The final sport to host its own post-Olympics homoerotic wrestling competition in my mind is, of course, wrestling. The process of narrowing down the field to just the handful or so 2012 Olympic wrestlers who inspire my fantasies most was arduous, to say the least. I hardly need to tell you that wrestling does a body good! Relegating some of these hunks of grappling meat to the footnotes and mentions from the qualifying rounds was brutal on me. But that’s why you pay me the big bucks: to make the hard decisions. So here is the 2012 wrestlers homoerotic wrestling competition in my mind, featuring the hot bundles of muscle and lycra that managed to score a spot in the final rounds of my imaginary tournament. Picture the pro wrestling ring assembled right in the center of the amateur mats. Get rid of the half a dozen or so fans who packed the arena for straight up competition who would fail to get the innate connection between wrestling and homoeroticism, and squeeze in a few hundred more from our ranks of diehard homoerotic wrestling fans (we get the ringside seats, baby!). The lights go down. The spotlight hits the door to the locker room…
|Uzbekistan’s Artur Taymazov – 5’9″, 265 lbs., 33 y/o|
Artur Taymazov from Uzbekistan strolls out of the locker room and across the mats, earning an instant and enthusiastic standing ovation. Not that the superhuman muscle beast looks like he gives a shit. He’s built like a comic book super villain: shaved head, traps so massive he essentially has no neck, shoulders the size of bowling balls. He’s in a red singlet so tight you can see the veins on his semi-erect cock in clear relief underneath the fabric. Artur has been so dominant in homoerotic wrestling competitions for the past 12 years that the field of Olympic competitors willing to go for the gold in the pro ring has dwindled seriously. When he started breaking the bones of his opponents with some regularity, the field thinned considerably. But it was about two years ago, when Artur began making a big show of deciding, post-victory, whether or not to fuck his opponent’s with his beer can cock in the middle of the ring, that many of the most promising, up and coming homoerotic wrestling prospects began bowing out of the competition. He got a by in the first round of qualifiers this time around when Austrian playboy Amer Hrustanovic fled the country rather than face Artur in the ring. Artur won the second round of qualifiers by defeating Italian powerhouse Daigoro Timoncini, requiring only 5 minutes to make the 212 pound Italian stallion submit, but then taking another 15 minutes to plow the blue-eyed Italian beast with Artur’s one-eyed Uzbeki power tool. Artur has the respect of everyone who follows the sport, and he has an army of insanely fanatical followers, but he seriously doesn’t seem to notice. He’s just here to dominate, and when a victim strikes his fancy, claim his well-earned spoils.
|Hungarian Gabor Hatos – 5’7″, 163 lbs., 28 y/o|
Bravely sprinting out of the locker room doors a minute later is the hairy Hungarian gladiator, Gabor Hatos, wearing a skin tight blue singlet plastered to his stunning body. He’s only 2 inches shorter than Taymazov, but he’s an astonishing 100 pounds lighter than the Uzbek living legend. Sculpted out of granite, nonetheless, Gabor is back from an injury that knocked him out of competition for a couple of years. At least, that was the official explanation. Somehow the Hungarian was healthy enough to compete in the world championships each year, but mysteriously absent from the homoerotic wrestling combat afterward “due to injury.” Gabor handily defeated French stud Steeve Guenot in his first qualifying match this time around, and then brutalized American Ellis “the Flying Squirrel” Coleman to win his second qualifier with Ellis on his knees, choking out his submission with his mouth full.
|Gabor tries to rally the crowd behind him|
The Hungarian climbs through the ropes and flexes, roaring at the crowd to rally behind his bid to unseat the most dominating force in homoerotic wrestling. When the crowd rises to their feet, Gabor grows silent and stares at the living legend across the ring from him silently for several seconds. With a primal yell, Gabor sprints across the ring and slams his outstretched, muscle bound right upper arm into the upper chest of his opponent in a clothesline attempt. The crowd gasps when Artur doesn’t move an inch. Gabor bounces off of him and stumbles backward. The adrenaline rush of fear makes his chest heave as the musclebound Hungarian breaths deeply. A snarl of rage twists his face as he charges a second time, lunging low and driving his right shoulder into the Uzbek’s lower abdomen. The blow makes Artur take half a step backward, but that’s pretty much it.
