Ultimate Fucker 2

Author’s note: This story contains violence. Be warned.

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I’m a striker. I learned early how to throw a punch.

Really, that last sentence seems like the stupidest fucking sentence, because who -doesn’t- learn how to throw a punch? Unless you’re one of those rich fuckers...but even the rich fuckers get into a scrap every now and then, right?

Whatever. Assume that the average guy can’t hold his own during a fight. The fact is that I -had- to hold my own during a fight. My brother was a strangler: he’d probably have been great at submissions if he hadn’t gone into taxes. Go figure, right? Ha, ha.

Sorry, old family joke.

The sad fact is that once the Syndicate took Dad away, it was a life of scraping by. Mom did what she could. Oh fuck, why be coy, the -Syndicate- made Mom do -who- she could, whoever the Syndicate wanted. Syndi Big wigs, syndi laywers, of course, syndi fuckin’ construction workers.... fuck, if the Syndicate had anything with a dick, that thing had my mother.

And, you grow up in the Big City, you learn how to defend your mother to the other toughs on the street. Which is how I became known as a striker.

I love throwing a punch. Can you really explain what it’s like to just let yourself loose and -connect-? Because my arm, my fist...it isn’t the same as the rest of me. And even as this doctor guy sticks his needle into my arm, I have to wonder what the fuck he’s doing...because that arm is my striking arm, and it’s already pretty strong. He can’t -possibly- know what he’s doing.


I was watching with everyone else, the other contestants, during that first round. There were some impressive fights, even if you weren’t into the whole “man-on-man” shit. I mean, I pretty much expect that the majority of us fuckers are just here for the money, the celebrity...which really, when you come down to it, is why I’m here. The fucking cash. But when you saw the fuckers...the volunteers...you couldn’t help but have a preconception. It was pretty fucking convincing.

I mean, my experience was pretty fucking easy. They gave me the shot about five seconds before I had to go in. I felt the rush - bigger cock, bigger muscles, the whole fucking thing. I waited, like every other fucker has I guess, and then the door opened. Onto an arena. With some loser on the other side.

He was bigger than me, which, I mean, fuck, story of my fucking life. He obviously lived in the gym. Had to be Syndicate Sex Clerk, or something. I always kinda suspected these reality shows of being rigged, but seeing -that- big fucker standing across from me (I think he actually flexed for the cameras), could there be any doubt? I mean, -I- wasn’t a body builder. I just had that sort of build that any street urchin had: slim, strong, and sneaky. I -knew- what a barbell was: it was the weight between my next mark’s ears.

...And did that fucker actually -growl- at me?!

So, he ran at me, his shoulders already as big as boulders, his chest could work as a poor kid’s chalk-board. I could see the intensity - probably from the drug - in his eyes. He had his arms out wide, as if he expected to take me down.

I just got low, feeling my own heart pounding in my chest. As big as he was, charging at me, I knew that all I had to do was get lower. Which I did.

And before he knew it (fuck, before -I- knew it), he was on the ground. The fucker didn’t account for my left. Or was it my right? I’m sure it’s recorded on digital, but it doesn’t really matter. I hit him with -one- of my fists, anyway. And he just...sort of...fell. Sideways.

I remember looking at him, feeling the drug pounding through me, watching that same drug pumping his prone muscles, and for a long minute not knowing what to do. My cock was already hard, my body already pumped, and yet I was just staring at this prone, muscled-up body as if I had no clue what show I was even fucking on. I mean the cameras were expecting a show, and here I was, standing around like a fucking moron.

But of course the cock figured it out. In the Syndi games, the cock always knows what’s going on. There’s a hole, and there’s my hard rod. What’s the saying? Nature fucking hates a vacuum.

I took that bodybuilder out, and I gotta say, whether it was the drugs or just knowing that that fucker was a rich fuck, it was the best fuckin’ orgasm I‘ve ever had. The Syndicate may have my name on a sheet of paper, but they can’t possibly know what cumming in a hot bodybuilder’s ass - as it’s fucking growing - feels like. Mom would be proud.


