"Jacobs vs. Weaver (Fall
I)" by Antaeus NC
Copyright
Notice: These stories are copyrighted
and may not be reprinted, copied, distributed, or
altered without the express written consent of
the author. Thank you.
The gym stands abandoned in the
middle of a block of buildings built in the '20s,
not far from downtown Cyber City. Its brick face
is pale with age, and the paint peels from the
wood trim around its one large front window and
the glass door. "Blond Tiger Boxing" is
painted in yellow on both the door and window,
but the telephone number below it has been
scraped off with a razor blade.
Inside, the cavernous
main room, with its cold brick walls and concrete
floor, echoes the thunder slap of flesh against
flesh, the sharp breaths caught and released in
grunts, the muffled rumble of footwork and
bodywork on the sweat-stained canvas that covers
the wood floor of the ring.
Motes of dust ride the
air and play in the nostrils, tickling. The close
atmosphere is laden with the familiar smells of
old sweat and old leather, the shrill fragrance
of balms and salves for muscles, the yellow
pungency of urine and the dull brown odor of
spiders.
Darkness crowds
ringside, shouldering its way into the brassy
coronet of light that vibrates around the wrestle
of wrestlers.
The two are naked and
beautiful. If not for the ring and the building
you might think yourself a month past some
ancient summer solstice and come to Olympia for
the Games.
That is what we know of
how those people looked--starkly white and naked
and beautiful.
No. You can see the
truth.
These are not beautiful.
They are not at all the pale and perfectly
proportioned youths we see cut from Parian
marble. They are men in their thirties, unevenly
tanned, and clinically overweight. But their
girth and age only adds a level of power and
hard-won ability not seen in the contests between
younger and smaller men. Their faces are not cool
and impassive studies of effortless grace but are
twisted and red and slavering.
In spite of this
appearance, they are only beginning this
submission-only contest. They have wrestled
stop-and-go for half an hour already, warming up,
each getting to know the feel, the strength, the
weakness of the other's body and mind tonight.
With smiles of
recognition that the time has come to get serious
and begin the match, the two break off and go to
opposite corners. They stand with their backs to
each other and wipe their faces with towels and
drink deeply from plastic bottles of water. Then
they turn and face each other.
Jacobs is the younger of
the two and slightly larger. His hair is light
brown and short, and his eyes are a bright silver
blue. He is less than an inch taller than his
opponent and barely five pounds heavier, but his
upper body--his broad shoulders and back, his
massive pectoral muscles, the paunch that is not
flabby but tight as a drum--gives the impression
that he is the larger by more height and weight
than he actually is. He is clean shaven but
burley, with wiry dark brown hair that spreads
across his pecs and down across his belly to his
basket. His buttocks and thighs are thick and
powerful.
Weaver is darker, not of
skin but of aspect. His hair is darker brown, his
eyes are brown with hints of green, and on his
chin he wears a beard that is a mixture of black,
brown, red, and white. He is large in a way that
does not seem obvious. He has no great breadth of
shoulder or definition of chest as does Jacobs,
but he is thick and powerful all over, in the way
of the mountain stock from which he comes.
"Ready,
buddy?" Jacobs says.
"Ring it,"
Weaver says.
Jacobs leans between the
ropes and clangs a bell mounted there.
The two men walk to the
center of the ring, smiling at each other. They
are anxious to wrestle, and now that the warm-up
period is over and the match not yet begun, both
have throbbing erections. They shake hands.
"Good luck,
buddy," Jacobs says.
"Good match to you,
Jacobs," Weaver says.
"Let's do it."
They begin to circle the
center of the ring, now trotting forward
counterclockwise, now continuing in the same
direction but turning and backpedaling.
Jacobs slaps his biceps
and pecs.
Weaver throws his arms
across his chest.
They slow and stop,
hands raised, looking into each other's eyes.
Then with the loud slap of large fleshy bodies
coming together, they lock up collar and elbow.
"Uhhh," Jacobs
grunts, bending deep at the waist and leaning
into his opponent.
They struggle, their
hands moving quickly by inches, searching for
some kind of leverage, some kind of grip.
