Eli Brody didn’t get in on the ground floor of the News-Entertainment industry. Eli knew what would sell based on whether it made him hard. News seldom made him hard. But when browsing some of his competitor Titans’ channels, he began to notice that they were raising the News-Entertainment industry to new heights with their latest talent. Some of the latest crop of newscasters and reporters did make Eli hard, and he wanted to exploit this new “hard” news talent to their fullest potential.
So Eli contracted with some of the News-Entertainment Titans for a “reality” show featuring the testosterone-filled news talent in physical combat. He had to bargain hard for the rights to their top talent, purchasing contracts for a limited 14-day stint with which to craft market gold. Eli was forced to share more generously the potential profits with his fellow Titans than he would normally be willing to do on a venture like this. But Eli had built his empire on just this sort of genre-crossing, and his gut, and his cock, told him that this was another winning combination.
In his Los Angeles network office, Eli smiled at his new contract-employees from behind his desk. In two leather winged-back chairs directly in front of him sat his East Coast talent, Chris Cuomo and Chris’ broadcast partner Sam Champion. Chris had sex written all over him, from his dark curly hair to his hard body to his massive hands. Chris was in his traditional navy pin-striped suit and bright red power tie cinched up around his thick neck. A Harvard trained attorney, Chris was plucked from the drudgery of the legal world when his Titan first saw him giving a statement to the press on behalf of a client he was defending. The camera loved Chris, and Chris quickly felt the love of a loyal fan-base tuning in to see him read the news on the East Coast morning program. Sitting in Eli’s office, Chris looked confident, but every so often his awkward, boyish grin revealed his nervousness. His broadcast partner, Sam, was blond, blue-eyed, and softer than Chris, but he had a hardcore edge about him that Eli expected would blossom into a first class heel. Sam was plucked from a local affiliate to join the East Coast morning program at the same time Chris started his broadcast career there. Both men enjoyed an easy friendship on camera, but off camera, they were highly competitive, sometimes agressively so, with one another. Sam came to Eli’s office in a casual pink polo shirt and brown slacks, looking like he was ready for a southern California vacation.
Standing directly behind the East Coast boys were Eli’s two recruits on loan from the Southern syndicate. Rob Marciano and Thomas Roberts had been growing market share for their Titan for a couple of years. Rob started as a weatherman, but was transitioning to anchor weekend news broadcasts. Thomas was in the regular anchor rotation. Both dark haired, broad and thickly muscled hunks looked nervous, with their suit coats in their arms and their ties loosened and shirts unbottoned at the top. “I’m just not clear what we’re doing here, Mr. Brody,” Rob was saying. “We’re in the news business. We’re not fighters, or whatever you’re looking for.”
On a couch at the back wall of the office, Eli’s final two new contracts looked much more confident. “Speak for yourself,” said Carter Evans. “I’ve always loved wrestling. Just because you’re about to get your ass kicked doesn’t mean the rest of us aren’t ready for this gig.” Carter was smaller than the boys from the East Coast and the South, but he and his fellow independent correspondent, Richard Engel, looked at ease. Both Carter and Richard were freelancers, usually hired for short stints by whichever Titan needed a local correspondent to travel into some dangerous situation, most often when armed conflict broke out in a remote corner of the world. Talent like the other four men in the room wouldn’t be placed in such jeopardy by putting them in harm’s way, so Titan’s hired from a pool of freelancers like Carter and Richard to go into tough spots and report, usually for just a few weeks at a time. Their paychecks were therefore inconsistent, and all freelancers longed to get picked up by the big leagues, to earn an ongoing contract and be another pretty-face talking head on a regular basis. Richard and Carter had jumped at the offer of a two week contract with Eli Brody, the immensely powerful West Coast Titan. Both Richard and Carter wore jeans this day, along with sports coats and white button-up shirts open halfway down their chests. They looked ready to scrap, like they had a confidence born from fieldwork and skills to improvise on the fly when needed to get out of a tight spot.
