Olympic Spirit

How it all started is the stuff of legend at this point. Everyone agrees that trash talk broke out on the Olympic podium, and two world class athletes had to settle a personal score that a gold medal just couldn’t. No one definitively remembers the sport or the athletes who began the underground post-Olympic homoerotic wrestling battles, but the tradition has continued out of the sight of the judges, off the snow and ice and in a professional wrestling ring. The cameras are off. The fans have departed to their respective corners of the earth. But an elite group of Olympic athletes have accepted the exclusive invitation to remain in Pyeonchang a few more days to test their world class bodies against one another in a balls out, brutal, no holds barred pro wrestling elimination tournament.

While the uninitiated fans have left, an enthusiastic audience of fellow athletes and global capitalist elite underground wrestling fans have filled the small auditorium constructed within the walls of an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of town. Sixteen winter Olympians have been selected to populate the brackets of the single elimination tournament to crown the singular champion of the 2018 Winter Olympics. When the lights snap off and a spotlight hits the wrestling ring in the middle of the auditorium, a roar of excitement rises from the bleachers. Climbing through the ropes to grab the microphone being lowered from the ceiling, the bitch everyone loves to hate most in the world sneers as the crowd erupts into cat calls and taunts.


“Ladies and gentlemen,” Jonny Weir’s voice booms through the PA system, “let’s get ready to rumble, bitches!” Despite themselves, the crowd rises to their feet cheering. Johnny puts a hand on his hip impatiently waiting for the roar to subside. “Our first wrestler of the 2018 Winter Olympics is 34 years old, weighing in at 227 pounds at 6’2″ tall. He’s heading to his hometown of Melrose, Massachusetts empty handed from these games unless he can take home the title belt from this tournament.  Welcome to the ring the beast from the Northeast, the man known by his teammates as Pilot Push… Steven….. Langton!”

A second spotlight snaps on just in time to illuminate the U.S. bobsledder flinging back a curtain and strutting into the auditorium with his fists raised above his head victoriously. Snug, blue square cuts squeeze his massively muscled glutes. Wearing red knee pads and white wrestling boots laced halfway up his shins, he strides to toward the ring soaking in the deafening roar of the crowd’s adoration. He’s unhurried but eager as he climbs up to the ring apron and ducks through the ropes.


Johnny Weir’s mouth hangs open in obvious lust as Steve flexes his massive biceps to the stomping approval of the fans. Seeing the effect he’s having on the ring announcer, Steve stands in front of Johnny, bouncing his pecs with a wink and a smile, eliciting laughter and louder screams of approval from the bleachers.

Clutching his non-existent pearls, Johnny clears his throat and pulls the microphone toward him again. “The lucky son of a bitch who gets to grapple with Steve is 35 years old, weighing 223 pounds and 6’1″ tall. Hailing from Calgary, Alberta, the Canadian Cowboy, Jesse…. Lumsden!” The fans roar again as Jesse flings the curtains wide and stomps into the auditorium. Wearing cut-off jeans shorts and work boots, the burly, blond bobsledder with a lumberjack beard bounds up to the ring and dives under the ropes, jumping to his feet directly in Steve’s handsome face.


Johnny starts to back away from the massive muscle hunks towering over him. “Your referee for this match is the reigning Summer Olympic Wrestling champion, Jake Dalton!”


Jake Dalton steps from the shadows wearing tight black trousers and a striped referee shirt, suctioned to his massively muscled upper body. He calls the wrestlers to the center of the ring and gives his instructions, as Johnny holds the mic for him. “I want a clean fight,” Jake says, staring way up at the behemoth’s towering over a half a foot above him. “But it doesn’t matter what I want,” Jake smirks. “Because there are no rules, other than beat your opponent with a submission, a 3 count pinfall, or leave him unresponsive for a count of 10, and you’ll be the one to advance to the next round of competition. Get it on!” Jake shouts. Johnny prances in a panic from the ring as the bobsledders begin to circle one another and the bell rings.