|“What the fuck was I thinking?”|
Gabor, on the other hand, crumples to his knees, clutching his right shoulder and leaning heavily on the tree trunks that Artur has for thighs. Artur’s upper lip curls as he wraps his right hand around the Hungarian’s throat, barely deigning to glance down at his opponent. Gabor clutches the Uzbek’s wrist, his eyes wide with fear. The crowd rises to their feet at exactly the same moment that Artur drags Gabor to his feet. The Hungarian’s face turns beet red as Artur stares into it for a moment, as if searching his opponent’s soul. With a grunt, the Uzbek barely bends his knees before extending his huge right arm straight overhead, lifting his opponent off his feet. The crowd roars as the superhumanly powerful beast holds Gabor hanging in mid-air for several seconds. The Hungarian’s feet kick wildly. His face has become a sickening shade of purple. No one in the arena doubts that if he could, Gabor would be submitting right now, but his airway is completely closed in Artur’s grip, and he’s hanging on to the Uzbek’s wrist frantically trying to pry it away from his throat. Surprisingly quickly, the Hungarian goes limp. His feet dangle lifelessly. His arms droop to his sides, slack and unmoving. Artur suddenly drops to his knees, driving Gabor’s upper back into the mat with such force that entire ring quivers. Gabor’s body bounces once and then comes to rest, motionless on his back. Artur climbs slowly to his feet, straddling the Hungarian, and then pries his opponent’s arms out of his blue singlet straps. With one hand, he peels the skin tight fabric down Gabor’s torso while stroking the hairy, mountainous pecs underneath appreciatively. With one finger he traces down the center line of the Hungarian six-pack. With both hands now, he yanks the singlet and jock strap underneath down Gabor’s muscular, hairy thighs, exposing the thick copse of hair and mushroom-headed slab of meat. Artur leaves the blue singlet hanging around Gabor’s ankles as he strokes the palm of his hand up the Hungarian’s hairy legs, sliding his fingers between the muscle stud’s massive thighs and then cupping Gabor’s hairy balls. Clearly the Uzbek likes what he sees, because when he stands up straight, his beer can cock is fully engorged and stretching the red fabric struggling to contain it. When he shrugs the bowling balls that he calls deltoids out of his shoulder straps, the pitch of the crowd’s roars rises a half an octave. For the first time, he seems to notice that there are spectators. Peeling the singlet down his torso, over his waist, and down thighs, he snarls contemptuously up at the stands. His shredded, mountainous, hairy glutes flex. He bends forward to peel his singlet over his knees. And suddenly Gabor is rolling across the mat in a blur of desperate speed. The Hungarian has clearly been playing possum. Artur starts to take a step to capture him, but he stumbles to one knee, tripped up by his trunks. Gabor continues to roll, spinning underneath the rope and rolling right off the edge of the ring apron to the mat below. He climbs to his feet and begins to run, but his singlet still wrapped around his ankles make him face plant. Artur manages to pull one foot out of his singlet and charge across the ring, but the frantic Hungarian quickly rips the singlet off his feet and sprints like a bat out of hell for the nearest exit, disappearing into the late night London back streets naked.
|“Get that fucker back here!”|
Artur bangs his fists into the top rope furiously, his curses quickly drowned out by the rising laughter at the Hungarian’s disgrace and roaring approval of the Uzbek. A half a minute later, Artur pumps his fists in the air, acknowledging his victory, the first semi-final victory in homoerotic wrestling history decided by forfeit. He gives his frustrated beer can a slap as if to tell it to settle down before retreating from the ring.
Artur grabs Gabor’s singlet on the way back to the locker room.
|American Jordan Burroughs – 5’8″, 163 lbs., 24 y/o|
Fifteen minutes later, American muscle stud Jordan Burroughs jogs out of the locker room and into the spotlight as the crowd reacts with a warm welcome. Jordan wears a white singlet, the shoulder straps off and rolled down to his narrow waist. Billed as America’s next homoerotic wrestling world champ, he’s played runner up (on his hands and knees) to Artur Taymazov in the past two world championships, but his handling of the rest of the field has only grown more expert. On his way to tonight’s semifinal, he commandingly conquered Swiss heartthrob Pascal Strebel in the first qualifying round, and then tapped the ass of 1/2 of the French brother act Christophe Guenot to make it to the semis. The tattooed black muscle man is famous for being all business, no smiles, and absolutely merciless.
|India’s Sushil Kumar – 5’5″, 146 lbs., 29 y/o|
The last semi-finalist to sprint out of the locker room is bearded muscleman Sushil Kumar from India. Sushil arrived late in life to world class amateur wrestling, and he made his first appearance in the homoerotic ranks in this year’s world championships, winning his first qualifier but losing the next. His primary training is in traditional Indian wrestling, and rumors are that he immersed himself back in his traditional training to prepare for his Olympic homoerotic wrestling debut. A one-time notorious carouser, Sushil has been reportedly abstaining from alcohol, sex, all forms of self-stimulation, and anything but raw foods. He wears only sky blue briefs as he sprints up to ringside and climbs through the ropes, facing the daunting American.
