for him to do, he thought. Too late now. At least he could take some comfort in the possibility that nothing would probably ever come of it.

Except something had come of it. He had almost forgotten about the classifieds posting by the time he got a response later that week. In fleeting moments, he'd think of the ad and wonder if it was genuine, perhaps in a kind of half-assed optimism. When Sunday rolled around, he was not sure what to expect when he received a message from someone named Paige. Once opened, it quickly came flooding back to him.

Hi Brad, it started. Thank you for the message. I'd like to be up front and honest with you so there's no room for misunderstanding or miscommunication. I'm 100% serious about what I said I'm looking for. I always do things safely and consensually, and I meet people and discuss specifics with them prior to anything happening. It's important to understand that it's not just play or fantasy to me. In other words, if you're hoping for someone to go easy on you, I'm not your gal. ;-)

If you're still interested, I'd be happy to talk more. I'll have some questions for you, too. Thanks again for reaching out and I hope you have a nice day.

For a brief while, he sat there thinking about deleting the message and moving on. It was a very kind and courteous response, which did help some to set his mind at ease. Even so, his nerves were rattled more by who she was and what she represented than by the tone of her message. Though there was that one particular line that captured his attention, cautioning him that she would not be the type of "gal" to go easy on him.

Since his grade school years, Brad had been an athletic sort of guy. He had played on the football team all the way through graduation, spent lots of time at the gym in college, and still liked to work out now even in his 30s. Of course, it would be foolish to pretend that his exercise regimen hadn't changed. He knew it had, but those views he'd get from the mirror were just too good to convince him of the reality. And to an extent it was true -- he was in pretty nice shape for a man his age. The muscles, though, were mostly just for show.

In his more lucid moments, Brad realized his curiosity about the ad was probably tied to this. It was borne out of a desire to prove himself. It was that same old competitive mindset he'd always had. There was a bit more to it than this, however. Wrapped up along with that was the sexually charged fantasy that someday, maybe some day soon, he'd meet someone truly capable of taking him on.

It wasn't as if he'd never lost a game before, or lost little friendly weight-lifting wagers. Throughout his younger years, though, he had really only attracted one particular type of woman. She was soft, pretty, traditional, and one might even say submissive. The country girl type that wanted nothing more than to find a nice man to settle down with. At first, he felt perfectly happy with his lot in life. Most of the girls were sweet as could be, and it got him laid, if nothing else.

But gradually the novelty of that had worn off more and more. He'd find himself imagining where Ellen Ripley and Sarah Connor would hang out in their spare time. He'd look at the women on the fitness magazines in the aisles at the grocery store, wondering who would win in an arm wrestling match. Then he'd remember his unfortunate habit of throwing in the towel once things got tough, and the fantasies would quickly fade under the rude light of reality.

As some small consolation, a part of Brad would also make note of the fact that these were just fantasies. Real women, even strong, fit, attractive women, could still lose to men. While he didn't know it, the consolation in this didn't come from the thought that he'd win, but from the thought that never finding out wouldn't necessarily be such a bad thing. His bubble, so to speak, was not about to be burst. Not yet, anyway.

Brad wrote back to Paige, expressing his interest, but trying not to seem too eager. He agreed on the importance of safety and consent. He said he'd love to hear more, and he welcomed her questions. Unable to help himself, he talked up his strength, too, mentioning his football years, his visits to the gym, and his exercise routines. To seal the deal, he said he didn't want someone to go easy on him, he wanted a challenge.

Perhaps this response had been more of a bluff than the first one. Once it was sent, he laughed it off and went about his day. To his surprise, Paige took far less time getting back to him then. After just an hour, there was a new message waiting for him in his inbox.

It began with the same kindness and courtesy of her first reply. She said she was glad to know they were both on the same page. She was thrilled to hear he kept in shape, since she was hoping for a challenge as well. She teased him with some talk about her own fantasies. And then, like running straight into a blowout on the road, the tone of her message changed.

Some things you should probably know about me: I was in soccer from Elementary School up to High School. In HS, I switched to amateur wrestling. Because we didn't really have much of a girl's team at the time, I competed on the boys' team. It was tough at first, but after a while I learned to hold my own and even beat a few of the boys during my Junior and Senior years. Since college, I've been training in mixed martial arts and even entered and won a few local competitions. I hit the gym a lot to try and keep my weight, but I'm no pro or anything like that. I like to have fun, though I definitely like to push myself to improve. Have you ever wrestled competitively?

Reading her list of all her experience, Brad's confidence started to crack. It sounded like a lot. Was it a lot? Maybe she just dabbled in a lot. Could be she's done that stuff and she's still shaped like a lean little thing. That's how it is sometimes, isn't it? Was it possible to do all that and still be easy to push around? A nervous energy snuck into him as his mind danced about. He could just delete her message. Pretend it wasn't delivered. Act like he accidentally lost her email. Oops.

