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The roar of the crowd. The blinding radiance of the lights. The frantic sparkling of the cameras. The smell of sweat. The tension in my muscles. The feeling of skin-tight lycra riding up my buttocks and hugging my pussy. The almost painful titillation of my stiff nipples straining against my sports-bra. The thrill of victory. The thrill of defeat as well. The satisfaction of slamming someone’s body against the mat, or being knocked down myself. The orgasmic climax of pinning my opponent to the count of five, or eliminating them with a brutal knockout.
I loved everything about it. I was born to be an extreme sex-fighter, just like Mom.
Today was qualifying match. The winner would move up in ranking from C-Rank to B-Rank, essentially moving them from semi-pro into fully professional. The loser would get knocked down to Mid-C, where they’d probably be stuck for the rest of the season. It was a big deal, but I wasn’t sweating it. I was winning, and the crowd was on my side.
My opponent was a cute boy. 19, maybe 20, a little younger than me. His wrestling name was “Sparrowhawk,” which was a play on his real name, Stan Hawk. He had a stylized sparrow emblem on the crotch of his thong-speedo, which was the only thing he wore besides his boots. He was a little shorter than me, petite for a boy, but in incredibly cut shape, with tight rectangular pectorals and six perfectly chiselled abs. He had an unblemished babyface without a hint of facial hair, large green eyes, and messy light-brown hair. He had the face of a boy-band pop-star, but the body of a professional athlete. A delicious combination. Too bad his crotch wasn’t packing much, otherwise he’d be exactly my type, but as much as I liked cute boys, cock-size was the absolute most essential quality. I’d take a toad with a huge dick over a cherub with a nub any day. I was a size-queen. Mom said I got that from her.
Sparrowhawk looked worried, scared even. That frightened look on his cute face really got me wet. Not only was I taller than him, but my massively rotund breasts were about as broad as his shoulders, and I had as much muscle in my pronounced buttocks as he did in his entire body. I had plenty more power packed into my legs and core, but the real source of my strength was my herculean ass. It was the focus of my training, the secret of the technique my mother developed. “Putting my ass into it” wasn’t just an expression, it was my entire philosophy.
Poor little Sparrowhawk was outmatched, but he was taking his inevitable loss with grace. I respected that. He was excited as well. His male-thong was so tight that it outlined his erection. Five inches, marginally thick. I was flattered. I loved it when the boys I beat up got big juicy boners. There was really no greater praise from an opponent than that.
I didn’t blame the kid. I’m real hot piece of ass. Tall, blonde, blue-eyed, angelic face, puffy lips, huge watermelon tits, toned stomach, narrow waist, profuse buttocks, thick thighs, strong legs, and an attitude to match. I was an 11 out of 10, a nuclear-bomb of teenage spunky sexuality. Even though I was just 20 years old I had a body like Jessica Rabbit on steroids, and my curves still weren’t as insane as my mother’s.
My wrestling costume didn’t leave much to the imaginations either. I wore a pink one-piece, but it was about as skimpy as a one piece could be. A narrow stretch of lycra was the only thing covering my plump vagina, and it disappeared into the deep crevice of my ass like a g-string. Two windows were cut out of it, one bearing my midsection to display my six-pack abs, and another over my breasts just to accentuate them further. It was pink. My favorite color. I wore a pair of knee-high boots, and a mask, though the mask was just a skimpy piece of flare. It’s not as if anyone didn’t know who I was. I kept my long blonde hair tied up in long twin-tails. It was a risky style choice. Hair pulling was permitted in the ESFL, but anyone cocky enough to pull my hair got a knee to the groin. “Pull my hair and I WILL pop one of your testicles,” I had warned Sparrowhawk a little earlier, and I had meant it. I’m woman of my word.
I am Bunny Bunker, daughter of Barbara Bunker. The second extreme sex-fighter to bare the name “Bunker Buster,” and I intend to be the youngest world champion in the history of the ESFL.
I rose from E to C rank undefeated, and I intended to get from C to B the same way. The only obstacle I had left was poor little Sparrowhawk, shaking before me in his little baby-boy boots like a pillow-biting bitch.
Sparrowhawk finally came at me. He was desperate to get a hit in. He charged with his arm out, hoping to clothesline me in the neck. Dumb. You should never telegraph a power-move like that. He should have tried to bounce me off the ropes first so I’d be distracted.