|Shredded Sushil smiles|
Jordan flexes his biceps at his opponent with a sneer. The American’s muscles are stunning. He’s defined and rock hard, his bis peaked and powerful. Sushil stands relaxed, his brown body bulging; his six-pack defined with crystal clarity while entirely relaxed. The Indian hunk smiles disarmingly, which paradoxically appears to piss of Jordan. The American pounces before Sushil can defend himself, and in a flash the bearded Indian’s head is locked up tight and crushed against Jordan’s side. Two sharp forearms to the American’s lower back gives him room to pop his head free. The two warriors pause, staring one another down, before Jordan lifts his hands over his head, inviting a test of strength. Sushil looks briefly uncertain, flexing his biceps and examining his thick, veiny arms for a moment. He tugs at the whiskers on his chin contemplatively as the American taunts him, flexing his fingers and daring the Indian to accept the challenge. Sushil wipes the palms of his hands on the back of his trunks and rubs his palms together before slowly raising them. Their fingers entwine. Jordan growls like a wild animal and flexes, quickly pressing Sushil’s hands backward. The American rises to his tip-toes to further exploit his height advantage. Sweat is already glistening between his carved pecs. He has his opponent’s wrists jammed backward, but he can’t seem to capitalize on the advantage further. In fact, Sushil seems astonishingly calm, as if it requires no effort at all to resist his powerful opponent. A furious shout precedes Jordan’s renewed effort, pressing the back of his opponent’s hands backward until they’re folded nearly back to his wrists. The crowd grows hushed as they watch the apparent stalemate. “That it!?” the Indian taunts, inspiring another savage growl as Jordan pumps everything he has into his arms. His entire upper body shimmers with sweat. His arms begin to quiver. With a peaceful smile, Sushil abruptly swings their locked hands outward and presses Jordan’s wrists sharply backward from an underhand position. It’s Sushil’s height that’s the advantage now. His huge brown biceps bulge as he presses upward. Jordan gasps and rises to his toes again. Like completing a barbell curl, the Indian powerhouse continues to press upward, lifting the American stud off his feet and making the crowd gasp in astonishment. A scream of pain from Jordan pierces the hushed stadium. Sushil lowers the American back to the mat and swings their hands around once again, driving Jordan to his knees and threatening to snap his wrists overhanded. Absolutely no one could have predicted that the 146 pounder would so completely outmuscle his bigger opponent.
The Indian smoothly steps behind his kneeling opponent, forcing Jordan’s arms crossed high across his chest. He presses his right knee into the American’s back and pries him backward across his knee. Slowly, Jordan’s arms slide up his chest until his massive biceps are pressed firmly against his throat, constricting the blood flow to his brain. He flexes and shakes every muscle, struggling to lean to the side and free himself, but Sushil holds his desperate opponent locked up tight. Jordan’s struggles wane. His eyes droop. After another 30 seconds, the beefy American’s own bulging biceps have choked him out cold. Sushil drops his opponent’s slack limbs and rises to his feet, his palms raised overhead accepting the lauds of the appreciative crowd as Jordan drops limply to the mat.
|Artur is seriously hungry for victory now!|
“Ar-tur! Ar-tur! Ar-tur!” the crowd is chanting long before the Uzbeck muscle beast comes strolling confidently out of the locker room and into the spotlight. His blue singlet clings to every bulge and curve. His big balls and beer can cock are beautifully outlined beneath the taut fabric. Climbing into the ring, the living legend ignores the roaring crowd as he leans back into a corner and awaits the arrival of his opponent.
|Sushil’s still smiling|
Sushil trots out of the locker room seconds later, once again in his baby blue briefs and nothing else. Climbing through the ropes, he stands near the corner opposite the imposing Uzbeck. Sushil’s body is relaxed. His arms hang by his sides loosely. A gentle smile turns up the corners of his mouth. When Artur stomps toward him, the Indian muscleman stands unflinching. They crash together in a collar and elbow tie up. The difference in size is stunning. Artur is about 3 inches taller and an incredible 120 pounds heavier, every ounce of it layer upon layer of thick muscle. The bearded Indian, however much smaller, manages to hold his own in the initial moments as the two warriors press against each other. As the seconds slowly tick away, there’s an unmistakable look of shock on Artur’s face as Sushil actually forces the giant to stutter step backward two quick steps. The crowd gasps in shock when the Indian actually builds momentum, sending Artur slamming backward into the corner. Swiftly grabbing the back of his neck with both hands, Sushil rolls backward, dragging Artur down on top of him. Catching him on the soles of his feet, Sushil monkey flips the massive mountain of muscle over, sending Artur slamming to his back in the middle of the ring.
