Chapter 2: Unbearable Submission
Kenji’s hand remained locked in Marcus’s short hair, an anchor point as Marcus fought the overwhelming urge to gag again. The thick head of Kenji’s cock bumped relentlessly against the back of his throat, a relentless, stretching pressure that made his jaw ache and his eyes water. Saliva pooled, overflowing his stretched lips and dripping in thick strands down his chin, onto his oiled chest, mingling with the sheen already coating his pecs.
"Relax," Kenji murmured, his voice a low thrum vibrating faintly through the shaft filling Marcus’s mouth. Not a plea. An order. He pushed forward again, the movement unhurried but inexorable. Marcus felt his throat spasm, a dry heave threatening. He squeezed his eyes shut, tears leaking from the corners, tracing hot paths down his temples. He focused on breathing through his nose, ragged, whistling inhales and exhales that did little to calm the panic fluttering beneath the suffocating arousal. The sheer size of Kenji was a brutal, constant reality. It wasn't just length; it was girth, a heavy, demanding presence that owned the space inside him.
Kenji pulled back slowly, the thick shaft dragging against Marcus’s tongue, leaving a slick trail. Marcus gasped for air, coughing, his body shuddering. He kept his eyes down, fixed on the veined, glistening cock hovering inches from his face, the blunt head slick with his spit. The humiliation burned hotter than the fluorescent lights. Here he knelt, The Viking Storm, trembling on concrete, tears and drool smearing his face, utterly conquered by the smaller man’s flesh.
"Open," Kenji commanded, his voice devoid of inflection. He tapped Marcus’s bottom lip with the head of his cock. "Wider."
Marcus obeyed, a low whine escaping him. He tilted his head back, opening his mouth as wide as he could manage, presenting himself. Kenji didn’t thrust. He simply fed himself back in, inch by agonizing inch, watching Marcus’s face with detached intensity. Marcus felt the stretch intensify, the pressure building at the back of his throat, the ridge of the head breaching the tight ring of muscle. He gagged violently, body jerking, pulling back instinctively. Kenji’s grip in his hair tightened like steel cables, holding him firmly in place.
"Take it," Kenji growled, a hint of impatience edging his tone. He pushed forward, forcing himself deeper against Marcus's resisting throat. Marcus choked, the sound wet and desperate. Tears streamed freely now. His hands, which had been braced on his massive thighs, clenched into fists, knuckles white, the only outlet for the storm of conflicting sensations – the suffocating intrusion, the sharp humiliation, and the relentless, shameful throb of his own neglected cock, still hard and leaking pre-cum onto the cold concrete beneath him.
Kenji began a slow, punishing rhythm. He’d pull back almost completely, letting Marcus gasp for a single, precious breath, then drive forward again, deep, aiming for the throat. Each time Marcus gagged, each choked sob, seemed only to spur Kenji on. He started fucking Marcus’s face with more force, pulling his head forward onto his cock with each thrust.
"Yeah," Kenji breathed, his own breath starting to hitch slightly. "That’s it. Choke on it, big man. Choke on what you don’t have." His free hand came down, gripping Marcus’s jaw, forcing his mouth open wider. "Feel it? Feel how deep I go?" He slammed in hard, holding deep. Marcus’s vision greyed at the edges. He couldn’t breathe. Panic flared, primal. He scrabbled weakly at Kenji’s thighs, but the compact muscle was like stone beneath his slick fingers.
Kenji held him impaled for a long, terrifying moment before pulling back just enough for Marcus to drag in a ragged, sobbing breath.
"Good boy," Kenji murmured, the praise laced with condescension as sharp as a blade. He resumed the rhythm, faster now, more forceful. The wet, obscene sounds of his cock plunging into Marcus’s throat filled the alcove – a rhythmic gulp-slurp-gag that drowned out the distant crowd roar. Marcus was reduced to a vessel, his body trembling, tears and snot mixing with spit on his face, his throat burning, his mind fragmented between terror and a perverse, dizzying arousal centered entirely on the brutal invasion. Kenji’s control was absolute, his dominance a tangible force pressing Marcus down into the concrete.