I caught his arm and twisted. I spun around, using my huge butt to center my gravity. I threw him into the ropes so hard that when he bounced off it casino oyna he literally flew back at me. I slammed my big round breasts into his face. My chest-pillows hit him with the force of boxing-gloves. He landed on his back so hard that they whole mat shook with the impact. The crowd cheered. I giggled, winked, and blew a kiss to the closest camera. Cheesing it up was part of the show, and I loved putting on a show. If I was going to be successful in B-Rank I’d need corporate sponsors, and the sponsors loved a showman.
Sparrowhawk tried to recover by grabbing my legs. Pathetic. I kicked his thighs apart and then stomped on his crotch. My foot flattened his dick against his hip, and my heel dug into his little purse. Sparrowhawk whimpered painfully. The crowed cheered again, especially the women. The ESFL attracted a certain kind of female audience, the kind that got wet watching boys being humiliated.
Sparrowhawk clutched his balls and leaned up. I grabbed the back of his head and kneed him in the face. He fell back, nearly unconcious. I could have knocked him out and won the match right there if I had wanted, but that would have been anticlimactic. I wanted to graduate from C-Rank with some style.
I grabbed Sparrowhawk by his feet and dragged him to the center of the mat. I left him there, dazed and unmoving. I ran to the turnbuckle and climbed it like a stripper climbing a pole. I made sure to thrust my ass out, giving the cameras a generous view of my big juicy hams, and I leaned forward to expose as much of my cleavage as possible. I wanted this picture to be on the front page of every wrestling and sports website for the rest of the week. I wanted the ESFL to make a poster of this moment, the kind that boys the world over would frantically masterbate to. I wanted this moment to be iconic.
I performed my signature move, the one mom and I spent years perfecting.
I jumped off the turnbuckle and backflipped. I held my legs and thrust my buttocks outward. The g-string of my costume dug into my anus and pussy. Air rushed by me like a torrent. I built up as much momentum as physically possible, and when I landed on Sparrowhawk my butt impacted his stomach with the force of the meteor that wiped out the dinosaurs. The crash sent tremors through the mat, and filled the entire stadium with a loud echoing thunderclap.
Sparrowhawk’s mouth opened to scream, but no sound came out. He couldn’t even exhale. I has basically flattened him with my massive ass. His big pretty green eyes sparkled with inconceivable pain, and then went dull. His pupils rolled up into his skull until just the whites showed, and then he fell back, unconscious and defeated.
There was no five-count for Sparrowhawk. This was a victory by knockout.
The referee came over and grabbed my wrist, thrusting it skyward to declare my victory. The crowd exploded with adulation at the exact same time my pussy gushed with cum. I was orgasming. Hot cum rolled down my legs and dripped of my thighs, most of it splashing down on Sparrowhawk’s unconscious face. I screamed. This feeling was better than sex.
I turned and kissed the referee. She was pretty cute, though not my normal type. She had neon-blue hair and thickly applied mascara. An emo-goth-scene kind of girl. She had a great set of perky tits though, and her nipples showed through the thin material of her balck-n-white striped halter-top. Other than that the only thing she had on was a black g-string and a whistle.
She tried to push me away. Wrestlers weren’t supposed to fraternize with the referees. I didn’t let her get away though. I grabbed her tight little ass and squeezed it so hard that there were going to be bruises in the shape of my palms. She moaned and wiggled. I pinned her against a turnbuckle and began humping her, slamming my wet pussy into hers. She was aroused already. It was hard not to watch an ESFL match and not get aroused.
The crowd laughed and cheered me on as I forced myself upon the blue-haired bitch. I tore at her thin halter-top until her nipples were exposed. One of them was pierced. Cute, but not my thing. I tweaked it as I humped her. That was obviously one of her triggers, because she came suddenly and violently, and began humping me back. She broke our kiss and screamed.
I backed off at the peak of her orgasm and left her hanging from the turnbuckle, her arms and legs tangled in the ropes. Her g-string was so soaked that it was dripping, and a sheen of sweat broke out over her whole body. She started crying, probably from the mixture of frustration and joy. Black rivers of mascara ran down her cheeks. A moment later she went limp. I giggled. I had actually knocked her out with an orgasm. She slowly slumped forward and fell on her face, her body gentle spasming from an orgasmic afterquake.