The initial lock up between the huge hunks is more a traffic collision than a collar and elbow. They struggle to get handholds on each other’s gargantuan arms, awkwardly shoving and pushing as their meaty pecs pound into one another. Suddenly, Jesse wraps his arms around Steve’s waist, locking his fists behind his back. He squats low, violently pulling the American off his feet and slamming him hard in a textbook suplex. As the crowd roars, Jesse bounces to his feet, pumping a cocky double bicep pose to ratchet up the screams of approval from the bleachers. Steve looks seriously winded, slow to pry himself up to his hands and knees. Jesse “helps” by yanking him up by a fistful of hair before abruptly swinging his right arm up from underneath the American’s jaw, bashing Steve’s sculpted, leading-man chin with the Canadian’s prominently peaked bicep. Steve’s eyes roll up to the back of his head as he falls like a Sequoia in slow motion. The audience erupts in screams of excitement, punctuated loudly by Steve’s fans pleading for him to get his ass off the mat.

The ref is on one knee checking if Steve is still responsive. The American’s eyes flutter. He’s awake, even if flat on his back. Suddenly Jesse shoves the ref in the chest, sending Jake tumbling into a corner. The Canadian grabs his opponent’s head in both hands, dragging him off the mat and leaving him kneeling at his feet. Jesse holds the dazed American by the chin with his left hand, while with his right hand he unzips his zipper. The crowd is in a frenzy as the straining pouch of Jesse’s jock strap spills out in front of Steve’s gaping mouth. Suddenly grabbing the back of his head, Jesse force’s his opponent’s dazed face into his crotch.

Steve tries to push his hands against Jesse’s huge, hairy upper thighs to pry his face away. With a sudden jerk, Jesse shoves the Pusher’s head down, adjusting his stance just wide enough to squeeze the handsome hunk’s head between his huge, hairy thighs before snapping his legs shut tight, flexing his massive quads. Like a Pilgrim in the stockade, Steve’s muffled cries punctuate his helplessness. His fingers dig into the rock hard quads crushing his skull. He has no idea what is inspiring the sudden new screams from the crowd, unable to see his opponent lift his arms and flex a cocky, smirking double bicep pose. “Look, no hands!”

On the other hand, Steve knows exactly what’s happening when he feels Jesse’s hand grab the back of the American’s trunks, wedging the blue square cuts up his ass cheeks as he pulls Steve up to his feet. Jesse looks like he’s about to set his opponent up for a piledriver, but desperate pleas of “Spank him!” from the front rows of the bleachers make the Canadian pause and deliver. The first couple of whacks across Steve’s lily white muscled ass are playful, but as the crowd responds to the humiliation, Jesse’s swats grow more violent. Steve’s ample white cheeks start to show handprint-shaped welts as the dominant Canadian showboats.

Jesse plays the crowd pleaser for a couple of minutes of total humiliation before finally leaning forward and wrapping his huge arms around Steve’s waist, with the American’s head still stuck between his legs. With a low squat, the Canadian pulls Steve’s feet off the ground, pulling him up to hang upside down in preparation for a piledriver. Knowing full well the jeopardy he’s in, Steve kicks his legs hard, managing to shift his center of gravity to thwart his opponent. When his boots reach the ground again, Steve squats low and drives his shoulders upward. There’s obvious shock on Jesse’s bearded face as he realizes he’s the one now being lifted off his feet. Steve’s powerful legs drive upward with a strain, finally pulling him erect and sending his opponent dropping hard to his back behind him.

It’s more out of exhaustion than strategy that Steve drops to his ass, landing with a thud, now seated on top of his opponent’s muscled chest. Regardless the intent, the move successfully drives the air from the Canadian’s lungs. Two, quick, closed fisted jabs into Jesse’s face muddle his senses. Rolling to his side, Steve pulls his opponent’s face into his crotch and snaps his huge, smooth thighs together for face-to-crotch head scissors.