Kenji’s hips began to stutter, his thrusts becoming shorter, harder, more erratic. His breathing grew harsh. He slammed deep one final time, grinding his hips against Marcus’s face, burying his cock to the root. Marcus felt the hot, thick pulse deep in his throat before the first jet hit. Kenji groaned, low and guttural, as he came, flooding Marcus’s mouth and throat. The taste was overwhelming – salty, musky, thick. Marcus gagged violently, trying to pull away, but Kenji held his head locked, forcing him to swallow. Hot spurts pumped down his throat, impossible to avoid. He swallowed convulsively, desperately, the bitter tang coating his tongue, the sheer volume making his eyes bulge.
Finally, Kenji released his grip on Marcus’s head and jaw. He pulled his softening cock out with a slick pop. Marcus collapsed forward onto his hands, coughing violently, retching, strings of thick spit and cum dangling from his lips. His throat felt raw, abraded. He gasped, sucking in great lungfuls of the stale backstage air, his massive shoulders heaving. The taste lingered, a brutal reminder.
Kenji stood over him, tucking himself back into his trunks with infuriating calm. He looked down at Marcus’s wrecked form, a faint sheen of sweat on his own defined chest the only sign of exertion. He nudged Marcus’s shoulder with his foot. Not hard. A casual dismissal.
"Clean yourself up, Eriksson," Kenji said, his voice back to its usual cool detachment, though laced with undeniable satisfaction. "Prejudging results are about to be announced." He paused, letting the implication hang in the thick air. "Wouldn't want to look like you've been crying backstage."
Marcus flinched. He stayed hunched over, spitting onto the concrete, trying to clear the vile taste, the humiliation a cold weight settling deep in his gut, heavier than any barbell. Kenji’s footsteps echoed as he walked away, leaving Marcus alone on his knees in the harsh light, the roar of the unseen crowd swelling like the pounding in his own head. The stage awaited. The competition. The judgement. But the real defeat, the undeniable submission, had already happened here, in the shadows, tasted on his tongue. He wiped his slick, tear-streaked face with the back of his hand, the scent of Kenji’s release clinging to his skin. He had to move. He had to stand. But the ground felt miles away.
The roar from the arena vibrated through the concrete floor, a mocking counterpoint to the silence pressing down on Marcus. He spat again, the bitter tang of Kenji’s release stubbornly coating his tongue, mixing with the metallic taste of humiliation. His throat burned, raw and abraded, a visceral reminder of the smaller man’s brutal ownership. Every ragged breath felt like swallowing glass. He needed to move, to stand, to reclaim some fucking shred of dignity before facing the stage lights and the judges' scrutinising eyes. But his massive legs felt leaden, welded to the cold floor, his mind reeling from the sheer violation. The discarded towels nearby seemed to mock him, useless rags against the stain soaking into his psyche.
"Get up, Eriksson." Kenji's voice cut through the haze, calm, detached. He hadn't left. He stood a few feet away, leaning against a stacked flight case plastered with old competition stickers, observing Marcus with unnerving stillness. His sculpted chest rose and fell evenly, barely flushed. He looked like he'd just finished a light warm-up, not ruthlessly face-fucking a man twice his size. "Judges won't wait for your pity party." He pushed off the crate, taking a deliberate step closer. His gaze, sharp and assessing, raked over Marcus's hunched form, lingering on the tear tracks cutting through his oiled cheeks, the shine of drying spit on his chest. A flicker of something unreadable – amusement, contempt? – crossed his impassive features. "Look at you. Pathetic." The word was delivered softly, almost conversationally, but it landed like a hammer blow.
A surge of raw, impotent fury ignited in Marcus’s gut, momentarily burning through the fog of shame. His fists clenched, knuckles cracking, the urge to lunge, to crush that infuriating calm, almost overwhelming his battered self-control. He glared up, his vision blurry. "Fuck you, Kenji," he rasped, his voice a ruined croak, barely audible over the distant crowd. "Think this makes you better?"
