Any viewer could tell just from the way the audience buzzed that this was no ordinary cage fight. There was a feeling of electricity in the air that went beyond mere anticipation; it felt as though the crowd was right on the precipice of orgasm after a long edging session, at least figuratively speaking. Fans came bearing signs, dressed as their favorite fighters, leading drunken chants before anyone had even entered the ring. The only people who weren’t consumed with anticipation were the two gentlemen wolves sitting in the booth, wearing tasteful suits and mildly unsettled facial expressions.

“Good afternoon to everybody watching at home,” the wolf on the left said, in the quiet, sonorous tones of an announcer for a very different sport, “and welcome to the twenty-third annual…” He checked the piece of paper in front of him, grimaced, and finished his sentence. “The twenty-third annual Erotic Wrestling Association championship match. Coming to you live from Tempe, Arizona, I’m Percy Bettencourt-”

“-and I’m Spalding Webb.” The wolf on the right finished Bettencourt’s sentence, and the change of voice was barely perceptible. “We’re sure dedicated EWA fans are disappointed that Mad Jack Watkins and the, erm, the incomparable Wildcat Braunstein aren’t here to give you the, ah, the hot and sticky lowdown. Unfortunately, both are recovering from injuries incurred from a…does this say ‘jetski orgy’, Percy?”

“Regrettably, yes. We wish Mad Jack and Wildcat a speedy recovery, and hope that we will make for a fine substitute. Obviously, the world of golf is quite different from that of, erm, erotic wrestling, but we’ll give it the old college try, won’t we, Spalding?”

“We certainly will. Now, the championship match is between Charlie Wilder and Arturo Villalobos, but EWA fans know them better by their nicknames, the Breathtaker and the Mexican Milkman.”

“That’s right, Spalding. Now, let’s look at the tale of the tape, shall we?”

The screen displayed a graphic chart, a photo of each fighter on either side. On one half, a beefy Incineroar scowled as he crossed his arms over his bare chest; this was Wilder. On the other half, a just-as-built Hawlucha flexed his biceps, grinning at the camera; this was Villalobos.

“These two fighters grew up just across the border from each other,” Bettencourt continued. “Wilder is from San Diego, California, while Villalobos hails from Tijuana, in Mexico. Now, you might think that Villalobos has a size disadvantage to Wilder given his species, but these two are evenly matched-Villalobos, at six foot five, is only an inch shorter than Wilder, and he only weighs about ten pounds less.”

“And here’s the number that really matters to these two,” Webb said, as the respective number of championships the fighters had won showed up on the chart. “Wilder’s won two EWA championships in his career so far, but Villalobos has three. And anyone who knows these two knows that Wilder’s, erm, itching to tie it up.”

“Fascinating. Now, the last time these two met was during last year’s EWA semifinals, where Villalobos beat Wilder only to lose in the final to Tex Beasley. Safe to say that Villalobos had his revenge this year, but can he win where it matters this year?”

“Percy, to answer that, it’s worth taking a look at their fighting styles. Villalobos got his nickname for a reason; he likes to get up close and personal with his foes, and he likes to get those big feet of his on his opponent’s crotch and really milk them mercilessly. But up closer and personal is just where Wilder likes to fight. Whether it’s with his arms, his legs, his feet, his pits, or his ass, he loves nothing more than to take his opponent’s breath away and really make them squirm and lose control.”

“...was that part even written down?”

“I’m not going to answer that question, Percy. Now, it seems as though the two fighters have just finished up their pre-fight preparations…”

---

Both Wilder and Villalobos had been in the EWA long enough to know the rules. The main rule was simple: the first fighter to make their opponent cum twice won the match. From there, there were other rules, related to match length (two hours before a mandatory tiebreaker, consisting of the two fighters jerking each other off until one cums) and what could and couldn’t be done to an opponent (no extreme violence, no toilet play). Mostly, though, the association had one main instruction for their fighters: have fun. (And if the fighters could be lucrative and make money, that would be just super.)

From the way the two fighters glared at each other from across the ring, though, fun was taking a backseat to revenge for this match. Wilder and Villalobos had bad blood that went back to their earliest days in the EWA, and they kept track of every way they had been wronged by the other; every defeat, every taunt, every real-or-imagined slight. The short, slim Meowstic that had been assigned to be the referee looked like he was standing in between two trucks playing chicken. 