“BUNKER! BUNKER! BUNKER!” the crowed chanted. My heart fluttered with pure joy. I was in heaven. slot oyna
“Congrats, hunny-butt,” my mother said to me as she climbed into the ring. As my coach she could do that. She looked amazing. Tall, blonde, amazonian, with even bigger tits and a bigger ass than me, and almost all of her curvacious body was pure female muscle, not that it showed on her divinely youthful face. Mommy dressed to impress, wearing a form-fitting white suit comprised of a breast-hugging blazer and mini pencil-skirt. The heels she wore were tall and sharp, like stilettos. The crowd cheered for her as well. She was Barbara Bunker, former world champion for three years running from 2097 to 2100. The original “Bunker Buster.”
I wanted to hug and kiss her, but my body was dripping with sweat and cum. She’d kill me if I messed up her clothes. Luckily I had something to distract me.
“I figured you’d want the extra-large one,” my mother said. “I know he’s a little petite, but I bet this boy has some experience taking things up his butt. I pegged him for a faggot the moment I saw him.”
I giggled. “Yeah. I get a bit of a butt-slut vibe from him too, not that there’s anything wrong with that.”
Mom handed me a big strap-on dildo made of neon-pink jelly-plastic and a big bottle of lubricant. The dildo was a really hefty motherfucker. Ten inches long and as thick as my wrist. The crowd loved seeing the big ones, even if they were impractical.
I strapped the dildo on and began pouring lubricant onto it with big, thick, sloppy dollops. So much that it poured off the shaft and onto the mat. I worked the dildo like I was masterbating an actual penis, and the crowd really responded. I wasn’t faking my arousal either. I was still horny as hell and desperate to cum again. As I jerked the big pink dick, I pulled at the sides of my uniform, eventually freeing my heaving tits, and giving my stiff pink nipples some fresh air. The crowd screamed. Someone fainted. More than a hundred men in the crowd were nutting themselves, along with untold thousands watching on the internet. Tonight was going to make me a global celebrity . . . At least I hoped.
I squatted over Sparrowhawk’s head and began slapping him in the face with my pink dildo. Lube smeared over his cheeks and lips, making him all messy.
“Wake up, sleepyhead. It’s time to get fucked.”
Sparrowhawk woke up with a terrified expression. “No! WAIT!”
I giggled as I pushed the dildo into his mouth and gagged him. “Suck my fat pink dick, you little bitch.”
Sparrowhawk was not a good cock-sucker, although to be fair, even a talented cocksucker would have some trouble swallowing my thick dildo. Sparrowhawk basically just choked and struggled for air, floundering like a fish out of water as I cock-knocked the back of his throat. Before he could pass out or vomit, I pulled out and cock-slapped him across the face again, this time hard enough to leave a bruise.
“Get your skinny ass up, faggot! I’m gonna have some fun with that butthole of yours,” I snickered as I grabbed his hair and yanked him to his feet.
The poor baby could barely stand on his own. I spun him around and ran him face-first into the turnbuckle. I tore his thong off with one yank, and he screamed as the elastic material snapped over his anus like a rubberband.
I picked his legs up and put them through the ropes, leaving his cute little butt at my mercy. I pushed my tits against his back and aimed the slippery dildo up against his anus. His backdoor was tiny and tight. He may have even been an anal-virgin, dispelling my mother’s theory that he was a butt-bitch.
“Wait! Please!” he whimpered like a little boy being bullied by a mean girl. “You don’t have to do this!”
“You’re right, I don’t . . .” the privilege of humiliation was at the victor’s discretion. In the ESFL, the victor of any match ‘owned’ the loser afterwards, and could do to them almost anything aside from mutilation or murder. “. . . but I want to.”
I wrapped my arms around his shoulders and pushed him down. I thrust upward with my hips, driving the thick dildo up his anus and all the way into his brain (it seemed). I fucked the little boy with all the angry force of an elephant fucking pig. Each of my thrusts was powerful enough to shatter his hipbone if I had wanted to. Sparrowhawk squealed and gurgled as I flattened his prostate, and no doubt he felt unimaginable humiliation as I railed him in front of a stadium of ten thousand people, and several million watching from home. A small audience by ESFL standards, but this was a D-Rank match. A-Rank matches had viewerships numbering in the tens of millions. I was going to get there one day soon. Sparrowhawk wasn’t.
“Have fun in C-Rank, kid,” I whispered into his ear, and licked his earlobe. I reached around his waist and grabbed his substandard cock. It was smaller than I had expected, though it fit into the palm of my hand comfortably, like a thick eggroll. I canlı casino siteleri jerked his short dick as I rammed the foot-long dildo in and out of his anus. He began to ejaculate. Thick spurts of boy-glue hit the turnbuckle and splashed over my hand. Sparrowhawk had little balls, but he cum quite a bit, but that was probably because I flattening his prostate.
