Eric and Matt
So far only Bard over at neverland has even attempted to opine on my question of which mma fighter would end up on top if Matt and Eric ever decided to throw down.
So my long-distance fantasy-writing pal and I decided to figure it out for ourselves. We just hit page four of the scenario today. I'm liking the way it's looking, so here's an excerpt, my most recent two cents' worth in the continuing bloody saga, in which our two strapping fighters have decided to take their bizness outside, alone and man to man, in a long alley behind the venue where other, less interesting contenders battle for a paying crowd.
Eric folds in two, cradling his ribs, pain shooting every which way up and down his bones. Matt smells blood and it gives him a boner. Total domination, what every alpha craves. He lowers his shoulders and semi-circles Eric, looking for a spot to hit and finish his opponent. Only, in his head, Matt substitutes the word "victim" for "opponent."
Eric backs up to the side of the loading dock, cornering himself but also limiting the angles the now more mobile and limber Matt can take him from. He's in defense mode and he knows it: buying time, clearing out the cobwebs, catching a second wind.
Matt feints a couple of charges, but bounces backwards, springing up and down on his toes, sweat streaming down his ripped chest and abs, his biceps twitching, ready to strike. His thick cock has escaped the embrace of his jock strap, which hangs like an ineffectual harness off a wild stallion. The hard tool cuts through the stale air of the alleyway.
Matt charges for real, but Eric meets him halfway, blindly driving his fists to Matt's ribcage and his knees to Matt's side. Matt fires back with fists and knees flashing, almost faster than eye can detect. Eric falters and falls to one knee. Matt's on top of it. His left leg flies up and arcs, landing on the back of Eric's neck and driving the dark-haired stud to the asphalt.
Matt's cock slaps happily up against his lower abdomen. Eric rolls on his back, his face now basically a red Rorschach blot. It's an easy read for Matt, though—the blot looks like victory. He swoops down towards Eric's blindly writhing, enervated, all-but-meat-tagged body. What he doesn't expect, though, is the sure aim of Eric's heels driving their way up to Matt's dangling nads.
Any ideas on where it goes from here? I'm open to suggestions. My pal's the idea man (still, he likes his anonymity). He keeps going all medieval on me, every story we do, so somebody give me some pointers on how to stop this hellfire in his tracks. I need some fucking to come out of all this, but my pal has put the kibosh on all my sex talk and dirty mindedness.