It’s been years since anyone put the living legend on his back, but Sushil manages it and follows up by straddling the powerful beast’s hips and digging his fingertips into the mountains of muscle that are Artur’s bulging pecs. The Uzbeck screams and bridges high, thrusting his hips in the air. Sushil rides him, digging his knees into Artur’s side and leaning forward to rip at the pectoral muscles that much deeper. Artur suddenly twists to the left, managing to dislodge his smaller opponent and send Sushil dropping to his side. The two wrestlers swiftly climb to their feet, their eyes locked on each other warily. As they approach for another collar and elbow tie up, the Uzbeck suddenly rakes his fingertips across Sushil’s eyes, stunning the Indian. A knee lift to his lower abdomen launches Sushil off his feet and belted backward about a yard. The veteran champ locks his massive right arm around Sushil’s neck and lunges low, lifting him off his feet and slamming him to his back in a bone rattling snap suplex. Artur applies a lazy cover, not bothering to hook his opponent’s legs and pinning only Sushil’s right shoulder to the mat as the Uzbeck uses his free hand to pump his fingers over head. “One! … Two!…” The Indian’s other shoulder rolls off the mat and breaks the count.
As Artur climbs off his opponent with disgust and rises to his feet, he manages to squeeze his gargantuan shoulders out of the straps of the singlet and peel the singlet down his torso, leaving his massively muscled, lightly hairy torso bare. He bends over and grabs his opponent by a fistful of his ebony hair and drags Sushil up to his feet. A whip into the ropes sends Sushil sprinting, catapulting off the ropes. Artur leans forward, his right arm stretched out to his side for the clothesline. But rather than sprinting out of control into the trap, Sushil leaps vaulting upward with his right hand planted on the Uzbek’s left shoulder. His oiled brown legs snap-lock around Artur’s bald head. The Indian looks like he’s soaring, his arms stretched out to his sides as he hangs in mid-air, held aloft by the flying head scissors clamped onto his opponent. Artur stumbles backward two steps, but then rights himself, struggling to stay on his feet with his opponent hanging from his head. Slowly, though, Sushil twists his torso, forcing Artur to bend forward. The momentum of both of their bodies builds until the Uzbeck flips off his feet. They crash to the mat, Sushil maintaining the head scissors.
The brief match has already lasted longer than any match Artur has been in over the past 8 years. Even more astonishing by far, the legendary muscle beast can’t free himself from the head scissors no matter how much he struggles. His rippled torso bridges high as he tries to pry Sushil’s shiny brown legs apart, but the Indian is having none of it. In fact, Sushil leans back on one elbow and looks like he’s lounging nonchalantly as he watches his opponent writhe between his powerful thighs. Artur has experienced nothing like this in his entire career, particularly when he discovers that Sushil has captured his left ankle and pried it backward with one hand, while using his other hand to claw brutally at the Uzbeck’s balls. Sushil’s baby blue briefs swell as the seconds tick by, his ripped thighs milking the agony out of his opponent in waves of crushing pain. The head scissors and ball claw combo lasts for minutes, but the mountainous Uzbeck refuses to submit. When Sushil releases the hold and climbs to his feet, letting Artur go free, the crowd gasps as one in shock. No one has ever managed to mount such an immobilizing offense against the living legend, much less ever foolishly let him go free once achieving such a commanding advantage.
Artur finds himself in the unaccustomed position of being the one dragged to his feet and flung into the ropes. He lowers his left shoulder and trusts in his 265 pounds of solid muscle to be the battering ram to level the surprisingly successful Indian. However, Sushil squats low and smoothly latches his left hand across Artur’s throat. As Artur dives over him, the Indian presses upward, grabbing Artur’s left thigh with his right hand. He presses his opponent upward, bringing the crowd to their feet with a roar of amazement as Sushil locks his arms out, holding Artur overhead like a barbell. His bulging arms quiver briefly, but he steadies himself and slowly turns in the center of the ring, displaying Artur’s humiliation for the entire arena. Almost as eye catching, the head of Sushil’s cock has squeezed upward and out from underneath the waist of his baby blue briefs. Suddenly he drops to one knee, sending Artur’s lower back crashing across his outstretched thigh. The Uzbek bounces high off of his opponent’s leg and slams to the mat on his stomach. Sushil smiles easily as he drags his legendeary opponent off of the mat by his chin. Artur is dazed. He throws a flailing punch into the Indian’s rock hard abs, but Sushil barely notices. Sushil twists sideways as he wraps his arms around the Uzbek’s waist, hoisting Artur off his feet and spinning him until he hangs upside down in Sushil’s crushing embrace. The Indian drops to his knees, driving the top of Artur’s head into the mat. The Uzbek’s body bounces briefly before he slumps limply to his stomach. He’s barely moving when Sushil straddles his legs and peels off the Uzbek’s blue singlet, forcibly stripping the muscle beast for the first time in his career. The Indian