His wiggled uselessly, whimpered one last time, then went limp, his head rolling to the side. He was out cold. Anal knockout. I was on fire today.
I pulled my dildo out of his anus so quickly that it made an audible “POP!” and left his rectum gaping and distended. Without my tits holding him up he began to slump backwards, slowly falling to the mat just like the referee in the other corner.
I was now a member of B-Rank in the Extreme Sex-Fighting League, the largest athletic organization in the world, even bigger than FIFA or the Olympics, both of which the ESFL surpassed in the 2080s.
I felt like a goddess, and I literally jumped for joy. The audience seemed to enjoy watching my big tits bouncing as i skipped around the mat. Even mom looked proud.
I stripped my suit off as I walked to the lockers. Not the crummy C-Rank lockers, but the state-of-the-art B-Rank lockers. Graduation was immediate. The validation was glorious. I handed my sweat and cum soaked uniform to my little brother, Bucky. Mom forced him to be my equipment manager since he wasn’t nearly as good as a fighter as I was, and would probably spend his whole life in E-Rank or D-Rank. He only became a sex-fighter because he was a rabid little horndog who wanted to fuck the shit out of anything he could get his hands on. A violent fuck-fest like the ESFL was a perfect place for a sociopathic little rapist like him. He could beat up and fuck the shit out of little girls all day, and people would applaud him for it. He was not a natural athlete though, not like mom and me. We were gods, he was a clod.
“Don’t sniff the crotch, perv,” I joked. “You’re eighteen now. It’s inappropriate for a boy your age to perv on his big sister.”
“Whatever,” Bucky groaned and rolled his eyes, though I could see the little chubby twitching in his pants.
Bucky was a cute boy. Blonde, blue-eyed, and a little freckly. He was strong, thanks to mom’s genes, but he was cursed with a penis that was . . . Well . . . Average. Average wasn’t bad. It wasn’t good either. No one got excited for average in the ESFL. People wanted to see big studs with huge fat cocks. Anything less than ten inches was a disappointment. Bucky had the family’s insatiable libido though. Bucky fucked anything he could get his hands on. Anything. Animal, vegetable, or inanimate. He fucked it furiously. I think he lost his virginity to our couch, and mom had to pick him up from school more than once when he got his dick stuck in something. He was the reason I could never have a pet. Anytime mom bought a watermelon he’d end up cutting a tiny hole in it to shove his tiny dick in. Bucky was a fucking sex-fiend.
Bucky had tried to force himself on me a hundred times by now, but I never let him. The last time he crawled into my bed and tried to fuck me in my sleep, I kicked his ass, rammed a dildo up his butt, put a leash on him, and pulled him around the yard like I was walking a dog. I think he had learned his lesson, for awhile at least. The most I would do for him was a simple handjob, and that was just because he was slightly easier to deal with post-orgasm, after the poison was drained a bit.
Before I entered the lockers Mom spanked my bare ass to get my attention.
“I’m getting a news crew over here for an interview. You’re going to give them a small statement, but go get showered up first. I want you looking fresh and sexy.”
“Yes, Mommy,” I agreed, though what I really wanted was a long hot shower and a few hours to relax and masterbate. Mom was right though. Publicity mattered. Extreme Sex-Fighting wasn’t just a sport, it was an entertainment industry.
My first shower in the B-Rank locker-room felt like a baptism. It was so much more equipped and modern than the C-Rank locker-room that I knew I could never go back. The C-Rank amenities were more basic than what my high-school lockers had, really just lockers, benches, and dirty toilets, not to mention how overcrowded it had been. In B-Rank, not only did I get my own locker tall, but I also got my own toilet stall, and access to special privileges in ESFL owned gyms and facilities. I was also finally eligible for endorsements, which was where the real money was, though I wouldn’t be making the big bucks until I made it to A-Rank.
The ESFL was not shy about how strictly it enforced a culture of hierarchy and classism. A-Rank fighters were treated like gods. B-Rank were demigods and heroes. C-Rank were semi-professionals with dedicated fan bases. D-Rank were amateurs with promise. E-Rank initiates were treated like shit. Non-league wrestlers—euphemistically referred to as ‘F-Rank,’ or ‘Franks’—were less than shit. Bucky was lucky to have made it into E-Rank, and if he ever bothered to actually practice instead of just masterbate all day, he might one day make it to D-Rank.
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