Wrestling Arsenal

Gallery 670 Stories with a Climax -- Part 2
Here are some more fantasy wrestling images by the artist Kenobi, from the former "Men of Kalos" website...
*Voyage of the Warlock*
The skipper of the Warlock was Andrew Marat, a computer wizard who had made fifty million before he reached age thirty five. Now he spent most of the year aboard his private yacht. Marat wanted Luke to join the crew. “The Skipper has this thing about wrestling. It turns him on. He likes to watch young, well-built guys in action.” His eyes were roving, taking in every inch of Luke’s perfect frame. “He wants you,” he repeated.
Luke was paired with Lance. Here was the most hugely developed bodybuilder aboard the Warlock, 6-3 and 225, heavily muscled, strong as an ox. But the big guy was slow and Luke controlled him all the way. Luke locked on a full nelson and would not let go, straining his neck to the limit, and Skipper was ecstatic when his new boy got a submission in less than twelve minutes.
	Promptly at three on the following afternoon Luke crawled through the ropes and faced Marat. They rolled in and out of holds for fifteen minutes and Luke was impressed by the Skipper’s strength and agility. But the guy was not in Luke’s class and the match ended with a submission after a grueling camel clutch left Skipper undone. “You’re terrific,” Marat said as he toweled himself off. “But remember this. When you go up against LaCroix it will be a no holds barred fight, he will hurt you if he gets the chance, so hurt him first."
	"One of my spies uncovered an interesting item about LaCroix. He sprained his right shoulder in a match last November. It’s his Achilles heel, Luke. Go after the right arm and he won’t stand a chance.” LaCroix said: “Nice body.” “You, too,” said Luke. And then they tangled in earnest, and they hit the mat with the Frenchman on top. For long minutes LaCroix manhandled Luke, finally securing a headlock, and the Frenchman was in control.
Ten grueling minutes passed with LaCroix dominating the match. Marat was screaming, “Get off your ass, Luke! Use the armlock!” and Luke remembered the strategy. He finally got LaCroix’s right arm tied up and worked the hold ruthlessly. The fight was going out of LaCroix as Luke twisted the arm, aggravating the old injury. As he turned the limb slowly Luke watched the shoulder muscles stiffen, and the bicep began to quiver as spasms of pain wracked the injured joint.
Luke said, “Had enough?” Frenchy was obviously suffering, and he muttered some obscenity in his native tongue. Then he pounded the mat with his left hand. “You win, mon ami,” LaCroix said, “but I will get revenge tomorrow night.” The match had ended in just over seventeen minutes and most of the crowd was disappointed. Betting began on the second match and the odds tilted in Luke’s favor.
	When Luke climbed through the ropes on Friday night, LaCroix was waiting. Luke saw the Frenchman in a provocative pose, attired in a red jockstrap that was carrying a sizable load. Frenchy was smiling, a sexy smile, and he dropped one hand to his crotch. In that moment Luke forgot all that he knew about wrestling and it was suddenly all about sex. Answering the bell, Luke was aware of a slight swelling in his own strap, and it was so distracting that he failed to defend himself. LaCroix threw him violently into the ropes and as Luke catapulted forward the Frenchman drove his left forearm into the young wrestler’s solar plexus.
	Luke was sent reeling into the turn-buckles, and LaCroix came after him. A flurry of sharp blows was aimed at Luke’s abdominals, the heels of LaCroix’s hands like blunt swords, slicing across the muscles. Chop after chop, rights and lefts, softening the young contender and setting him up for the kill. Frenchy was determined to finish the match before Luke had a second shot at his damaged arm. Dazed and bewildered, and yet amazingly turned on by his opponent, Luke was helpless. He sagged against the ropes, unable to defend himself.