giant-killer rolls him to his back, hooks one of the Uzbek’s thickly muscled legs, and slaps his right hand down to the mat, shouting, “One!” in the perfectly silent arena. Sushil pauses for several seconds before slapping his palm down again: “Two!” The once-unstoppable Uzbek groans. His eyes flutter as he tries to pull himself back to clear-headedness. His jaw hangs open, frustration making his heavy brow furrow as he struggles to kick free. Sushil waits, watching patiently as Artur digs deep into his last remaining reserves. The Uzbek grunts, flexing his coiled, incredibly muscled body to break free from his opponent’s control. Sushil’s jaw clenches, but it’s the only signal that he’s making any effort to hold his mighty opponent’s shoulder to the mat for what has been nearly a minute straight. “Three!” The crowd erupts as the Indian gold medalist climbs slowly to his feet and pumps his fists in the air in victory. His fully erect and impressively long cock stretches well beyond the confines of his briefs. His body glistens with sweat. When he bends over and peels his soaked trunks off his legs, the arena seems to shake with excitement. But when he bends over again and begins to pry the once-unstoppable Uzbek off the mat, an intoxicated silence descends again. He drags Artur to his knees in the middle of the ring, wrenching the Uzbek’s right arm high up between his shoulder blades while force-feeding the fallen giant his cock. Artur gags at first, but picks up a rhythm as Sushil drives his hips forward and back methodically, flexing his pale, lightly hairy glutes. A couple of minutes later, the gold medalist’s face screws up as if in agony. He uses his free hand to hold Artur’s face pressed tightly against his crotch. Sweat drips off of both of them. Suddenly Sushil’s jaw drops open silently as he erupts in his vanquished opponent’s throat. Wave after wave of ecstasy washes over him. Artur begins to choke, and Sushil finally lets him go. The Uzbek coughs out a mouthful of cum even as another torrent shoots from Sushil’s inexhaustible cock, coating the runner-up’s mountainous pecs. With his arm still locked behind him, Artur can do nothing but watch as his victor lets loose with another three superhuman orgasms over the course of the next three minutes, coating his face and chest.
|Gold Medalist: Sushil Kumar!|
When Sushil finally lets him go and shakes out the last remaining cum from his hose, the crowd roars back to life. They’re nearly driven wild with excitement when they watch the gold medalist force the once-mighty Uzbek to crawl naked across the arena floor on his hands and knees back to the locker room.
|Jordan refocuses on team gold.|
|American Ellis Coleman – 5’9″, 132 lbs., 21 y/o|
There’s a thirty minute intermission before the lights go down again and the spotlight hits the entrance to the arena from the locker room. First to jog out is the American team of Jordan Burroughs followed closely by Ellis Coleman. In identical red and blue singlets, the two handsome hunks receive a hearty round of applause as they climb up to the ring apron and claim a corner.
|Sushil goes for gold with…|
|… the living legend and gold medal runner-up, Artur.|
The next team to head across the arena floor is led by gold medalist stud Sushil Kumar in tight, pink cotton briefs. When Sushil’s handpicked tag team partner comes into view a respectful 10 paces behind him, the crowd issues a collective gasp of shock. Uzbeck powerhouse and once-unbeatable Artur Taymazov jogs across the ring behind the gold medalist, wearing an identical pink cotton brief. Instantly the team to beat, the pair take up position in the corner opposite the Americans.
|French Brother Act, Steeve (5’8″, 146 lbs., 26 y/o) and Christophe (5’10”, 163 lbs., 33 y/o) Guenot|
The third team to come sprinting toward the ring is the French brother act and tag team specialists, Steeve and Christophe Guenot. In individual competition, these two smoldering hot hunks have enjoyed only modest success, but when they’ve managed to qualify for the tag team tournament, they’ve been absolutely devastating. The two are reported to be able to communicate telepathically, demonstrating a simpatico born out of doing absolutely everything together, including picking perfectly matched white brief trunks with the French flag stitched across their respective gorgeous asses, already turning transparent with sweat.
|Swiss bon-bon Pascal Strebel – 5’9″, 146 lbs., 23 y/o|
|Finn badboy Jarkko ala-Huikku – 5’5″, 146 lbs., 32 y/o|
The final team to reach the ring is making their debut as a tag team in homoerotic wrestling competition. Their PR people refer to Swiss cover boy Pascal Strebel and Finnish muscle brute, Jarkko ala-Huikku as “Beauty and the Beast.” Jarkko is only recently back in homoerotic wrestling competition after being banned for a year for assaulting a fan after a particularly humiliating loss in the world championships. Strebel went down to Burroughs in their qualifying match for the individual tournament, but the Swiss pretty boy has been a near miss for the semi-finals for the past two years of competitions. As they climb up to their corner, Jarkko is all business, dressed in black square cut trunks and ignoring the crowd. Pascal, on the other hand, is literally blowing kisses as his hardcore fans go nuts trying to charge the ring. Security hold them back, but Pascal, dressed in a tiny red and white speedo, gives them a wink to let them know he cares.
