Mickey Punishes Bernd

Already two things about Bernd piss Mickey off. The way Bernd’s hands keep floating up to Mickey’s face, twice to yank hard at his hair, and the bright tropicalia red lycra trunks, in contrast to Mickey’s basic black speedo.

Not to mention all the shit that led up to this fight.

Bernd thinks he can wrestle, but he can’t, which is fine by Mickey. Bernd has thick strong legs, but, as far as Mickey can tell, that’s all he’s got. If the German wants his ass pwned, Mickey is happy to do the honors.

Mickey hooks his arm round Bernd’s neck and draws it in to his side. Bernd jabs at Mickey’s ribs and gut, but Mickey jerks him up by the chin, throwing the heavier man on his back and stabbing his belly with his (Mickey’s) knee.

He straddles the man’s waist and tries to bend his arm behind his neck in a modified chicken wing, but Bernd keeps thrashing himself loose. The two men grip hands and push and pull, and it occurs to Mickey that he must look like a raptor struggling to free itself from a tar pit.

Finally he whips his hands free, grabs Bernd’s bicep in his right hand and uses his other hand to twist the guy’s forearm to the floor. Bernd says some words in German that Mickey doesn’t understand but still he doesn’t like the way they sound, so Mickey delivers three lightning-fast punches to the arrogant bastard’s mouth.

Bernd groans deeply and, for Mickey, the sound is gratifying. Mickey cranks up the pressure on his man’s bent arm and braces his knees against the man’s ribcage. Guy needs to think twice before he picks a fight, Mickey thinks.

Bernd arches his back and rolls, manages to bounce Mickey off him, and the two men lie side by side, tangling arms and legs, until Mickey breaks free and bounces up to his feet in a crouch. Bernd stands too, and the two men start to circle each other.

Bernd manages to land some sharp contemptuous slaps at Mickey’s mouth, which leads to fists and jabs, but Mickey gets in five hits to every three Bernd gets.

The climax is a roundhouse right to the German’s chin that knocks him on his back. Mickey stomps on his shoulder and drops his butt down on Bernd’s ribs. He flips his man to his side and fastens him with a proper crucifix armbar. Bernd wails, hitting a few high notes, and it’s music to Mickey’s ears. Mickey plants the sole of his foot firmly in Bernd’s sweaty pink shaved head. Bernd arches up, writhing in pain, and collapses—once, twice, three, four, five, six times—and Mickey ups the punishment each time.

Despite his mediocre (at best) combat skills, the German has a good strong body. Not cut or gym-toned, but round and hard, voluptuous. Bernd’s tan flat pecs gleam with sweat and blond chest hair. Sexy. Mickey admires the man’s shapely, sinewy thighs and haunches as they bend and thrash against the floor. He might even fuck him. But right now it’s enough just to fuck him up.

Bernd is either too tough to submit or enjoying the hurt, maybe both, but he’s not tapping out. The veins in his neck and chest bulge. Both men have boners by now. Both men are sloppy wet with sweat.

Mickey uses his legs to raise his man’s head and shoulders off the floor and then drives them back down. Gratifying thump of bone against hardwood. The German moans, deep in his chest. Mickey frees his right foot to thrust his heel to the man’s shimmering ribs and then reapplies the armbar.

Stupidly Bernd tries to roll into the hold, which makes it that much easier for Mickey to add to the pain. Mickey likes damaging this dumb fuck any way he can. He hurls some choice Belfast insults at him, not sure how much the German understands.

Seven minutes on this one hold, with no way out, is enough. Mickey releases Bernd and scoots away. The man’s just whimpering jelly now anyway. Bernd nurses his left arm and sits up.

Mickey advances, grabs Bernd by the ears, and hauls his ass off the floor. Bernd spits and mutters some Teutonic oaths that he’s just not man enough to back up right now. Mickey punches the German’s face, locks his head in his armpit, and flips him over his head. Crash bang thud and ouch, and, quick as you please, Mickey lunges and plants his belly over Bernd’s face in a cross body pin and cradles the guy’s left leg up so high that Bernd’s knee is nudging Mickey’s shoulder. As added insult, Mickey’s hard cock stabs into Bernd’s ear.

A definite victory.

Mickey rolls off his man, circles him, and peels off those fruity red briefs, giving Bernd’s hard glistening cock some needed air. Bernd grunts and moans, which is fine by Mickey, only makes him harder.

Instinctively, Bernd raises his knees up to his shoulders and elevates his throbbing hairy asshole. Mickey kneels at Bernd’s ass and rolls his speedo down to mid-thigh. He crawls between his man’s legs, resting their chests and stomachs together. His dick nests against Bernd’s crack. They thrust against each other for several minutes, a slow-motion simulation of their wrestling match.

Mickey drives himself deep into Bernd. Bernd shutters and moans. Mickey rhythmically thrusts and drums against Bernd’s flesh. His cock slides in the smooth mucous mud of Bernd’s rectum.

Bernd looks up at Mickey’s face studying his expression. Mickey figures his O face is funny, but intense—his upper lip curled over his front teeth, which are planted into his lower lip, hissing in grunting huffs—his brows scrunched down to the bridge of his nose—his squinting eyes bright and fierce.

Mickey finished what the German started. He’d taken the man down and controlled him. Beat him black and blue and then pinned him to the ground. Now he was driving himself hard into the man, claiming his prize in the snob’s abject submission.

Bernd should have known better, or maybe he knew just what he was asking for—he was outclassed by the handsome foreigner from the beginning. His taunts had raised Mickey’s ire, and he just didn’t have the stuff to back up his overconfidence.

Mickey pulls out and shoots his load on Bernd’s belly and chest and throat. Then he falls on him, and the two men lie sandwiched together as their erections subside and their moist skin cools.

Mickey wants to say something but can’t think of anything to say. Sort of what he wants to express is his immense satisfaction in being the man to provide the sound thrashing that Bernd no doubt has had coming to him for his entire life.


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