Dirty Fighters

but his body was the same compact build as mine. He wore his dark brown hair in the same style as me. His face was softer and more round. I had a rougher look, which some might even call ruggedly handsome, but Striker he was just stunningly beautiful. Just when my eyes were starting to take a full appreciative look of his body, he turned his head and locked his gaze onto mine.
    Not wanting to be caught admiring him, I narrowed my eyes and glared. Half smiling, he scowled back at me. We were only about a foot apart, and I couldn't tell if he wanted to hit me or kiss me. I wasn't friends with any of the guys I fought against, I didn’t talk to them outside of arranging fights so I knew nothing about any of them. This was the longest conversation I’d ever had with Striker and I had only really said a few words. He was gorgeous, and if I had met him anywhere else I would have taken him home and fucked him. But I don't make a habit of sleeping with guys and then beating the shit out of them.
    "When are we having a rematch?" I asked. My voice sounded raspier than usual and my throat still burned when I spoke.
    Striker shook his head. "There won't be a rematch. This was my last fight, I’m getting too old to keep making excuses for why I have bruises and tired of people assuming I’m always starting fights. I used to really love fighting and it was great for releasing tension but I’m ready to find a new release that doesn’t leave bruises and broken bones."
    "What the fuck? That can't be your last fight; you have to give me a rematch. We have a two-two tie, you can’t let it end like that," I said raising my voice as loud as I could, ignoring my sore throat.
    "I told Buddy before the fight this would be my last one. I don't see the problem ending with a tie. Equal!" he snapped back.
    "It’s unsportsmanlike to refuse the looser a rematch. Stop being such a pussy," I said probably sounding childish, but I wanted my rematch. I had to win our last fight, I had to be at the top.
    He looked thoughtful for a minute, grinning at me slyly, "I thought you might say something like that so I will give you a rematch but I have a few stipulations."
    "And those would be what?" I asked irritably, he sounded like a diva. “You need your own pansy-ass dressing room?”
    "I was thinking it would be at my house, no audience, and just grappling. That way you won’t be as embarrassed when I make you my bitch."
    It was on the tip of my tongue to say no because I liked striking, and wanted to give him matching black eyes, but I’m very competitive and I wanted a rematch. And although I preferred fighting with my fists, grappling could be a good release of tension. "When are we going to do this?"
    He gave me a playful grin before responding, "Tonight, if you're up for it, that is." Even if I wasn't feeling up to it, I wouldn't have been able to refuse the challenge in his statement. I just nodded my head. "If you think you’re okay to drive, you can just follow me home or you can ride with me if you want,” Striker said as he pulled sweats on over his athletic shorts. I got up and went to do the same.
    Finished putting my clothes and shoes on, I turned around to see Striker watching me from the bottom of the stairs, his bag thrown over his shoulder. I grabbed my bag and went over to him. He motioned me to go up first. I waited by our cars while he shut off the lights and locked the doors.

    "I live about 30 minutes from here, if you're sure you can drive, and are up for another fight,” Striker said as he approached the cars.
    "I'm fine," I grunted. "Let’s go."

    ****

    "Are you sure you don't want to shower first?" Striker asked for the second time since arriving at his house a few minutes ago. I shook my head, like I did when he offered a drink or asked if I wanted to relax on his couch.
    “I just want to get to the grappling. Why shower when we will just be getting sweaty again?” I asked irritably.
    “Okay, have it your way,” he said with another smirk before sauntering into his room. A few minutes later, he came out in just a bright red jockstrap. There's no way he could have fought earlier in this jock, with how little support it provided. His cock and balls were barely contained in that small front pouch. The jock was only held up by the thin waist strap, which was barely above the base of his cock, a couple inches below his waist. Then an even thinner strap from the base of the fabric below Striker's balls looped