“Your Titans and I agree that you may not have been used to your fullest potential yet,” Eli smiled. “For the next two weeks, you’ll live together in a house in Malibu. Your lives will be filmed 24/7. And you will compete with one another for both an individual grappling title and a tag-team title. Winners of each match will get sizeable bonuses, and champions at the end of the show will be rewarded even more handsomely. You may not like it, Rob, but you’re mine for the next two weeks. I suggest that you put your game face on and get ready to please the fans.”
Eli’s closed his eyes for a moment, as an electric wave raced through his body. This was going to be a ratings bombshell. He was as hard as a rock.
Cuomo v Champion
The six newscasters-turned-wrestlers arrived at the set, a mammoth beachfront house in Malibu. There was immediate tension between Carter Evans, the independent correspondent, and Rob Marciano, the rising star from the Southern syndicate. Carter seemed to sense a weakness in Rob, and he was ready to push his buttons.
“This is bullshit,” Rob was complaining to no one in particular as they dropped their luggage inside the front door. “I did not sign up for this.”
Carter sneered at Rob. “Your ass belongs to your Titan, dip shit. You sold your body to him, so you’re his. He sold your body to Brody, so I guess now your actually Brody’s. But don’t worry, soon your ass will be mine.” Carter raised his eyebrows up and down and licked his lips, taunting Rob.
Rob took a step toward Carter with his fists clenched, but Thomas Roberts put his hand across Rob’s broad chest and stood between the two of them. “We’ve got to make the best of a bad situation, Rob,” Thomas spoke low, soothingly. “Let’s just ride this out and see what happens.”
As all six of the talent walked through the entry way and into the posh living room, a large plasma screen came to life on the wall above the fireplace. Eli Brody, the West Coast Titan and producer of this venture, smiled from the screen. “Gentlemen, the cameras are on, so welcome to ‘The News Division,’ in which you star as competitors. We’ve already sold more bandwidth than we originally anticipated necessary for this broadcast, so there is an eager audience tuned in to see what you can do.”
“What are the rules?” asked Chris Cuomo. “What’s going to happen next?”
“Good question, Chris,” Eli responded. “We’re going to give the fans what they want, right off the bat. Our first match will take place this afternoon, on the beach. You’ll find your fight-wear in your rooms upstairs. Your rules are to secure a submission from your opponent, however you can. No leaving the beach until someone has submitted. Other than those rules, what happens next is up to you. Our first match will be a singles competition. Our online chatters that are already tuned in have voted to start off with a friendly match between you, Chris, and you, Sam. Be dressed in one hour and ready to wrestle on the beach.” The screen went blank, and the boys stood still, stunned for a moment. Slowly, silently, they moved off to find their designated rooms and get their heads ready for the first match.
An hour later, all six men were on the beach. Rob, Thomas, Carter and Richard stood in speedos and tank tops at the bottom of the stairs winding down the cliffside from the house to the beach below. Chris and Sam were walking out onto the otherwise deserted beach. Chris wore the tight, navy blue speedo that he found in his room an hour earlier, with a white tank top that had to stretch across his broad chest. His skin seemed to soak up the California sun, turning a dark Mediterranean tan by the second. He had dark, curly brown hair. His shoulders were broad and round, and his arms were well-muscled and vascular. His thighs were relatively slender, but corded with muscle born of distance running. Sam was dressed in an emerald green speedo and a sky blue t-shirt. Sam was slightly shorter than Chris, with pale Nordic features and blond hair. Sam was fit, thickly muscled but less defined than Chris.
A horn sounded from the house behind them, and the boys knew that the tournament had begun. Chris smiled awkwardly at Sam. “Are we really going to do this?” he asked with a boyish grin.
“Let’s give them a show. Who knows, this may make you an even bigger star than you already are,” Sam said, holding out his hand for a gentleman’s handshake to start the match.