Instead, his eyes fixed on a word further down in her message: "pic." Curiously, he scrolled down to see what might be waiting there.

The image Paige had attached was surely designed to grab attention and practically taunt someone like him. It looked almost comical, like a piece of promotional material for the always entertaining WWE. A blond-haired, brown-eyed woman was raising an eyebrow at the camera and smirking smugly. Both arms were up and flexing, showing off large muscles that were definitely not glamour muscles. A dark grey sports bra covered her chest, and below it was a stomach so tight you might bounce a quarter off it.

Brad could feel his breath quickening as he stared. She was not a lean little thing, and there was no doubt about it that the picture was daring him to test her. The post she had put up said she was 28, he remembered. Young and brave. Maybe young, brave, and strong. Whatever the case, Paige was such an irresistible sight that a feeling of pride swelled up in his chest as he struggled to form the words of his response. Gotta go big or go home.

He typed and typed, deleted and deleted, typed some more, deleted some more, and finally paused with the cursor flickering with seeming impatience on the screen. Thoughts rolled over in his mind, his fingers cramped, and his mouth felt dry. After another second, he erased everything he had and started over. Why not keep it simple? Looking good! he wrote in the email. Sounds like you even know a thing or two. Maybe we could make it interesting when you lose anyway. ;-) I'm game to meet and talk it over. Here's a pic for you in the meantime.

Opening up his photos, he selected the closest comparison to her showy photo that he could find. He wasn't flexing, but it was one of the famous shirtless bathroom selfies. At the angle he'd taken it, his arms appeared big, even if the muscles weren't showing. His chest and stomach were solid, he thought. Still, hesitating momentarily, he wondered how much she might be able to tell from a photo. Then the idea of beating her and knowing the taste of victory came over him, and he smiled, attached the photo, and sent the message without another thought to it.

Ten minutes later, a new message popped up in his inbox. All it said was a date, time, and place. Mozart's on Wednesday at 7 pm. Brad marveled at the confidence for a second. She hadn't even asked if that would work for him. But it would.

For the next couple days, he would periodically think about their arranged meeting. Those familiar old voices would speak up, reminding him he still had time. He could come up with an excuse and cancel. He could say he met someone. He could say he had to work late. He could even pretend he wanted to reschedule until the next excuse. Then he would tell himself to knock it off and stop being a wimp. Just meet her. It couldn't hurt.

-

The day of their meeting, he opened her email and glanced at her photo again. Like she'll be hard to spot, he thought to himself. From morning until the time he left to see her, he was restless. Work seemed to drag by at a crawl. He wanted to get ready, to get it over with. He wondered if she might send another email and cancel at the last minute. No, he suspected that wasn't her way.

Mozart's wasn't too crowded for a Wednesday, so upon arriving a little early he found a nice table outside on the patio. Facing the parking lot, it would be easy to spot him there in his black shirt and brown shorts. The patio was relatively deserted and quiet, which was also more conducive to conversation. As the minutes passed, he sat there checking his phone, waiting for incoming messages, while his leg nervously bobbed up and down underneath the table.

A red Mustang pulled into one of the spaces in the parking lot, and from it emerged a woman with short blond hair coming out the back of a ballcap, dressed in a tank top, workout shorts, and running shoes. She looked around as she came down the steps to the patio, catching the eye of a couple passing by. The closer she got, the bigger she looked, and when Brad could no longer deny the fact that this was Paige, he slowly stuck a hand up and waved.

"Brad?" she asked, walking over and shaking his hand before sitting down. The smile that spread across her cheeks was enough to melt away a significant portion of his anxiety.

"Yeah," he said, "And you must be Paige."

"Nice to meet you, Brad."

"You too."

She had a smoky voice that tickled his ears to hear. It was not the sweet, sultry, smooth kind he was used to, but wonderfully rough around the edges. He knew that some men found that sexy, and so did he, except what it really said to him was that she didn't especially care how she sounded.

A waitress approached and each of them ordered a drink before she scurried off to another table.

"You know," Paige went on, "I'm glad you showed. You wouldn't believe how many times I've been stood up, especially over an ad like that."

He let a gentle laugh escape his lips and watched her place her elbows on the table and bring her hands together in front of her. She certainly had the look of an athlete, maybe even one that would some day grace the cover of magazines and newspapers.

"It's a little hard to believe for me, too. That I'm sitting here, I mean."

"I take it you've never done something like this?" she inquired.

"Nope. You know... it's been a fantasy. Something I've wanted to try. But I've never done it. You?"

"What," she asked, "wrestling people or what I said in the ad?"

"The ad."

"Many times," Paige said with a slightly cocky tilt of her head. "Don't let that bother you, though. I'm fair. I don't fight dirty. I haven't won every match."