So, here I am, with the drug freshly pumped into my arm, just waiting for the door to my second round to slide open. I watched every one of the guys when they wrestled, the shows that we got to see on TV, but I have to admit that I have no idea what to expect. There were some surprising turn overs, and I have to wonder if victory doesn’t favour the skilled, but favours the bold. I mean, I’m just here because I hate the fucking system, I hate what it did to my Mom, and I want to beat it. There are guys here who fight because they love the idea of the drug: they want to be bigger, hotter, tougher. They want to be the Syndicate’s experiments, basically.

I’m not that guy, even if I -do- love being bigger, being hotter. I’m just here to buck the system.

I can feel that drug, the Syndi con that we’re all supposed to love, pumping through my veins. Making me feel stronger, bigger. Even as the door slides upwards into the arena, even as I feel the digital camera’s eyes on me as I step into the ring. I feel the heat, feel the confidence that -has- to be artificial, but feels so natural.

It was some red-head across from me. I think I’d known his name...we’d probably shared lunch together in the last day or so. Maybe he;d thought that my knowing him might help him in the show...it wouldn’t.

Like me, he’d already had one shot of the drug, and he was certainly bigger for it. He looked like a wrestler, standing there on the other side of the ring, his large, round shoulders, his broad pectorals with their deep divide and their over-hanging thickness. His waist was still slender, even though his legs were tree-trunks. His cock, hard and thick, jutted out from a forest of red hair, just waiting to plow my ass.

Of course it wouldn’t. I wouldn’t let it. I’m taller than he is, by at least an inch or two. And I can feel the drug coursing through me. There’s no way I can lose to this asshole. My own muscles feel full and strong. I flex my chest, pulling my shoulders back in an impressive stretch, feeling my own impressive cock as it bounces in front of me, a spear thrusting out of a dark-haired thatch, and I know how powerful I already am, even as the second shot of the drug changes me, makes me better.

We step towards each other. In a real fight, an official fight, I would shake his hand, but that’s not what the Syndicate wants. They know what’s running through me, and the aggressive, sexual look that I give the red head, the look he gives me, is what the Syndicate wants. I want that red-head’s ass. I can already see what my cock will look like as I plow it.

I’d expected him to hold back, but he dives for me first, throwing me off guard. Maybe I was enjoying the effects of the drug - the euphoria, the glow - too much, but I barely manage to duck aside. My fists feel heavy, powerful, as if they’re full of lead, and I’m aching to use them. I want to bring the red-head down just like I’d done the bodybuilder, and then fuck his unconscious ass. But I need to be patient.

The red-head seems to have gained confidence from his foray. He’s bigger, even seconds after the fight’s begun (but then, so am I), his body fleshing out, the striations of his shoulder muscles flexing as he prepares his next move. My fingers twitch as I clench my fists, feeling the power that’s flooding my forearms. I want to take this fucker down.

He makes a mistake - steps into my range. I’m a righty, and all I can see is my fist connecting with his face. I put all my force into it, feeling my newly-engoarged muscles flexing. This punch’ll knock his jaw out of the park.

He does go reeling, and I feel my cock jump in anticipation, but he recovers quickly, faster than I would have expected. He grins at me, suddenly, and I understand the look in his eyes. “It’s on,” his eyes say, dancing with gleeful menace. It turns out he wants to fight just as much as I do. He wants to fuck just as much as I do.

He must be a grappler, because he leaps at me again, trying to take me down. I don’t know how good I’d be in a wrestling match, and while the drug is going directly to my arms, shoulders, back, making me better at my specialty, the red-head is only getting quicker, stronger, more flexible. As the seconds go by, he becomes the epitome of a grappler, a dangerous enemy to a striker like me.

But I’m not ready to give up. Patience is a virtue. I try to remember that as I parry his advances, trying to hold on to the centre of the room. All the while, my blood is racing, charged with the drug. My cock is hard and constantly on my mind. All I can think about at this moment is how I can get my dick into that red-head’s pale, muscled ass.