	Everyone was shouting, it was pure bedlam, with Marat cursing loudly and Doug pleading with his buddy, “Get away from him!” But LaCroix was all over Luke in the corner, using his big chest to batter the helpless fighter against the buckles. Suddenly the Frenchman headlocked Luke and somersaulted him to the mat. He began pounding Luke’s ribs and the crowd smelled blood. In Luke’s corner, Doug wished that it would end soon: the reverse headlock was dangerous, but the more worrisome development for Doug was the extent of Luke’s erection.
Luke’s cock was stretching the jockstrap and Frenchy was eyeing it, a sly grin on his face. “Mon ami,” he said, “you like me, non?” At last Frenchy decided to go for a submission, pulling his opponent into a surfboard.
When LaCroix threw him forward, chest flat on the mat and legs locked, Luke was doomed. As the Frenchman pulled up on the arms and pushed forward on the legs, the pain became intense and Luke groaned, “Okay! Okay! I submit.” Luke was humiliated, and Doug was angry. “You got the hots for Frenchy?” Doug asked. Luke hung his head, shook it slowly and said, “He’s a sexy guy. I got turned on. What can I say?”
	It was a restless night for Luke, his head full of the strange desire that he felt for LaCroix. It was an animal lust, not an affectionate bond, but it was undeniable. He wondered how he could enter the ring in the nude and face that magnificent male, feel LaCroix’s body against his own, be dominated by him, without losing his load in the crucial match. In the center of the ring Luke stood with one hand extended, an expression of good sportsmanship. LaCroix grinned and asked, “Shall we wrestle or shall we fuck, mon ami?” He reached out his hand but gripped Luke’s wrist, and in a lightning maneuver twisted the arm and drove Luke to his knees.
	“Fuck you!” Luke grunted. His wrestling instincts kicked in and Luke brought LaCroix to the mat, sweeping his left leg from under him and toppling him. Frenchy was startled by the reversal, and Luke was able to work a leglock for several long minutes.
In an attempt to press his advantage, Luke converted to a Boston Crab and punished the Frenchman for at least two more minutes, bending his spine and stretching his abdominals unmercifully. Frenchy muttered, “So you have chosen to fight tonight, mon ami. Will you fight to the finish with that beautiful hardon? Or shall we make love instead?”
From the sidelines Marat was screaming, “Work on his arm! His arm, you idiot!” Dutifully, Luke released the crab and dropped to the mat in an attempt to control LaCroix’s right arm. But Frenchy was fast, and he was on his feet in an instant. Luke turned away from LaCroix but it was too late. Frenchy wrapped muscular arms around Luke’s midsection, pinning Luke’s arms to his sides. The Frenchman began moving about the ring with Luke tightly embraced in those big, muscular arms. He whispered in Luke’s ear: “Do you have the lover? Le petit ami?” Frenchy was looking at Doug when he said it. “Perhaps you and me, later tonight?” He was taunting Luke. “You are magnifique, mon ami.” The heat of the battle, the sweat lubricating their bodies, the musky aroma of a predatory male, the sensual sound of his voice, all cast a spell upon Luke and he could resist no longer. He surrendered in that moment to a superior male and waited to be conquered. Sex was driving him now to submission and climax.
	Confident of victory, LaCroix elected to weaken his young opponent before finishing him on the mat, and he locked on a deadly full nelson. He pulled back on the shoulders, pushed forward on the neck, and lifted until Luke groaned in agony. The crowd was thrilled by the sexual attack and howled for more. Marat was screaming epithets at his fallen hero. Doug was shocked and bewildered. LaCroix whispered, “Shall I fuck you now or later, my friend?”
	Then he took Luke down heavily, flattening him on the mat. Luke was on his knees, Frenchy moved in behind him. LaCroix secured a hammerlock and asked for a submission. Luke was moaning softly, in pain and in pleasure. Both men were dripping sweat. Both were extremely aroused, but it was Luke who knew that his defeat was imminent.
	He felt his entire body surrender to superior strength and masculine perfection. The finish came when Frenchy gripped his turgid cock and said, “Mon ami, it is time.” On the very edge of abject submission, one moment before the climax would come, Luke said, “You win, Frenchy. You win.” The End.
