In A Lariat Joust, Loser Ended Up Crashing Into Rock-hard Bicep At Full Speed.

In a Lariat Joust, loser ended up crashing into rock-hard bicep at full speed.

Hairy sweaty muscle stud caught in a chickenwing headlock struggles violently for minutes, unable to escape, as the attacker calmly squeezes his bicep and sniffs his sleepy head

The Price of Negligence (2)

"Ha...ha..."

The quietness is tense. Gasping for air, Carl struggles to support his defenseless body. Bronx, without a word, walks up and stoops down to assess the damage done.

"Hmm..." Bronx shakes his head in dissatisfaction. Carl is apparently too tough to go under with one shot. He may need a booster, or two maybe.

Bronx catches one of his legs, and tucks his neck under his armpit. This is one of his signature moves, The Cradle. His sanity is all gone, but his fighter's muscle memory is well intact. He still knows how to punish his victim, with styles.

Bronx gives his cradled partner an extra juice-extracting squeeze, then swiftly flips him over his should. The paralyzing damage will be fully dealt to his defenseless back neck. And the leg hug not only adds humiliation, but effecting doubles up the pain by crushing the entire body weight against the floor.

-THUD-

Surprisingly, it is again a silent moment. Carl is visibly damaged, but still does not let out an audible groan. He is too well-trained to show his weakness in a fight, but his spirit is being crushed rapidly. Weak and limp, he starts to gasp for air to relieve him of the agony.

But Bronx doesn't want to give him any time to recover. Because in his subconsciousness he still knows his partner is no ordinary wrestler. He needs to be tamed quickly.

Bronx picks Carl up, and routes his arm behind him, applying an immobilizing hammerlock. As Carl's drowsy eyes start to open, Bronx start to raise his sweat-drenched bestial arm for the second time.

"I underestimated your toughness last time. Now watch closely what is going to smack you down!"

Fear, pure fear, starts to devour Carl's spirit for the first time.

"...Bronx...please...stop...buddy..."

But Carl's murmur is too weak to be heard.

Bronx raises his arm, still dripping sweat, like an experienced executioner raising his ax. Carl summons all the strength, but his both arms are locked so snugly he can hardly wiggle. He realizes his neck is set up for a line drive.

A deafening ROAR.

💥

Sweat splashes and hits the walls like shotguns. Carl is sent a 450 degree back flip before crash onto the floor, facing down.

No one can survive such impact. This usually does not cause concussion, because the victim's neck will simply be broken first.

Except for Carl.

But even him cannot eat such attack without substantial damage. He is now totally subject to Bronx's mercy.

But Bronx is deprived of mercy. He is simply a lustful animal. He decides that it is time to buffet.

In the darkness, Carl feels as if a slimy and funky python starts to coil around his neck, cutting oxygen and blood supply to his brain. He is gently taken back down on the ground, body pinched by relentlessly thick and tight thighs. But what makes him extremely horny and uncomfortable are Bronx heels, which are precisely positioned to obstruct his pumping manhood that erects from his waning consciousness.

"...Bronx...let...me...g.."

"Shh...no need to spit a word." Bronx visibly flexes his bicep to tighten the coil. Meanwhile, he softly covers Carl's eyes and nose with his drenched palm. Carl lets out a weak groan as soon as his nose is covered, possibly from the nerve-wrecking odor, but quickly quiets down, speechless.

Every time Carl chokes from the Bronx's sweat that pours from his arm into his half-opened mouth, Bronx moves to cover Carl's mouth and then give a excruciating squeeze, making Carl half-spit and half-swallow his bodily fluid.

All Carl can feel is wetness, heat and rocky muscles. Every time he makes the smallest struggle, he would hear soft whispers telling him to relaxed, with a starkly contrasting shot of punishment around the neck and groin forcing him to stop.

He prefers blackout, but he is not allowed to. The odor forced into his nose and the taste of sweat trickling into his mouth, and the swallow-spit cycles keep him far away from dreamland.

He does not know what will be the end for him tonight.

Will Bronx sober up? Before he is mutilated into unrecoverable disability?

He doesn't dare to think how Bronx is going to vent out the excessive masculinity tonight. What is the worst he should expect?

Only one thing he knows for sure.

The Bad Brothers have won.