|First up: Artur|
Having both finalists comprise a team in the tag team mash up is highly unusual, and so when Artur climbs through the ropes to get the action rolling, the other three teams look at one another, waiting to see who will take up the challenge. The Uzbek may have just been humiliatingly defeated, but no one is eager to be the next opponent for him to work out his frustrations on. It’s the Frenchman Christophe who finally steps through the ropes to accept the challenge. His affectionate brother lands a firm slap on Christophe’s ass he stands just inside the ropes, pausing for a moment as he takes in the sight of the huge Uzbek. Standing on the bottom ropes, Steeve rubs his brother’s shoulders and whispers last-minute coaching advice in his ear as the French brothers stare across the ring at the imposing figure of Artur.
|A French homoerotic wrestling machine!|
When they approach for a collar and elbow tie up, they press against one another for just a second before Artur lifts Christophe off his feet and sends him flying backward into his own corner. They approach for another collar and elbow, but Christophe kicks his right foot squarely between the Uzbek’s hairy monster thighs. Artur drops to his knees, clutching his crotch. A lightening fast kick to the back of the head drops the muscle beast to his stomach. The Uzbek is incredibly tough, though, and he climbs up to his hands and knees almost immediately, shaking his head and rubbing his crotch. His opponent, however, has already tagged in his brother. From behind, Christophe lifts Steeve in a reverse bearhug. Wordlessly, he lunges low and then lifts his brother off his feet, arching his back and rolling Steeve’s lower back up to his collar bone as if to deliver an atomic drop. With perfect precision, Steeve straightens his legs as his brother drives him downward, his right leg crashing viciously into the back of the Uzbek’s neck. Artur crashes down flat on his stomach, both hands clutching the back of his head.
|Steeve’s turn at the Uzbek beast|
As Christophe climbs out of the ring, his brother hops back to his feet and drops a knee into the back of Artur’s head. The Uzbek muscleman is barely moving, giving the French brothers plenty of time to tag back in Christophe, who, with is brother’s help, manhandles the former juggernaut into a neck-wrenching camel clutch just inches from the French corner. Sushil watches impassively as his partner is brutalized until Steeve, outside the ropes again, pulls backward on his brother’s shoulders to add that much more pressure per pound to the brutal hold. When the gold medalist steps one foot through the ring threatening to break up the double team, Steeve lets go and quickly tags back into the action. The brothers completely decimate Artur with a non-stop barrage of blows and back breaking holds peppered between a flurry of tags that leave the crowd dizzy trying to keep up with which hunky brother is the legal man in the ring. They keep the Uzbek deep in their own territory. Stomps followed by a boston crab followed by elbow drops followed by a surfboard… Artur’s already beaten body is picked apart like a turkey dinner. The single-leg crab and ball claw by Steeve is the hold that finally makes the muscleman scream, “GIIIVE!” By the time Sushil is through the ropes, Christophe is tagged back in fresh and ready to keep their game plan on track.
When Sushil and Christophe lock up in a collar and elbow, astonishingly the Frenchman manages to overpower the gold medalist. The gold medalist’s superhhuman strength seems to have evaporated, as Christophe seems to effortlessly shove him across the ring and backed into the American corner. Christophe tags in an eager Jordan. Ellis traps Sushil into the corner, reaching over the ropes with a forearm across his throat, leaving him open for Jordan to pound the living shit out of the gold medalist’s abs. No one seems eager to come to the gold medalist’s aid when Ellis drops down to the mat and yanks Sushil’s feet out from underneath him. Dragging him on his stomach backward by his ankles, Ellis rams the gold medalist’s balls into the ring post while Jordan stomps on the back of his head. It takes just a few minutes before Sushil is choked unconscious, counted out, and dumped out of the ring next to his partner.
|Jarkko enters the fray|
Jarkko takes up the challenge to face Jordan next. The Finnish hunk’s pecs bounce excitedly as they circle. As they approach, Jarkko abruptly drives his right knee into the American’s lower abs. Jordan doubles over, then quickly finds his head locked tightly against the Finn’s ribs. A snap suplex pounds Jordan’s lower back to the mat. Jarkko’s focus is ferocious as he instantly drags the American back to his feet and lands another breathtaking snap suplex. A third suplex makes Jordan bridge high in agony, leaving him open for a vicious fist pounding into this crotch. Ellis strains to tag his partner, but they’re miles apart and Jordan is seeing stars. Pascal pleads with his partner for the tag, and reluctantly Jarkko complies.