Weaver's left hand
grasps at the nape of Jacobs's neck. His right
forearm and wrist stretch across the crook of
Jacobs's elbow, the palm of his hand hovers over
Jacobs's bulging left bicep, his fingers press
lightly against Jacobs's clean shaven left cheek.
Jacobs's left hand is
pulling at the back of Weaver's neck, and the
palm of his right hand is pressed against
Weaver's left shoulder.
Both lean in and grunt
with the effort, pulling and pushing powerfully,
trying to get an advantage. They lean into each
other, and their sweaty foreheads touch. Both
blink hard as their mingled sweat runs down into
their eyes. Their faces grimace with the effort.
Their bodies glisten with new sweat, displacing
the old sweat of their warm-up so that it runs in
streaks out of their hair, down their faces, down
their backs and chests, and droplets fly from
their arms and baskets and legs.
Jacobs decreases the
pressure at the back of Weaver's neck and with
his right hand pushes Weaver slightly upright,
gaining leverage and forcing him back toward the
ropes.
With his back against
the worn sweat-and-oil-darkened ropes, Weaver
untangles his arms and lightly slaps his palms
twice on Jacobs's shoulders. His feet are
forward, and his body curved upward.
Jacobs presses against
him.
They are torso to torso
in the ropes. Their bellies heave into each
other. Their baskets, now loose with the
struggle, swing and tap lightly against each
other. Each feels the heat of the other's body
rising up past his face.
Jacobs's eyes glaze with
thought as he wonders whether to break completely
or just enough to pull Weaver into a headlock.
After a few seconds, he brings both hands flat
against Weaver's pecs and pushes himself away.
Weaver quickly steps to
his right so that his back is away from the ropes
and stops, eying Jacobs.
Jacobs raises his hands,
ready.
They lock up again near
the ropes.
For a moment, they push
and pull as before, but then Weaver coils his
right arm around Jacobs's left, straightening it
and preparing to bring intense pressure to bear
on the elbow. He brings his left hand from behind
Jacobs's neck and plants it against his left
shoulder and locks in an arm bar.
"Aahhhhhh,"
Jacobs cries. He raises his head, and his face is
a shiny grimacing red mask.
Weaver grunts and
cinches the hold deeper. The crook of his right
arm comes under Jacobs's elbow and then pulls up,
extending it painfully. His right hand grips his
left forearm for the lock and the leverage. The
palm of his left hand is pressed deep into
Jacobs's left breast.
Jacobs squares his body
to Weaver's. His head and torso bow toward Weaver
in an effort to relieve the pressure on the arm
bar. He raises his right hand and slaps lightly
at Weaver's chest, just below the base of his
neck.
Weaver raises himself on
his tiptoes and cinches more pressure into the
arm bar.
"Ohhhhhhhhhh,"
Jacobs moans. He wiggles the fingers of his left
hand in an attempt to keep the circulation from
being cut off.
Weaver bends at the
knees and slowly raises himself to tiptoes again,
straightening Jacobs's left elbow until it almost
begins to bend backward.
"Aahhhhh!"
Jacobs yells. He slaps Weaver's right breast
twice with his free hand and tries to push.
But Weaver has the
leverage. He plants his right foot behind himself
and stands his ground. At the same time he slips
the thumb of his left hand into Jacobs's armpit
and begins squeezing a claw into Jacobs's left
pec.
"Oooowww,"
Jacobs cries. He stops pushing and raises his
right hand with the palm turned toward Weaver. He
pleads. "Please, Weaver. Oh, please."
"You want to give,
Jacobs?" Weaver says.
Jacobs does not answer.
Weaver cinches the arm
bar deeper into his armpit and closes down
tighter on the pec claw, feeling against his palm
the wiry hair and slick sweat on Jacobs's chest.
"Uhh," Jacobs
gasps. He can feel the sweat-drenched hair of
Weaver's armpit on his forearm. But he cannot
feel much of that arm beyond that. The fingers
and the wrist are numbing fast. He puts the palm
of his right hand against Weaver's forehead,
stretching his fingers back through Weaver's
sweaty hair. He begins to push.
"Mmmph,"
Weaver says, feeling his head going back and his
holds losing power.
Jacobs pushes harder on
Weaver's forehead.