Kenji simply tilted his head, a predator considering its cornered prey. "Better?" He took another step, closing the distance. "No. It makes you mine." He said it with chilling certainty. Before Marcus could react, Kenji moved with serpentine speed. Not a tackle, but a precise, devastating application of leverage, using Marcus's own bulk against him. One hand snaked behind Marcus’s neck, the other hooked under his inner thigh, near the groin.
KENJI FLIPS MARCUS
The world tilted violently. One moment Marcus was kneeling, seething; the next, his back slammed hard onto the unforgiving concrete, the breath exploding from his lungs in a pained whoosh. Stars danced before his eyes. The impact shuddered through his massive frame, jarring his spine, knocking the fury clean out of him, replacing it with stunned, gasping disbelief. He lay sprawled, momentarily paralysed, gazing up at the harsh fluorescent tubes buzzing overhead, the exposed pipes snaking across the ceiling. Kenji loomed over him, straddling his waist, his compact weight suddenly crushing, pinning Marcus’s hips. Marcus’s own neglected cock, still thick and leaking, twitched against the rough fabric of his posing trunks, trapped beneath Kenji’s ass.
Kenji shifted, grinding his pelvis down deliberately, the hard curve of his ass cheeks pressing against Marcus’s trapped erection. Marcus gasped, a strangled sound escaping his raw throat. Kenji leaned forward, bracing his hands on Marcus’s oil-slicked pectorals, his face inches away. The faint scent of his own cum still lingered on Kenji’s skin, mingling with sweat and coconut oil. "Big man lying flat," Kenji murmured, his breath warm against Marcus's cheek. "Where you belong." He ground down again, harder, the pressure sending a jolt of unwanted, shameful pleasure straight through Marcus’s core, making his cock throb painfully against its confinement. "All that muscle," Kenji continued, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous purr, "and you can't even stop me from putting you on your back." His hand slid down Marcus’s heaving abdomen, fingers tracing the deep grooves of his obliques with mocking reverence, then lower, over the straining fabric covering Marcus’s groin. He palmed the thick bulge, squeezing ruthlessly. Marcus arched off the concrete with a choked cry, a mixture of pain and intense, humiliating arousal tearing through him. "Look at this," Kenji sneered, giving Marcus's trapped cock another rough squeeze, making him whimper. "Still hard for me. After I made you choke on my load. You like being used, Eriksson? Like being my filthy cocksleeve?" He leaned closer, his lips brushing Marcus’s ear. "Admit it. You need this." His free hand moved to the waistband of Marcus’s posing trunks. "Time for the main event."
Kenji’s fingers dug into the waistband of Marcus’s flimsy posing trunks, the fabric straining over his trapped, throbbing erection. "Time for the main event," he repeated, the words dropping like stones into the tense silence between them, punctuated only by Marcus's ragged breathing and the ever-present distant roar of the arena. Marcus thrashed weakly, a bull caught in a trap, but Kenji’s compact weight and precise leverage held him immobile on the cold concrete. The fluorescent glare above seemed to spotlight his humiliation.
"Get the fuck off me!" Marcus snarled, his voice still wrecked from Kenji’s cock, laced with a desperation that betrayed his fury. He bucked his hips, trying to dislodge the smaller man, but Kenji merely ground down harder, the rough seam of his own trunks scraping against Marcus’s sensitive head through the thin material. A jolt of agonizing pleasure-pain shot through Marcus, forcing a choked gasp past his raw throat. "You bastard!"
"Quit struggling," Kenji commanded, his voice devoid of heat, utterly calm. His dark eyes held Marcus’s, unblinking. "You know you want this. Your cock’s leaking through the fabric." He shifted, deliberately sliding his ass back just enough to allow his hand better purchase. His knuckles brushed Marcus's swollen length, making him jerk. "Feels like a fucking fire hydrant. Pissed off and hard. Pathetic."
Marcus squeezed his eyes shut, humiliation a hot flood in his veins. The lingering taste of Kenji’s cum, stale and bitter on his tongue, mixed with the coppery tang of blood where he’d bitten his lip. The distant cheers felt like mockery. Kenji’s fingers tightened, gathering the black spandex into a fist. Marcus braced, muscles coiling.
