The Dump (16)
“Fuck him up, fuck him up …”
Vim backs away, stops in the middle of the ring, and turns to face down his opponent. Lucas hangs there like wet laundry, arms stretched, eyes rolling, muscles twitching, sweat streaming down over his stomach, forming streaks in the messy coating of blood. Patrons closest to the cage can even detect the movement of Lucas’s heart thumping rapidly next to his breastbone.
Vim charges back at him, plows his knee to Lucas’s thick gut. Doug gasps, coughs, chokes, about to spew but doesn’t. Just a couple dry heaves, then he settles down. Joey grabs his opponent’s soggy hair and pulls the head up. Vim’s hard cock—thick and stoked on fury and the rush of brute force—rests on Lucas’s cut-up chin. Vim’s fist pounds down on Lucas’s face like bombs falling.
The crowd stops chanting and starts screaming, total bat-outa-hell apeshit pandemonium.
Vim lets Lucas’s head drop back down to his chest. He circles the mat, shaking out his arms, shaking his head, rolling his powerful shoulders. Groggily, Doug lifts his head—the face of a ghoul in a zombie film—and makes eye contact with the aggressor, splashed in crimson, muscles taut, buttocks clenched, spine erect—the very image of the conqueror, battered yet standing … and on top. Tears flood Doug’s swollen eyes and roll down his cheek. Vim grits his teeth, glares at him, no mercy in his eyes.
“Ya aint finished wid him yet, Jo-EEE,” some slavering drunk in the back of the room yells. “Gi’ him the fuckin drubbing he’s got coming to him!”
But Vim doesn’t hear him. Every nerve in his body is tuned to Lucas’s body, badly damaged (badly!) but not entirely broken. Vim feels the killer rise up in his bones. He doesn’t like it. He doesn’t dislike it either. It just is. It doesn’t even enter into his thoughts. Just a feeling, and it tightens every muscle in him.
Vim’s entire body tingles. He feels his entire body alive with an almost electric sensation. Even the parts that ache and the parts that a moment ago had no feeling at all are now alive with an energy fueled by his fury. Vim’s cock is erect, hard, throbbing against his tight, wet thong. His nipples too are erect and hard. A shiver runs down his back as a drop of cold beer drips from the top of the cage.
Lucas’s bloated carcass hangs from the cage like a piece of roadkill tossed over a fence. Doug is nearly unconscious, the bloody bubbles under his nose are the only indication he is still alive.
Vim moves in again, stomping his opponent. His foot drives into Doug’s chest, then smashes down on his belly. Doug's body wobbles and rocks as he is battered further.
Vim holds Lucas by the hair with his left hand, supporting his head. His right hand strikes like lighting; the punches snap Doug’s face to the side sending bits and pieces flying.
Doug slips from the cage wall, plopping down to the mat. His body lies in a heap, unmoving. Vim struts across the cage confident in his victory. His hard cock pointing down toward the mat as he poses, showing off his blood-soaked physique.
(End of story)
Vim backs away, stops in the middle of the ring, and turns to face down his opponent. Lucas hangs there like wet laundry, arms stretched, eyes rolling, muscles twitching, sweat streaming down over his stomach, forming streaks in the messy coating of blood. Patrons closest to the cage can even detect the movement of Lucas’s heart thumping rapidly next to his breastbone.
Vim charges back at him, plows his knee to Lucas’s thick gut. Doug gasps, coughs, chokes, about to spew but doesn’t. Just a couple dry heaves, then he settles down. Joey grabs his opponent’s soggy hair and pulls the head up. Vim’s hard cock—thick and stoked on fury and the rush of brute force—rests on Lucas’s cut-up chin. Vim’s fist pounds down on Lucas’s face like bombs falling.
The crowd stops chanting and starts screaming, total bat-outa-hell apeshit pandemonium.
Vim lets Lucas’s head drop back down to his chest. He circles the mat, shaking out his arms, shaking his head, rolling his powerful shoulders. Groggily, Doug lifts his head—the face of a ghoul in a zombie film—and makes eye contact with the aggressor, splashed in crimson, muscles taut, buttocks clenched, spine erect—the very image of the conqueror, battered yet standing … and on top. Tears flood Doug’s swollen eyes and roll down his cheek. Vim grits his teeth, glares at him, no mercy in his eyes.
“Ya aint finished wid him yet, Jo-EEE,” some slavering drunk in the back of the room yells. “Gi’ him the fuckin drubbing he’s got coming to him!”
But Vim doesn’t hear him. Every nerve in his body is tuned to Lucas’s body, badly damaged (badly!) but not entirely broken. Vim feels the killer rise up in his bones. He doesn’t like it. He doesn’t dislike it either. It just is. It doesn’t even enter into his thoughts. Just a feeling, and it tightens every muscle in him.
Vim’s entire body tingles. He feels his entire body alive with an almost electric sensation. Even the parts that ache and the parts that a moment ago had no feeling at all are now alive with an energy fueled by his fury. Vim’s cock is erect, hard, throbbing against his tight, wet thong. His nipples too are erect and hard. A shiver runs down his back as a drop of cold beer drips from the top of the cage.
Lucas’s bloated carcass hangs from the cage like a piece of roadkill tossed over a fence. Doug is nearly unconscious, the bloody bubbles under his nose are the only indication he is still alive.
Vim moves in again, stomping his opponent. His foot drives into Doug’s chest, then smashes down on his belly. Doug's body wobbles and rocks as he is battered further.
Vim holds Lucas by the hair with his left hand, supporting his head. His right hand strikes like lighting; the punches snap Doug’s face to the side sending bits and pieces flying.
Doug slips from the cage wall, plopping down to the mat. His body lies in a heap, unmoving. Vim struts across the cage confident in his victory. His hard cock pointing down toward the mat as he poses, showing off his blood-soaked physique.
(End of story)
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