Weaver feels his holds
becoming nothing more than a holding on to keep
himself from stumbling backward. His leverage is
lost.
Jacobs senses the
weakness of Weaver's position and switches his
right hand downward to push on Weaver's chin and
mouth.
"Mmmph,"
Weaver gasps again. The pec claw comes loose and
the bar is sliding off toward Jacobs's numbed
hand.
Jacobs drops his right
hand again, this time to Weaver's chest, and
pushes hard, freeing himself as Weaver stumbles
backward. He steps away from his opponent,
shaking his left arm, trying to return the
circulation to his fingers.
Weaver does not hesitate
but moves toward Jacobs quickly, hands raised for
another lockup.
Jacobs tries to shield
his left arm. He locks up with Weaver, using just
his right arm for the initial contact. But then
he raises his left arm to Weaver's side and
quickly drops both hands to the backs of Weaver's
thighs, lowering his head at the same time. He
pulls up on Weaver's legs and rams him in the
chest with his head.
"Whaa?" Weaver
gasps as he goes down hard on his naked buttocks.
"Ooofff." He sits on the mat, his legs
spread in front of him, his body momentarily
stunned with the jarring effect of Jacobs's
takedown. He looks up just as Jacobs jumps toward
him, but the movement is so quick that he can do
nothing to get out of the way.
Jacobs settles down hard
in front of Weaver, facing him, his naked butt on
the mat between Weaver's thighs, his legs
wrapping around Weaver's back and locking in the
front body scissors.
"Nnnnoooooo!"
Weaver screams.
Jacobs leans back on his
hands, applying intense pressure to the scissors,
his rock hard thighs squeezing Weaver's sides.
"Ahhhhhhhhhh!"
Weaver yells.
Jacobs knows he is in
control. He feels Weaver's belly heaving against
his basket where another erection is starting. He
sees and feels the sweat pouring down Weaver's
sides and chest and pooling at the point where
his python-like thighs grip Weaver's waist. He
feels the heat of Weaver's basket and thighs
beneath his own basket and buttocks.
Weaver leans back on his
right arm and presses the heel of his left hand
to his forehead. His face is one red grimace of
pain and struggle. He leans to his right in an
attempt to raise and turn Jacobs enough to work
his right leg under Jacobs's buttocks, to a
position where he can get his knees drawn up
under himself.
But Jacobs is planted
too well. His buttocks keep Weaver's thighs
spread apart, stopping all Weaver's attempts to
get to his knees. To counter Weaver's attempt,
Jacobs leans back on his own right hand and
places his left hand against Weaver's belly to
steady him. Then he takes a deep breath and
flexes his powerful thighs.
"Aaaahh!"
Weaver screams. He sits flat on his butt now, his
thighs sprawled uselessly on either side of
Jacobs's buttocks. Weaver raises his hands in the
air and pleads.
"Jacobs," he
gasps.
"Do you want to
give, buddy?"
"No!" Weaver
whispers hoarsely.
Jacobs wipes the sweat
from his face and slings it away. Then he calmly
plants both hands behind him, takes a deep breath
that expands his chest and belly, and cinches the
scissors tighter and squeezes.
Weaver's head snaps back
and his hands go into his hair.
"Uugghhhhh!"
Weaver says, the sound escaping from him like air
from a balloon.
Jacobs's face is turning
dark red, but he is maintaining this final
squeeze.
Weaver's hands flit
around like dazed birds--now at the sides of his
head, now bracing him from behind, now in the air
pleading, now pressing down without effect on
Jacobs's rock hard thighs.
"Give!" he
grunts. "I give, Jacobs!"
Jacobs immediately
loosens the hold and starts to unwrap his legs.
"Don't,"
Weaver says, putting a hand on Jacobs's right
thigh. "Not until I'm a little
steadier."
Jacobs puts his hand on
Weaver's shoulder and bends to look him in the
eye.
"Okay. Are you all
right?"
"Yes, just let me
get my breath."
They sit like that for
two minutes.
"I'm all right
now," Weaver says.
Jacobs unwraps his legs
from around Weaver's waist, and they both lie
down on their backs. They talk for thirty
minutes, get up and shake hands, and hit the
showers.
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