KENJI RIPS TRUNKS
The sound was obscenely loud in the alcove – a brutal RRRRIIIIPPPPP of tearing fabric. Cool air rushed over Marcus’s burning skin as his cock sprang free, thick, flushed dark red, and dripping pre-cum onto his oiled abdomen. The shredded remains of his trunks hung uselessly around his upper thighs. He lay utterly exposed, his massive muscles tensed in shock, his most vulnerable part bared under the harsh light and Kenji’s merciless gaze.
"Well, well," Kenji breathed, a flicker of something predatory in his eyes as he stared at Marcus’s freed erection. "The great Viking Storm’s secret." He didn't touch it yet. He just looked, his expression unreadable. Marcus felt naked in a way he never had on stage, the air itself seeming to scrape against his sensitive flesh. His cock twitched, betraying him further. Kenji’s gaze drifted lower, past the thick shaft, taking in the heavy sac beneath. A slow, deliberate smile touched Kenji’s lips, devoid of warmth. "Not exactly compensating with that, are we, big man?"
"Fuck you!" Marcus spat, the words ripped from him, laced with shame-fueled venom. He tried to cover himself, but Kenji caught his wrists with surprising strength, pinning them to the concrete above his head with one hand. The position arched Marcus’s back, thrusting his hips up, making his exposed cock bob obscenely. Kenji’s other hand descended.
Not gently. Kenji’s calloused palm wrapped around Marcus’s thick shaft in a grip that was instantly punishing. He squeezed, his thumb digging into the swollen, leaking head. Marcus cried out, a raw, animal sound torn from his chest, his body bowing off the floor. The pain was sharp, immediate, but beneath it surged an undeniable, humiliating wave of intense sensation. His cock pulsed hotly in Kenji’s unforgiving fist.
"Let's see what this angry little fucker can really do," Kenji growled, his calm fracturing into focused intensity. He started to stroke, not with finesse, but with brutal efficiency. Up, dragging his rough palm over the sensitive head, spreading the slick pre-cum. Down, his knuckles scraping Marcus’s tight sac. Fast and hard, a relentless piston motion. "Feel that? Feel how I own this cock?"
Marcus writhed, his massive muscles straining uselessly against Kenji’s hold on his wrists and the weight on his hips. Pleasure, sharp and shameful, lanced through him with every punishing stroke, warring with the burning humiliation and the ache in his jaw and throat. Tears pricked his eyes again. "S-stop... ah! God... Kenji, stop!" he gasped, the plea escaping him before he could bite it back. He hated the whine in his voice.
"Stop?" Kenji laughed, a short, harsh bark. He leaned forward, his face close to Marcus’s, his breath hot. He twisted his hand brutally around the head on an upward stroke. Marcus yelled, his vision blurring. "You begged for it the moment you couldn’t stop staring at my bulge. Every fucking time." Kenji’s strokes became even more vicious, a brutal jackhammer rhythm that threatened to tear Marcus apart. "You wanted to see it? To know how it felt? Now you get the whole fucking show." He spat, the glob landing hot and wet on Marcus’s heaving pec, mingling with the sweat and oil. "Cum for me, Eriksson. Cum like the desperate bitch you are."
The crude command, the relentless assault on his cock, the overwhelming cocktail of pain, shame, and forced pleasure shattered something inside Marcus. A strangled sob ripped from his throat. His hips bucked uncontrollably against Kenji’s weight. His balls drew up tight, a coil of pure, agonizing tension.
Then he exploded. His release wasn't a gentle pulse; it was a violent eruption, thick ropes of cum shooting high into the air, splattering across his own oiled abs and chest, some even hitting his chin. His body convulsed, back arched impossibly high, a guttural roar tearing from his ruined throat as the brutal stimulation continued, wringing every last drop from him until it bordered on torture. He collapsed back onto the concrete, utterly spent, trembling violently, gasping like a drowning man. His vision swam, the harsh fluorescent lights above blurring into smears of white.