Brad relaxed a little in his seat. She wasn't quite what he'd expected, but it was turning out to be a good thing. There was a playfulness and a kindness to her. It almost made him feel ashamed of the way he'd pictured himself gloating over it when he'd win.

"So... how does it usually go?"

"Well," she replied, "I have a good friend who owns a little gym in town. On holidays or after business hours, he lets me rent a room for the time I need it. He's got the mat and everything else there that you could want. I usually set up a date and time. Then we wrestle."

"Is there like a ref or anyone else?"

"Oh yeah. He's been the ref in the past. Sometimes it's another friend of mine. Some people have wanted to pick their own ref. As long as they know what they're doing and can be impartial, I don't mind who it is."

"No spectators, though?"

Paige grinned and casually took her hat off, running a hand through her hair before returning her elbows to the table and locking her hands together. Brad leaned forward a touch, curiously waiting for her response. She looked off to the side for moment and paused, mouth open, as if carefully choosing her words.

"There can be," she said. "It really depends on what someone's... comfortable with. I've done this when there have been spectators I've invited and spectators the other person's invited. So long as everyone behaves and knows why they're there, it's fine."

He thought in silence for a moment, pondering over her answer. Ever since he read her post, he had played out the scenario in his head a dozen times. It was a frightening thing to reflect on because there was no getting around the fact that some of the details never changed. In his fantasies, there were always spectators.

"What, uhh," he began, "what do you prefer?"

She moved her lips behind her folded hands and met Brad's gaze. Her deep brown eyes seemed to thank him for the question. Her posture looked like that of a wild animal, ready to pounce.

"I love to have people watch," she teased. "I'd love to have them see you lose."

Brad broke into a chuckle and leaned back. If her behavior wasn't so flirty, he suspected he might have taken the challenge differently. There was something about her that made him let his guard down, which he knew he'd need to be cautious about. Paige struck him as the type who'd patiently wait for an opening and rarely ever miss it. It was appealing, no doubt, but risky, too. She had her arms up on the table for a reason.

"You seem pretty sure of that," Brad teased back. "I just hope you're not upset if it doesn't go your way."

"I'm not a sore loser. I've taken some hits. I've accepted it when I've been beat. I've also fought hard to learn from those things and be better. So don't you dare go easy on me, either."

"I won't. And I don't fight dirty. If we do this, I'll do it for real."

"Good," Paige said. "I want to know you're sane, able to do this right, and able to take it if you lose. If I have reservations about any of that with someone, I won't do it. You know what I mean?"

"I do," Brad responded. "I, uhh... well, I'm competitive. I can guess you know that and I'd figure you are, too. It's not easy for me to lose sometimes. I don't like it, but it's part of the challenge. I wouldn't do anything stupid because of it, though."

Her eyes studied him for a brief minute. Just then the waitress came with their drinks, setting down a beer on each side. She asked if they needed anything else, to which Paige said no and thanked her. The waitress departed as Brad took a sip of his beer.

"So," Paige continued with a pause, letting the word float on the air expectantly. "Did you have something in mind when you wrote in your email that you wanted to make it interesting?"

Now a nervous laugh came from Brad, instantly signalling his discomfort. Part of him had hoped she would've forgotten what he'd said. Another part felt practically relieved that she was the one to bring it up. There's no getting past her, he told himself.

"Oh, it was stupid. Stupid and immature, frankly."

"What?" Paige broke in with no hesitation.

"No, it's just dumb."

"What is it?!"

"Nothing, really. It wasn't--"

"I didn't take you for a weenie, Brad," she interrupted with a mocking smile on her face. "I'm not a weenie. Just say it already."

He cleared his throat and fidgeted in his seat. Paige sat unmoved, expecting an answer. His eyes shifted about as he scooted forward and leaned toward her.

"Well... I like the stripping idea. But what does the winner really get if we've both been tearing each other's clothing off? You know? Maybe... just as a thought... the winner gets to do something to the loser."

"You mean like fuck them?"

"Umm, it doesn't have to be that, but--"

"I like that idea."

Brad's head jerked back a tad in surprise. He stared at Paige. Now she wasn't smiling, flirting with him, or doing anything of the sort that he could tell. Her expression was calm and her eyes were fixed on his.

"You do?" he asked in disbelief.

"Yeah, why not? You're a good looking guy. I bet you like me. Besides, you're kinda right, maybe the stakes aren't high enough."

"Wow, I didn't think you'd say that. Trust me, I won't--"

"What do I get to do when I win?"

This took Brad offguard as he tried to picture what she could mean by this.

"You'd get to fuck me, right?" he replied.

"Well, yeah, but how? How's it any different for me if either way you get to stick your dick in me? Do I get to make you eat my pussy?"

Paige's blunt discussion of these topics left him excited and confused. She was fearless, in a way, which drew his interest. Yet it was also starting to feel like he would be getting more than he had bargained for.