Shapeshifter's blog

Had this character in my head for the past week or so so started a new, as ever scissor focused :P, short story:

With his left foot planted firmly on my heaving chest, my 15 stone, 6’ 1” opponent - the aptly self-dubbed “Nick The Tank” - flexed his expansive arms into a broad double bicep pose. He stood in his position of power with his deep red singlet pulled down from his shoulders and gathering around his waist, his chest gleamed with a sheen of sweat, the byproduct of the extended bearhug he’d inflicted upon me, intermittently squeezing and releasing, squeezing and releasing, all whilst keeping me lifted clear off the floor.

His cocky pose was undeniably hot to behold, a flared-muscle full stop to our latest round, signalling what was yet another win for him in what had already been a 40 minutes or so meet.

Laying both wonderfully sore and breathless, looking back into the full eye contact he maintained, you would think I would accept defeat, acknowledge the overwhelming advantage his four inches greater height and four stone more weight gave him; but no, I wouldn’t let him enjoy it this easily.

I speedily planned an escape, and powered through a buck of my hips and push through my heels, I tried to shift my weight and move quickly from beneath him, but with preternatural reflexes he put more of his own weight through his foot and slowly shook his head side to side, mocking my ineffective evasive manoeuvre..

It was already abundantly clear that I could match neither his strength nor skill physically, so I employed my default retaliation: my cocky mouth.

I allowed the natural teaser in me to surface - that inner voice that so often had a comeback and so eternally sought further dominating, restraining or constricting punishment from men like this - and with a lick of my exertion-dried lips I simply called him a: “Bitch”.

Nick mirrored the grin I wore as I said this but his eyes flickered with a special menace. I knew that word, as basic as it was, hit him in its own special way. I had discovered it during the exchange of our many dozens of pre-match messages. It was a button I was equally excited and nervous to press, and I eagerly awaited his response.

Moving his pec flattening foot from my chest to the left side of my head, he moved to stand astride me, his right foot repositioning to the opposite side.

“You wanna say that again, jobber?” He asked, looking down at me along the thick contours of his body.

A bead of sweat that had trickled its way to the tip of his nose dropped to splash on the mat beside my tauntingly resistant face as I replied “Oh you heard me, bitch” and just as I’d hoped from his setup, he bent at the knees and dropped down, landing his thick ass right on top of my chest.

I’d tensed up on the descent, sharply drawing in and holding a breath as I braced for the controlled impact of the mass I’d already surrendered to countless times, but the focused weight still caused air to involuntarily be squashed out of my lungs and made it virtually impossible to take in another.

He held this pin for several seconds, enjoying the look of my clearly straining face and the appearance thereupon of my pressure swollen veins, widening the placement of his feet so as not to unbalance and roll back before repositioning to have his knees either side of my head, his ass still on top of me.

With his weight partially distributed through his legs the pin became more tolerable - I could now, with effort, breathe - but I was still pinned and much to his delight no amount of struggling was unseating him.

“This is what you get when you take on the Tank, little man” he laughs, and couldn’t help but flex once again, showing off his hard earned muscle before reaching a hand behind my head and pulling me face first into his crotch. He held me there firmly as he brought his legs together to secure the lock and free up his hand.

“The question is” he said, though this was entirely unheard by me as I lay deafened by his thighs and wholly distracted by the masculine-scent-soaked breaths I was forced to inhale by nose through his gear “What do I do with you now?”

He playfully folded his arms as he did this, as though he was entirely distracted in deep and meaningful thought, when in fact he had already made his decision. He had made it as he was looking down at my face laying defeated between his feet.

He had decided my head would look good not just placed between his thighs, but squeezed between his thighs, and now with an increased grip from his imprisoning legs he rolled to the side, taking me helplessly with him to enact this favoured scenario.

Once in place he took his time to extend his legs, knowing all too well I would be powerless to both escape or stop them, and casually crossed his feet at the ankle, securing the final lock on his new hold. I managed to wriggle my head a little and secure better airflow, him enjoying the sound of my exertion in doing so and the feel of my breath as it washed over his gear, but was entirely unable to escape his head-devouring grip.

“Got you in my Danger Zone, jobber” he said, lifting the leg that formed the top of the scissor just enough that I could now hear him.

“The what?” I asked, the sound of his lycra singlet brushing against my ear having partially obscured what he’d said, hearing how my own voice sounded small as it was mostly absorbed by the wall of quads around me.

“The deepest, thickest part of my thighs” he said, using the hand that wasn’t propping up his head to pat and direct my already focused attention to this most prized feature “The Danger Zone”, and before I could say another word my head was enveloped again and I felt his thighs swell as he straightened his legs.

There was no need for him to recruit his adductors into this, those inner muscles remained on hold as the pure thickness of his legs being taken to extension successfully narrowed the gap around my neck, holding it a few increments below the pressure that would get him a tap, and maintained this squeezing hold.

Had I any sense of time it would have been a little over three minutes that he did this before he spoke again, but so lost was I in enjoying the embrace, trying to breathe, trying to withstand the pressure, trying to feel for the slightest muscle twitch to suggest he was going to go full crush, that I had entirely lost track of it.

“You’ll be feeling all stuffy by now” he narrated with pride “These legs really close off the flow of blood, I’ll bet your head feels like it’s about to explode”

Laid on my side, deep in his hot and smothering crotch, my left hand reached over to pitifully grab his upper thigh in the most vain attempt to pull it back and relieve some pressure. My right hand, entirely unable to work its way beneath his lower leg, remained useless. I briefly considered balling that hand into a fist to pound on his back, but why rattle the cage of the beast that was already so easily dominating me?

“I’m ready for your tap now” he gloated, and with a fresh flex of his thighs I hammered my submission.

He was always aware of his strength, and though I knew I was nowhere close to his full power it had been enough to gain him another win. He released the hold and rolled on to his stomach - being careful not to let my head drop suddenly as he granted it release - then pushed up on to his knees.

I laid for a moment in a heady combination of groggy bliss.

For once my opponent wasn’t off to the side enjoying another flex, he simply knelt and watched me pull myself from my reverie and move into my own kneeling position opposite him.