Kenji finally released Marcus’s wrists and his softening, oversensitive cock. He sat back on Marcus’s hips, surveying his handiwork with cold satisfaction. Marcus lay ruined beneath him: shredded trunks around his thighs, chest and abs glistening obscenely with his own release, mingled with sweat and Kenji’s spit, tears cutting tracks through the mess on his cheeks. Kenji wiped his sticky hand carelessly on the torn fabric near Marcus's hip. The distant roar of the arena surged. "Hear that?" Kenji murmured, his voice chillingly calm again. "They're calling the top five for the night show." He stood up in one fluid motion, looking down at Marcus’s devastated form. "Better get cleaned up. Wouldn’t want the judges to see their top contender looking like a used whore." He turned and walked away without a backward glance, disappearing into the warren of backstage shadows. Marcus lay exposed under the unflinching lights, the scent of sex and humiliation thick in the air, the cheers from the stage a cruel soundtrack to his utter defeat.
The harsh fluorescent buzz drilled into Marcus’s skull, echoing the ragged sawing of his own breath. Sticky wetness plastered his chest and abs – a nauseating cocktail of his own spent cum, Kenji’s earlier release reluctantly swallowed, sweat, and oil. The ripped shreds of his posing trunks clung uselessly around his thick thighs. Every nerve screamed violation. Distant cheers from the Olympia stage crescendoed, a sickening counterpoint to the wreckage Kenji had made of him on the cold concrete. Shame, thick and suffocating, threatened to drown him. He needed to move. To vanish.
A sharp gasp sliced through the humid backstage air, followed by the abrupt scuff of expensive dress shoes on concrete. Marcus flinched, his oiled skin crawling.
"Well, fuck me sideways," a man’s voice, tight with disbelief, cut through Marcus’s haze. "Is that... Eriksson?"
Marcus squeezed his eyes shut, bile rising in his abused throat. Move. Hide. But his limbs felt like lead weights welded to the floor. Footsteps approached, hesitant at first, then decisive. Multiple sets. He cracked his eyes open, wincing against the glare.
Three men stood silhouetted in the entrance to the dim alcove. The harsh corridor light behind them haloed their figures, but Marcus knew them instantly. Richard Vance, head judge, his tanned face slack with shock. Beside him, Dr. Aris Thorne, the sports physician, eyes wide behind his glasses, jaw working soundlessly. And Javier Mendez, another senior judge, hand frozen mid-reach towards his phone, likely about to capture backstage prep footage. Their crisp suits, pristine in the grimy backstage light, amplified Marcus’s utter degradation.
"Jesus Christ," Vance breathed, taking a step closer, his polished loafers avoiding a small puddle of Marcus’s spit near his head. His gaze raked over Marcus’s prone form: the gleaming mess on his torso, the tears cutting tracks through the grime on his cheeks, the angry red mark where Kenji’s grip had bruised his jaw, and most damningly, the thick, softening cock still exposed against his thigh, nestled in the ruins of black spandex. "What the absolute hell happened here, Marcus?"
Marcus tried to speak, to conjure any lie, any excuse. Only a raw, choked sound emerged, scraping his already burning throat. He flinched as Thorne crouched down, not touching him, but peering intently. The doctor's nostrils flared slightly, taking in the unmistakable, pungent scent hanging heavy in the confined space – sex, sweat, humiliation.
"Are you injured, Eriksson?" Thorne asked, his voice clinically detached, but his eyes held a flicker of something else – profound discomfort, maybe even pity. "Beyond... this?" He gestured vaguely at the overall tableau of ruin.
Marcus swallowed hard, the motion agony. His tongue felt thick, coated in the vile residue of Kenji. "T-trunk... ripped," he managed to croak, the words barely audible. It was the smallest, stupidest part of the truth. He couldn’t meet their eyes. The weight of their stares was physical, pressing him deeper into the concrete.
"Ripped?" Mendez scoffed, finally lowering his phone, his voice sharp with incredulous disdain. He pointed a manicured finger at the thick mess smeared across Marcus’s abs. "That looks like a hell of a lot more than a wardrobe malfunction, son. Did you get jumped? Assaulted?" There was a hopeful note in his question, a desperate grasp for an explanation less… personal. Less damning.
Before Marcus could formulate a response – any response – a calm, familiar voice drifted from the shadows just beyond the alcove entrance.