Meet Me in Anquilla
There was something about McCloy that I didn’t like. Maybe it was the way he looked at me when we stood facing one another, after our meeting in Ron’s office. He sized me up and I swear he undressed me with those wild, roving eyes. His last words were: “Meet me in Anguilla. On the nineteenth.” And then he was gone. McCloy was a very important client and Ron was determined to keep him. If McCloy wanted me then McCloy owned me. At least for those four days on Anguilla. His property was beachfront and it stretched for almost half a mile. We jogged on the sand and the exercise helped clear my brain of the anxiety and the dread, but before I could totally relax we came upon a scene of indescribable beauty. Two black men were entwined in an erotic act of wrestling and one was about to submit.
“The one in the yellow bikini is Tomo,” McCloy said, catching his breath. “And the gorgeous guy in blue is Cliff. My money is always on Cliff.” As I watched Cliff dominate his opponent, watched his fantastic body and his handsome face, my cock was getting hard in a hurry, but then Tomo shouted words of submission and the match ended too soon.
	“How about it, Wade?” McCloy asked. “You fight me, one fall to submission, and the winner goes against Cliff.” I gave in to reckless abandon and decided to play his game, to rid myself of this jerk McCloy, by whipping his ass and humiliating him in front of his friends. He rushed me like a tackle hits the line and we went down together. When he scissored my head I knew that I was up against one tough customer. His legs were extremely powerful and he moved like a cat.
	Before I could break the scissors he rolled me into the surf and for one moment I panicked. My head was underwater and he was determined to keep it there. My lungs were bursting when I finally escaped the scissors and came out of the surf, but he was waiting for me. I saw something dangerous in the look that he gave me, a sadistic look, and I saw something else. His cock was rigid.
	McCloy said, “You’re all mine, pal,” and then he took a swing at me, a glancing blow, but it bloodied my nose and I practically fell into his headlock. The choker had me on the verge of submission. McCloy was good. And he was as strong as an ox.
“Pussy,” he snarled, “I’m going to see if you can swim.” He picked me up and threw me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, carried me closer to the water’s edge, and dumped me in the sand. I landed on one shoulder and McCloy was all over me.
He tied me up in a leglock and clutch, and I was ready to call it quits before he tried to drown me again. Then I looked up into big, brown, limpid eyes. It was Cliff, kneeling on the sand, and he said, “You can take him, Wade.”
	Something inside me uncoiled like a steel spring, I got my legs around McCloy’s hips and pulled up on his left arm. He was hurt, he shouted “Aw, fuck!”, and the fight went out of him.
	I worked on the left arm, knowing that I had done some damage there; and McCloy was obviously in trouble because he fell into a lockup, my leg becoming the lever and my right hand finishing the job. He screamed again, this time in agony. “My shoulder! Stop, you’re breaking my shoulder!” And then he groaned, “You win.” The match was over and I got to my feet, but when McCloy sat up he was holding his arm and it was limp. “You fucking bastard!” McCloy shouted. “You’re gonna’ pay for this! I’ll get your ass fired! Goddamned prick!” “Meet me here tonight, Wade,” Cliff whispered. “De moon is full. You and me, we’ll wrestle by de light of de moon.”
Moonlight bathed the pearl-white beach and glinted on the deep blue sea. My eyes were held by his big eyes for some moments, until I looked at his crotch. His bikini was absolutely stuffed with a package of unbelievable dimensions. “How ‘bout climax rasslin’?” he laughed, pointing at my crotch. “You cum, you lose.” “I like it,” I said. As he moved toward me I gripped his biceps and he placed his hands on my neck. We remained frozen in that position until we were both fully erect and hard, and we got a real good look at the competing cannons. His was fit for a battleship.
He fell into my arms and I turned him, hammerlocking one wrist; and as I watched his face he smiled. I wondered if he wanted to be dominated, and I felt up to the task.