Pascal climbs to the top turnbuckle, takes careful aim, and soars through the air to land belly to belly on the bashed American stud. His fans swoon and cheer as the Swiss hunk climbs up to one knee and flexes his biceps, flashing his heartmelting smile for the crowd. Jarkko barks angrily at his partner to stay on the offense, but Pascal takes his time to wave at the fans all around the ring as he climbs back up to the top turnbuckle, takes aim, and launches himself in the air for another splash down. Jordan manages to pull his knees up to his chest just in time, and Pascal lands hard across the American’s shins before being kicked halfway across the ring. It’s a race as Pascal struggles to breathe and get his bearings while Jordan crawls on his elbows, dragging himself inch by inch toward his corner.
|Christophe’s OTK backbreaker position|
Jordan manages to tag in Ellis a second before Pascal tags in Steeve from the French corner. The American charges directly into the Frenchman, lifting him off his feet and driving his back into the French corner. The pounding knocks the air out of Steeve’s lungs, but he has presence of mind to tag in his brother and then wrap up Ellis in his arms. Ellis struggles to disentangle himself, but Christophe’s fist into his back stuns the young American. As Steeve ducks through the ropes to the ring apron to catch his breath, Christophe scoops up Ellis and drops to one knee, driving the lean American’s lower back hard across his thigh. A ball claw makes Ellis scream. Across the ring, Jordan shouts encouragement, but Ellis’ wailing only grows more desperate. Positioned, as always, close to his own corner, Christophe tags in Steeve while keeping Ellis pinned helplessly in the over the knee backbreaker. Steeve climbs to the top turnbuckle and then drops, driving his left knee down across the American’s throat. Ellis’ screams abruptly go silent as he flips backward off Christophe’s thigh and crashes to the mat, curling in the fetal position and clutching his throat. Steeve rolls him up into a small package, pinning his shoulders to the mat. The American struggles to kick free, but the Frenchman slaps down a decisive 3-count pinfall.
|The Swiss heartthrob wants a piece…
of the action.
The Swiss hunk acknowledges the roar of his fans with a wave, but he maintains focus on exploiting the handsome Frenchman. Stomps and knee drops batter Steeve’s body. Dragged up to his feet, Steeve finds his arms tied into the ropes, entirely out of reach of his brother. Pascal pummels his vulnerable core. An insulting slap across the face brings the bashed Frenchman back into focus. He glares furiously at his tormentor, but he’s helpless to prevent the Swiss heartthrob from stripping his trunks off of him. Jarkko is roaring furiously at his partner as Pascal pauses from dishing out punishment to appreciate the Frenchman’s naked body. His own tiny trunks are packed to capacity as he strokes Steeve’s smooth, sweaty torso and fondles his cock and balls swinging between his legs. His fans are screaming for him to fuck the captured hunk. Prying Steeve’s head backward by his chin, Pascal plants his mouth over his opponents, kissing him deeply while massaging the Frenchman’s balls.
It’s too much for Christophe to stand. He dives through the ropes to rescue his brother, but he’s intercepted halfway across the ring by Jarkko. They lock up, but Jarkko stuns the Frenchman with a rake across the eyes. He shoves Christophe in to the ropes, scoops him up in his arms and slams him to his back. The Finn drives his knee down toward his opponent’s face but crashes into the mat instead when the Frenchman rolls away at the last moment. Jarkko falls on his side, clutching his knee, but the musclebound badboy is quickly rolled to his back and locked tightly into a figure-4 leg lock targeting his injured knee. The Frenchman flexes his legs, making his opponent rise up to a seated position and scream in pain. Christophe roars ferociously back in his face. Something snaps in the Finn’s knee, and tears stream down his face as he wails his submission.
|The Guenot brothers huddle|
Pascal has just peeled his tiny speedo down his thighs, rubbing the head of his cock across the sweat soaked pecs of the Frenchman trapped in the ropes, when Christophe wraps is arms around him from behind and slams his back to the mat with a stunning suplex. Christophe quickly turns his attention to freeing his brother from the ropes, lowering him gently to his knees as Steeve assures him he’s okay. Christophe embraces his brother consolingly. The embrace becomes a joyful kiss on the cheek. The kiss on the cheek becomes a full-on, lingering lip lock. The rescue celebration is short-lived as Christophe quickly turns his attention to his little brother’s tormentor. Pascal has managed to make it to his hands and knees when the Frenchman stands over him threateningly. The Swiss coverboy shuffles backward on his knees, his ankles tied together with his trunks still hanging from them, backing away from his approaching opponent. He raises his palms toward Christophe, begging for mercy. “Please, please, please…” he mutters, shaking his head pleadingly.