As Chris reached forward to shake Sam’s outstretched hand, Sam simultaneously grasped hold of Chris’ wrist, tugged Chris forward into him, and lifted his foot to plant a solid kick into Chris’ midsection. As Chris doubled over, stunned and gasping for breath, Sam straddled Chris’ head between his legs and squeezed. Chris moaned in pain and fell to his knees, grasping Sam’s legs and trying desperately to pry them apart.
Sam gave an evil grin as he glanced up at the house on the cliff, where he presumed the cameras were placed to capture the action. Bending down, with Chris’ head still wedged between his knees, Sam grabbed the back of Chris’ tank top and yanked it up. Quickly releasing his opponent’s head, Sam pulled Chris’ shirt upward, drawing Chris’ arms straight up in the air. But rather than removing the shirt completely, Sam wrapped the white fabric around Chris’ wrists, tying them together. Sam stepped away from his trussed up opponent to admire his handiwork. Chris knelt on the sand, his entire head still red from being squeezed, with his hands held limply in front of him knotted together with his own shirt.
“Well, at least one of us will have a rising star after this,” Sam said to Chris who was kneeling in front of him. Sam reached down and grabbed a handful of Chris’ curly dark hair by the roots. Just as he began to pull Chris upward by the hair to get him to his feet, Chris lunged forward, head-butting Sam in the crotch. An “ooof!” sound came from Sam’s mouth as his breath came rushing involuntarily out of his lungs. He doubled over, crossing his legs to protect his vulnerability, and reaching down to massage his stunned cock and balls.
“You fucking bastard,” Chris said low and angrily as he climbed to his feet. Chris tried to pry his hands free from the fabric that bound them, but when he saw Sam begin to stand up straight again, he decided he couldn’t allow his opponent any more time to recover. Taking a few steps backward, Chris stopped, gauged the distance, and then ran forward. He leapt into the air, feet first, planting a solid drop kick across Sam’s chest. Sam was knocked off his feet, landing on his ass in the sand several feet backward.
Chris jumped on top of his dazed opponent, straddling him with his powerful legs. “You fucking punk,” he growled. Then still with his wrists tied together, he landed a series of double fists across Sam’s face, sending Sam’s head whipping left and right as the blows beat down on him. Sam’s face was turning purple from the prolonged beating, and blood was dripping out of his nose when Chris finally stopped pounding. Wrapping his bound wrists behind Sam’s neck, Chris yanked Sam’s upper body forward. At the same moment, Chris shifted to the side, sliding his right thigh beneath Sam’s body and trapping Sam’s chest between his legs.
“No!” Sam shouted in pain as Chris began to squeeze. But when Chris laced his ankles together, leveraging his leg and core muscles into a mighty crush, the air came out of Sam’s lungs in a “whoosh!” With his mouth gaping open and his eyes wide with fear, Sam tried to yell out, but he had no air left to make a sound. Still yanking Sam’s neck sideways with his bound wrists, Chris simultaneously squeezed with his legs and abs, and pulled forward with his bulging arms and shoulders. Chris’ own face flushed with the massive exertion, as he leaned forward, placing his face inches from Sam’s gasping, open mouth. All his muscles quivering, Chris held Sam trapped for a full 30 seconds, twisting and crushing his body with all his might. When Chris’ muscles finally fatigued and he could flex them at full strength no longer, he relaxed while holding his opponent still in place.
Sam gasped as his chest exploded outward. As soon as he had a chestful of air again, he croaked, “I submit!”
“That’s right you give, you little fucker!” Chris shouted back in his face. Pulling his wrists out from behind Sam’s neck, Chris drew his left knee up to his own chest and planted his foot in the side of Sam’s torso. With one mighty kick, he sent his colleague rolling over and over across the sand. Chris got to his feet, his body sweaty and half covered in white sand. His abdomen extended and contracted rapidly with his deep breathing. Staring at the house on top of the hill, he raised his bound hands above his head in victory.
The other boys at the bottom of the stairs looked on in silence, sizing up what may lay ahead for them.