“How’s this?” I asked, seductively, as I wrapped my arms around his midsection and lifted him, squeezing his ribcage. “Yeah, man,” he grunted, “you strong, Wade, sexy and strong.” I watched the head of his cock emerge from the band of his bikini. He was breathing hard and he began to sweat. Cliff writhed in the bearhug but didn’t attempt an escape.
	“You got me hot, man,” he whispered, and his giant cock-head broke free from its pouch. Slowly he slid in sweat until my arms circled his enormous chest. He didn’t resist when I converted to a full nelson, and the feel of his broad back against my pectorals and abs was enough to make me cum. “You hot, man,” Cliff said, laughing nervously.
	I lost concentration and he broke away, got his arms around my neck and threw me over his shoulder. Though it was a soft landing, I was momentarily stunned and was on my back when Cliff moved in behind me. He used his legs to spread my thighs and grasped my ankles.
He used his legs to spread my thighs and grasped my ankles. I was in a painful split and moaned, “Jesus!” My head was in his crotch and his gigantic dong was against my jaw. A surge of raw passion sent me to the edge and my own cock slipped out of the thong. “Sorry ‘bout dat, Wade.” He released his grips on my ankles and I managed to break away, but Cliff was in total control.
He straddled my hips and I was instantly tied up in a full nelson and body scissors. His powerful legs began pumping, one big calf muscle pressing against my cock-muscle, and I saw stars. Cliff nibbled on one of my ears, then began licking sweat from my neck and bicep until I moaned, “Aw, man, I’m gonna’ cum.” “Not yet,” Cliff pleaded.
He was close to an orgasm, too. “This is too wonderful,” he moaned. We sat up in the sand, side by side. I quickly got out of the thong, nude at last and still hard. I pulled his cock and balls free from the bikini, gripped the hard rod above its big base, felt the heat and the power building. All of the muscles in his upper body tightened and he pulled me closer and closer. “Whoy,” he said, and the night had just begun. The End.
A Week in Wild Wyoming
	Adam and Wes were two hard working physicians who flew to the wilds of Wyoming for a week of fishing. Their muscular guide was Hank and his trim partner was Karl. They were in the business of entertaining fly-fisherman from all over the country. “Karl and I like to wrestle,” Hank said bluntly. “We wrestle here, in this room, by the light of the fire. You wanna see us do it?” Wes answered, "Come on, Adam. Let’s watch these guys grapple by the light of the fire.” He turned to Hank. “I’d love to see you and Karl wrestle.”
	Karl was moaning softly. He didn’t resist when Hank put him into an abdominal stretch, and he was on display for Adam and Wes in that grueling position for at least sixty seconds. There was a look of excited discovery on Karl’s face as he writhed in the hold; and though escape was possible he seemed to prolong the moment. The movement of his body became rhythmic, muscles rippling in the dancing light. It was the most sensual wrestling match imaginable, and as Adam and Wes watched, wide-eyed, they saw Karl’s cock begin to stir and to swell and it was magnificent.
	“Ah, Jesus,” Adam muttered. He fidgeted in his chair. Suddenly Hank dropped Karl over one knee, gripped the hardened penis and held it erect. His back was arched and his arms were thrown back as Karl succumbed to Hank’s attack, and beads of sweat formed on his chest and abdomen. His low, moaning sounds were more and more urgent and Adam muttered: “I think he’s going to cum, for crap’s sake.”
Suddenly, Hank pulled his knee away and Karl dropped to the mat. Wes whispered to Adam: “It won’t be long now . . . ” sensing that Karl was so overwhelmed by the sexual assault that he would soon submit or shoot his load. But as Hank straddled his hips, Karl came alive. He locked on a head scissors and Wes shouted, “That’a way, Karl!” Hank rolled on his right side, his face buried in Karl’s crotch, and Adam gasped, “Oh, my god!”