Christophe stands over him, fists clenched, fury rising, when Jordan’s forearm drives into the Frenchman’s lower back. Christophe drops to one knee, his right hand reaching behind him. The American captures his wrist and pries it high up between his shoulder blades, forcing Christophe back to his feet. Jordan barks at Pascal to finish off Steeve as he forces Christophe across the ring. He slams the handsome Frenchman’s face into the top turnbuckle repeatedly until Christophe drops weakly to his knees, dazed and disoriented. Jordan drags him up by his hair, spins him around, and lifts Christophe’s legs, one at a time, lacing them over the middle ring ropes on either side of the turnbuckle. The Frenchman sags limply, his hairy pecs glistening with sweat, his head hanging down. The American pounds his opponent’s vulnerable crotch with kicks and knees, pausing for just a moment to yank the waist of Christophe’s speedo down to allow his bruised cock and balls to spill out.
|Pascal mugs for the fans|
While Jordan has been dismantling one brother, Pascal has turned his attention back to the other. When the Swiss heartthrob kicks his trunks the rest of the way off his long legs, his loyal fan base swoon. He blows them kisses as he gives his meat an excited tug on his way toward Steeve. Steeve has managed to pull himself up to his feet, leaning heavily in the ropes as he struggles to rally. Pascal claws the Frenchman’s naked balls and presses him backward until his shoulders are hanging over the top rope. Once again, the Swiss coverboy’s fans adamantly cry for him to fuck his battered prey, and again the suggestion seems to intoxicate him. He releases the ball claw in order to stroke his own meat, which quickly swells impressively in his hand. He slams two hard forearms into Steeve’s chest to soften him up some more before climbing up onto the bottom ring rope, straddling his opponent, grinding his cock across the expanse of the Frenchman’s smooth pecs. He leans forward, sliding his cock, dribbling precum, up the crevice between Steeve’s pecs, slowly inching his crotch toward his opponent’s face. Suddenly, Steeve wraps his arms around his opponent’s waist in a bearhug, lifting him in the air and then driving him to his back. The Frenchman lands on top of him, crushing the Swiss hunk’s erect cock between their bodies. As Pascal writhes in agony, Steeve has time to gather his strength, climb to his feet while lifting his opponent’s ankles in the air, and carefully place his right foot across Pascal’s crotch. The ball of his foot crushes Pascal’s swollen cock head while his heel grinds the Swiss hunk’s shaved balls into the mat. The Swiss pretty boy screams after only a few seconds, “SUBMIT! SUBMIT! SUBMIT!”
|The French Brother Act are back on their game|
Few men could hold their own against the expert double team of the Guenot brothers, but Jordan stays tough. Both Frenchman have been sorely battered and are approaching exhaustion. Christophe hangs limply in the corner, his bashed cock and balls hanging out of his trunks, as Jordan muscles Steeve away, shoving him into the opposite corner. Flinging him out of the corner, the American sends Steeve crashing into his brother, followed by Jordan driving them both into the turnbuckle with a flying shoulder into Steeve’s lower abdomen. The American focuses on the freshest Frenchman in the ring, driving Steeve to the mat over and over with body slams, power slams, and a series of spine numbing suplexes.
|Steeve naked and in trouble|
The sight of his brother naked and being pummeled across every inch of the ring infuses Christophe with another burst of adrenaline. Jordan is too focused on Steeve to notice when the other brother disentangles his legs from the ropes and kneels in the corner, panting heavily, coated in sweat, and shoving his cock and balls back inside his pouch. Jordan finally catches sight of the other brother approaching in time to block a forearm blow to the head, but he can’t simultaneously protect himself from the brutal uppercut to his balls from Steeve, kneeling behind him. Once they’ve winded their last remaining competition, the French brother act is a machine. Christophe shoves the stunned American backward as Steeve drops to his hands and knees to topple the muscled American awkwardly to his back. Each brother grabs an ankle and uses the American like a wishbone, falling backward to the mat and ripping him apart at the crotch. Jordan writhes in agony as the brothers begin a barrage of leg drops across his throat and chest, one brother pounding down on him as the next is hopping back to his feet and preparing for the next leg drop. Blow after blow, Jordan’s fight evaporates. He barely tries to defend himself when Steeve peels the his singlet off his legs and tosses it to his brother who straddles Jordan’s upperback and uses the singlet to pry his neck off the mat and choke the American in a camel clutch variation. Steeve folds Jordan’s lower legs over each other and captures the American’s ankles against his crotch as he gently pulls backward on his brother’s strong shoulders, adding pressure to the choking camel clutch sealing off the American’s windpipe. It takes less than a minute for Jordan to be out cold, limply hanging in the Frenchman’s double team hold. The brothers lay him out on his back, Steeve pinning the American’s shoulders beneath his knees, facing his brother straddling Jordan’s waist. They embrace, kissing one another passionately between counts as they simultaneously slap the mat. “ONE!” they slap, then again begin making out for several seconds. They pause to slap the mat again, “TWO!,” before locking lips once more. “THREE!” they declare the victory, as Christophe enthusiastically tackles his brother to his back, embracing the naked hunk and cradling his head in his hands as they celebrate the gold, tongues wrestling in victory.