The crowd is screaming with excitement at the reversal of fortune. Steve shakes the cobwebs from his head, exploiting the advantage to recenter as his opponent is smothered with his mouth covered by the American’s big bulge. Finally fully realizing which way the scales have tipped, Steve smiles brightly, flashing a cocky right bicep and nodding to the fans screaming their encouragement from the bleachers. He gives them a wink and an I-got-this lift of his chin.

The ref checks and confirms for Steve that, although Jesse isn’t flailing like he was a moment ago, he’s still conscious. The American releases the scissors and hovers over Jesse on his hands and knees, confirming that the Canuck is still seeing stars. Steve grabs the belt loops at the sides of Jesse’s cut off jean shorts and yanks them violently off his massive legs. Jesse’s white jock strap pouch is stained with sweat.

Pulling violently on Jesse’s whiskers, Steve drags him slowly off the mat. Jesse is having a hard time getting his legs steady underneath him. It doesn’t matter, because Steve swiftly lunges low, hooking one arm between Jesse’s legs and the other around his neck, and powerfully hoists him up horizontal across his chest. There’s a hush of anticipation as Steve makes a slow lap around the ring, clawing the fingers of his right hand into his opponent’s bare white cheeks. With a turn to the middle of the ring, Steve lifts his opponent up and drops to one knee, driving Jesse down into a gut buster across his thigh.

What air that Jesse had been able to suck down was again forced out of his lungs in a loud rush. Holding him there across his thigh, Steve starts slapping loud, cracking a palm across Jesse’s exposed glutes. The crowd quickly picks up the count starting at 3, and Steve treats them to a total of 10 loud, punishing blows leaving revenge welts on the Canadian bobsledder’s bum. With contempt, Steve shoves him off his knee.

The crowd is going wild encouraging Steve to finish him, and they grow nearly apoplectic when the American, instead, starts unlacing Jesse’s workboots. Sensing a potentially deadly tactical error, Steve’s fans scream in desperation, but the American takes the time to pry Jesse’s boots off of him. Even as Jesse is visibly starting to recover, pulling himself up to his elbows and blinking away the haze, Steve takes more time completely unlacing one of Jesse’s boots.

Apparently Jesse isn’t the only one who fancies himself a modern day cowboy, because with studied skill, Steve uses his remaining momentum to wrench his opponent’s hands behind his back, now kneeling.  With lightning speed, Steve lashes Jesse’s wrists together. A sudden boot to the back of Jesse’s head topples him to face first to the mat. Kneeling on Jesse’s wide upper back, Steve pulls at the Canadian’s ankles and uses the remaining length of boot lace to hogtie him in the middle of the ring.

The ref gets in Jesse’s face to demand to know if he submits. Jesse screams stubborn obscenities instead. Steve takes a couple of breaths, sensing victory anyway. Finally, with the crowd again lulled to a breathless hush, Steve sits on the back of Jesse’s head and grabs his crossed, tied ankles.  Violently, he yanks upward, bending the muscle bear’s back sickly. Jesse screams, but refuses to answer the ref’s inquiries. Until, that is, Steve reaches a free hand between the Canadian’s bare ass cheeks, grabbing Jesse’s balls from behind and squeezing. In the suddenly impossibly silent auditorium, Jesse’s submission echos. “I GIVE!!!”

The bell rings. The ref tries to lift Steve’s arm overhead in victory, but the 6’2″ bobsledder climbs to his feet and the ref can no longer reach his wrist. The American advances.


6 thoughts on “Olympic Spirit

  1. Hi Bard! Oh how I’ve missed your writing. You’ve delivered again, and then some. Loved seeing Steve score the big win! Loved this, look forward to reading more!

  2. Any chance of seeing the legendary Sven Kramer in action soon 🙂 ? Hoping for a slow, methodical, even sadistic demolition of sweet Denny! Been a fan of both for more than a couple of Olympics now!

      1. It would make total sense that he would win, right? Sven is a legend in the speed skating world! Royalty in the Netherlands! He would at least have the attitude to back it up. Now, I do love myself some Denny Morrison, he seems like a resilient, and all around good guy. But the odds are against him on this one I’m afraid. For me anyhow!

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