“Karl has great legs,” Wes said. The head scissors was unbreakable for at least sixty seconds, and when Hank finally broke out of it he was immediately trapped in a body scissors. His face was contorted and he grunted in pain as the thigh and calf muscles contracted, and sweat covered his torso and dripped from his chin. Watching in excited disbelief, Adam said, “Aw, shit, this is too much!”
	It was obvious that Hank was about to climax. Hank was moaning as Karl’s legs pumped him toward orgasm. Wes laughed, “They won’t quit ‘til one of them cums and Hank is gonna’ cum.” They watched as Karl poured it on, locking his big thighs around Hank’s midsection, each surge of those legs sliding in sweat until Hank was delirious. He was unable to resist Karl’s erotic guillotine and as it was perfected Hank’s orgasm came like a geyser. “You son of a bitch,” Adam said, but his words did not convey anger as much as surprise. “You set me up, didn’t you? You arranged this scene with Hank and Karl, and you knew that it would turn me on. You won’t forget that night two years ago when I got a hardon wrestling with you.” “Maybe we should try again . . . ” Wes said earnestly.
On the sidelines, Karl whispered. “Adam is awesome. He’s all muscle. Wes doesn’t stand a chance.” He was looking at the powerful arms and the great chest, the striated abs. “I’m not so sure,” Hank said. “Wes looks like a wrestler, and did you see the look in his eyes?” As those words were spoken Wes executed a perfect take-down and secured a headlock. “See what I mean? My money is on Wes.” The hold was not easy to break and Adam struggled in it for several minutes.
Adam broke the headlock but Wes caught him before he escaped, locking both arms and a leg and stretching the muscular frame unmercifully. Now they were close to the roaring fire; the heat was intense and they perspired profusely. Adam was extremely aroused and began to moan. Hank whispered, “Wow! These guys are hot.”
	In a move that surprised Adam and the onlookers, too, Wes upended his hapless opponent in a boston crab. Now it was obvious that Wes was the better wrestler. “Adam’s in trouble,” Karl said. “I think Wes will take him in less than ten minutes. Wanna’ bet?”
	Hank should have taken the bet. When Wes tried to go to the mat with his big opponent, Adam rolled out of the crab and used his powerful legs to wrap Wes in a guillotine. “Now who’s in trouble,” asked Hank. For several minutes Adam worked the guillotine and asked repeatedly, “Had enough?” and “Do you submit?” but Wes shook his head and struggled to escape.
At last Wes broke out of it, but Adam caught him in a scissors and a nelson, and the tide had turned against Wes despite his agility and skill. Adam possessed superior strength and Wes was overcome by the sexual assault. Groaning urgently Wes said, “Ah, man, I can’t take it...”
After struggling for several minutes to escape, Wes finally broke away and got to his knees. Adam controlled with a rib-crushing bear hug, but when Wes suddenly stopped resisting, the fight seemed to go out of both of them. Wes felt Adam’s hands massaging his pectorals and abs, and Wes was ready to give up the fight altogether. He moaned, “I can’t take anymore...“
	Pitching forward, Wes sprawled on the mat with Adam on his back. “Give up now, Wes,” Adam whispered. Slowly Adam pulled Wes into a tight embrace from behind. It was obvious to Hank and Karl that it was almost over, and that Wes would lose more than the match. They were not surprised when he lost his load, the climax coming as he uttered the words, “You win.”
	Once again the golden light from the fire was waning. “I’ve lost, Adam,” muttered Wes. “It isn’t over yet,” Adam replied. He leaned close and whispered, “How about two out of three falls? You’ve got me on the ropes and I want you to win.” And so they kissed.
The week in wild Wyoming had just begun. Each day was filled with adventure as the anglers flexed their rods in pursuit of trout. Each night was spent before the roaring fire as wrestlers fought with raging hardons and fell more and more in love. Was it fate, this strange turn of events, this unbelievable ending? The End.