I make a feint, and he falls for it, and I launch in with a combo that sends him back a few steps before he can block me. A trickle of blood is running down from his right eyebrow, he looks dazed.

I try a leg sweep, and amazingly it works, I knock his feet out from under him and he’s on the ground. He rolls over quickly, to get to his feet, but as he does it, he shows me his ass, and I leap at it, frenzied. Suddenly I’m on his back, my hard, growing cock tight against the crack of his ass. I wrapped my arms around him, trying to pin his arms, but he was already so big, that I could only barely secure him.

I didn’t care, and started thrusting, trying to find his hole. Two, maybe three strokes and I knew I’d cum. That’s all it would take, I was so jacked.

I wish I could have seen the fucker’s face, though, because he must have been grinning like a fool. Before I can fuck him into submission, he twists, and at the same time he does something with his legs, and suddenly I’m face-down on the ground, one of my arms pinned behind my back and his hot, wrestler’s body on top of me.

“Get ready,” he panted. I could feel his cock, slender and long, slide against my ass cheeks. “I’ll make it last as long as I can.”

I can’t go out this way, something in my breeding, or maybe something the drug’s given to me, I don’t know. Whatever it is, I put up a fight. I’m not the strongest at grappling, but I did learn a thing or two over the years. The red-head’s taking his time, and I can feel his cocky grin burning a hole through the back of my head. It makes me angry, but even more it turns me on. I feel stronger, so much stronger than I ever felt possible. My cock, pinned between me and the mat, is huge and thick, harder than it’s ever been.

Through will, pure desire coursing through my drug-enflamed muscles, I lift myself off the ground with my free arm, and quickly shift my balance. He’s surprised. He wasn’t expecting that strength, even though he must possess it himself. Some of us are faster learners.

A few quick moves later and I’m sitting astride his waist, his arms pinned at his sides between my legs. I’m not gonna fuck him yet. I’m going to show him what a fight with me is like. I lay in on his face, right, left, right, feeling my arms move like pistons, heavy machinery meant for destruction, demolition. My upper back flexes and stretches, my arms coil and release. His head whips back and forth, he tries to defend himself, struggles to get his arms free, but I’m too strong, I have too much of an advantage. He’d never been attacked like this, so savagely. He didn’t know what to do.

I stop, suddenly. We’re both still. I can feel his cock slapping against my lower back as he pants. We’re both breathing heavy. I look at him, stare into his eyes. His face is a mess of colours, red and purple and blue, but his eyes shine through the blood that’s streaking down his face. He’s still grinning, but something’s changed. I can see it in him, he’s capitulated. We both know it.

“Do it,” he says through a mouth with slightly fewer teeth than maybe a few minutes ago.

“Fucking right.” I growl, and turn him over. He doesn’t fight, and it disappoints me, just a little.

But all disappointment is lost when I slide into him. Our sweat is all the lube I need, and I push right in and it’s heaven. I do make it more than three or four pumps, I fuck him for what seems an eternity but had to be at least a minute, both of us groaning and grunting like animals as the drug’s final effects made us bigger, stronger, hotter.

When its over, I scream like some primate, some huge wild beast. Redhead gasps beneath me, his muscle is tense and slick with sweat. He cums onto the floor moments later.

And then its all a blur as the handlers and doctors and media and Syndicate reps all start flooding in and taking us away. I’ve made it into the semi-finals, someone says. Ratings are at an all-time high, says someone else. I’m rushing, my head is buzzing with euphoria, I can’t understand a word anyone is saying. I feel so fucking good.

I sign something, and talk in front of a camera, flexing my arms and looking at the peak of my biceps, looking hot. This is what the Syndicate wants, and right now it’s what I want to give. I know they fucked over my mom, and when I win this fucking contest I’ll show ‘em, but right now let them enjoy the fucking show they’ve made us all put on.

I’m still hard, and I stroke my cock. I am so fucking ready for the next round.