The Dump (7)
Lynch drives his knee down on the blond’s lower back, forcing his ass to the mat and protracting the stretch from the neck to the groin to its limits. Fister screams out, and the crowd gasps. Lynch grabs a fistful of long, wet hair and yanks back—Fister’s back arches, his chest and belly curving out to the crowd, thick veins erupting along the sides of his neck and the tops of his pecs. A shower of sweat and blood speckles the spectators closest to the ring.
Greg smashes his right fist down across the bridge of Tom’s nose. He climbs up on the bottom rope, the back of Tom’s head against his belly, and metes out a dozen lightning-fast jabs to Tom’s nose and mouth. Tom’s face is a bloody mask, streaked with tears.
Temporarily sated, Lynch backs away and stomps round the four corners of the ring. Fister’s body sags, crucified on the ropes, his chin falling down to his breastbone. He might be unconscious, but in a flash his body spasms and his bloody face howls when Lynch knees the back of his neck while pulling the top rope in towards his chest.
Greg unties the blond stud’s arms and drags him by the head to the center of the ring.
The pink thong, soaked with sweat, is now eight shades darker than it was when the fight broke out.
Tom is kneeling before Greg, his forehead leaning against Greg’s crotch, visibly swollen, the cut of his hard-on clearly embossed on his tight baby blue briefs.
Greg backs away, leaving Fister kneeling at the center of the ring. Greg bounces off the ring ropes and drop kicks Fister’s chest. The blow knocks Fister to his back and his legs snap out like a switchblade opening. He howls in pain.
Greg plants his left foot on Tom’s right calf and jerks Tom’s right leg up to his chest. Legs stretched out, showing off his pink-wrapped package, Fister pants for breath. His manhood on humiliating display in the ogling gaze of the drunken crowd, Fister tries to concede, but Lynch’s having none of it:
“I’m not finished with you yet, punk. Not by a long shot.”
Lynch stomps the inside of Fister’s exposed quad sending sharp pains shooting through his leg. Tom’s screams of “No…no…no” turn into a cry of pain as Lynch rams Fister’s knee down to the mat, as if trying to drive a stake into the ground. Fister lurches on the canvas, attempting to drag his battered body to safety.
Lynch grabs Fister by both ankles, pulling him back. Fister’s blood-smeared torso leaves a red smudge as he is towed along. Greg spreads Tom’s legs open before slamming his foot down, digging his heel into Fister’s spine. Tom screams as his legs go numb.
(To be continued)
Greg smashes his right fist down across the bridge of Tom’s nose. He climbs up on the bottom rope, the back of Tom’s head against his belly, and metes out a dozen lightning-fast jabs to Tom’s nose and mouth. Tom’s face is a bloody mask, streaked with tears.
Temporarily sated, Lynch backs away and stomps round the four corners of the ring. Fister’s body sags, crucified on the ropes, his chin falling down to his breastbone. He might be unconscious, but in a flash his body spasms and his bloody face howls when Lynch knees the back of his neck while pulling the top rope in towards his chest.
Greg unties the blond stud’s arms and drags him by the head to the center of the ring.
The pink thong, soaked with sweat, is now eight shades darker than it was when the fight broke out.
Tom is kneeling before Greg, his forehead leaning against Greg’s crotch, visibly swollen, the cut of his hard-on clearly embossed on his tight baby blue briefs.
Greg backs away, leaving Fister kneeling at the center of the ring. Greg bounces off the ring ropes and drop kicks Fister’s chest. The blow knocks Fister to his back and his legs snap out like a switchblade opening. He howls in pain.
Greg plants his left foot on Tom’s right calf and jerks Tom’s right leg up to his chest. Legs stretched out, showing off his pink-wrapped package, Fister pants for breath. His manhood on humiliating display in the ogling gaze of the drunken crowd, Fister tries to concede, but Lynch’s having none of it:
“I’m not finished with you yet, punk. Not by a long shot.”
Lynch stomps the inside of Fister’s exposed quad sending sharp pains shooting through his leg. Tom’s screams of “No…no…no” turn into a cry of pain as Lynch rams Fister’s knee down to the mat, as if trying to drive a stake into the ground. Fister lurches on the canvas, attempting to drag his battered body to safety.
Lynch grabs Fister by both ankles, pulling him back. Fister’s blood-smeared torso leaves a red smudge as he is towed along. Greg spreads Tom’s legs open before slamming his foot down, digging his heel into Fister’s spine. Tom screams as his legs go numb.
(To be continued)
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