"He slipped."
Kenji stepped smoothly into the harsh light, holding a thick, white cotton towel. He looked utterly composed, his sculpted chest barely glistening, the bulge in his own trunks pronounced but contained. His expression was its usual impassive mask, but his dark eyes held a faint, chilling amusement as they flickered over the judges and then down to Marcus. "Nasty fall back here. Concrete’s unforgiving." He moved past the stunned judges without hesitation, his steps silent on the floor.
Marcus recoiled instinctively as Kenji knelt beside him. The proximity, the scent of him – coconut oil, clean sweat, and a faint, lingering musk that Marcus now knew intimately – sent a fresh wave of nausea and unwanted arousal crashing through him. Kenji’s gaze didn’t meet his; it was fixed on the mess on Marcus’s chest with detached assessment. He didn’t offer a hand. Instead, he unfolded the towel with deliberate slowness.
"Here," Kenji stated flatly, his voice devoid of warmth. He didn't drape the towel; he dropped it heavily onto Marcus’s torso like discarding trash. The rough cotton landed squarely on the sticky mess, the fibers immediately catching and clinging. "Clean yourself up. Prejudging results are being announced."
The judges exchanged loaded glances. Vance cleared his throat, his face hardening. "Slipped? Nakamura, that's… Marcus?" He turned back to the ruined giant on the floor. "Is that what happened?"
Marcus stared at the white towel absorbing the evidence of his degradation. Kenji’s lie hung in the air, a dare. The memory of Kenji’s punishing grip, his sneering words ("Cum like the desperate bitch you are"), the brutal violation of his throat and his cock, warred with the crushing reality of the judges' presence. To agree was humiliation. To contradict Kenji… the terrifying certainty of Kenji’s retaliation froze his tongue. He saw the cold promise in Kenji’s eyes as the smaller man straightened up, looking down at him.
Marcus’s voice, when it finally came, was a broken whisper, raw and stripped bare. "Yeah. Slipped." He avoided Vance’s probing stare, focusing instead on the towel, already staining translucent yellow and white. He grabbed it with trembling fingers, pulling it up awkwardly to cover his groin, the fabric rough and unyielding against his oversensitive skin.
Kenji gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. "See?" he said to the judges, the word smooth as oil. "Clumsy." He turned towards the corridor, the implication clear. The stage called. The competition waited.
Vance pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling sharply through flared nostrils. Thorne looked profoundly troubled, his gaze shifting between Marcus’s hunched form and Kenji’s retreating back. Mendez just shook his head, a look of disgust settling over his features. "Get presentable, Eriksson," Vance ordered, his voice tight. "Five minutes. The stage isn't waiting for your… accidents." He turned sharply, gesturing for the others to follow, their footsteps echoing with finality as they retreated towards the arena's roar.
Marcus was alone again, clutching the soiled towel to his groin. The scent of his own humiliation was trapped in the fabric, pressed against him. He could feel the cold air on his naked back where the towel didn’t reach, the rough concrete under his ass. Kenji’s casual brutality, the judges' appalled scrutiny – it was all a crushing weight. He dragged the coarse towel over his chest, wiping mechanically, the dried fluids smearing rather than vanishing. The distant announcer’s voice boomed, calling competitors to the stage.
He had to stand. Had to walk out there. Had to let those same judges, who had just seen him destroyed, appraise his physique. Had to stand beside Kenji, the architect of his ruin. Marcus pushed himself up, every muscle protesting, the stained towel his only shield. He stuffed the tattered remains of his trunks into a pocket of the towel, a hidden, shameful weight. The roar of the crowd vibrated up through the floor, a hungry beast demanding spectacle. He took a shaky step towards the glaring light of the stage entrance, the scent of coconut oil and sex clinging to him, the taste of bile and betrayal sharp on his tongue. The judges awaited their titan. They would see the muscle, the definition, the Viking Storm. They wouldn’t see the cracks. Not unless they looked very, very close. He squared his ravaged shoulders, the filthy towel held tight. The stage lights hit him, blinding. The roar swallowed him. There was no hiding the true monstrosity now.