The Incineroar, wearing a black speedo, strode to the center of the ring first, his chest puffed out with pride, his eyes glinting at the thought of what he was going to do to that fucking prick. The crowd roared out as Wilder flexed his arms, cheers mostly drowning out the boos. Somewhere in the back row, a pair of superfans were starting to get physical, which was quickly broken up. Fanboys, eh?

The Hawlucha, wearing a white speedo, stepped forward right after that, giving the crowd a flex of his own. Another roar from the crowd, with less boos than were given to Wilder. Everyone loves a face, right? The two of them stood right across from each other, staring into the other’s eyes, not blinking and not giving the slightest hint as to what they would do next. They didn’t even need to speak to each other. A hush fell over the crowd as the two lowered into squats, preparing to lunge at the first blow of the ref’s whistle…

...and with a fweet, they struck.

As the crowd screamed out in an excited frenzy, Wilder’s hand darted forward, quick as a snake, beneath Villalobos’ belt. That was how he opened their first championship match; a firm, merciless grip on the Hawlucha’s bulge, practically dragging him all around the ring before Villalobos had a shrieking, agonized orgasm. But it seemed as though the other fighter anticipated a move like that. With the kind of speed that seemed incongruous to a bird of his size, Villalobos grabbed hold of Wilder’s wrist, his grip iron-strong before moving behind the big cat’s back with one swift movement.

Wilder threw his head back, roaring out in pain as Villalobos put him in an airtight standing hammerlock. While the EWA couldn’t exactly be called a technician’s paradise, both of their fundamentals were uniformly strong, and the Hawlucha could lock in a submission hold like no one’s business. He liked to practice on weaker opponents, testing his skill to see how quick he could make one cave from the pain (or from the palm working furiously up and down their bulge). He cranked Wilder’s arm up, up, up his back, pulling on it and bending it, savoring each grunt and groan and hiss that came from the huge Incineroar.

Villalobos didn’t say anything to Wilder; they rarely talked in the heat of a match. He just breathed, right into Wilder’s ear, each heavy puff and lascivious hiss making the Incineroar’s fur stand on end. Wilder struggled to find some way free from the hold, but that just earned him another form of punishment. The Hawlucha’s arm wrapped around the Incineroar’s waist, holding on tight for leverage, before, with a mighty grunt, Villalobos bent backwards, picking Wilder up and slamming him down in a gnarly suplex.

“Now, my friend and partner Spalding assures me that this is a, erm, safe maneuver. For a given value of ‘safe’, at any rate. Christ, I could be at Pebble Beach right now instead of-”

Wilder lay on the mat, dazed, his body twitching involuntarily from the impact. Villalobos grinned as he looked at the Incineroar’s eyes; hazy, unfocused, punch-drunk (or suplex-drunk, as the case may be). It just made it all the easier to get him to cum. As the crowd whooped and hollered with glee, the Hawlucha stood over the groaning Wilder’s form, his big bare foot tapping the canvas once, twice, before lifting up and pressing down firmly between the Incineroar’s legs.

A big, gleeful belly laugh came from Villalobos as Wilder jolted, squirming underneath the pressure and clutching at the Hawlucha’s ankle in order to pry his foot off. And yet it was no use-the Incineroar’s balls were being crushed between the canvas and the unforgiving heel of Villalobos, the Hawlucha’s arms crossed over his naked chest and smirking as the crowd roared in approval. If Villalobos knew Wilder as well as he thought he did, those yelps and shouts would be turning to moans right about…

...now.

Wilder shuddered and gave a heavy, needy, lusty moan as the weight pressing down on his nuts grew to a metaphorical crescendo, his arms twitching on the ground and a thick, warm dark spot appearing in the center of his bulge. The way white fluid seeped through the fabric confirmed: Wilder had cum. 1-0 to the Hawlucha.

“My, my. You just hate to see that sort of thing happen to a guy, right, Spalding?”

“Erm. Um, yes. Quite painful, indeed.”

As the Hawlucha took a victory lap around the ring, flexing and grinning and showing off to the adoring audience, Wilder stood up, shakily, on his feet. He lowered his hands to the waistband of his speedo, hooking his thumbs into it before giving it a sharp yank down. As he stepped out of them and kicked the underwear to the side, a gasp came from the crowd, followed by an anticipatory “oooooooooh!”. The audience knew just what this meant, and they couldn’t wait to see it. Wilder was a fan favorite, despite his generally surly and domineering attitude, and spectacles such as these were a major reason why.

Villalobos knew what this meant, too, and as the two fighters got in position for the second round, he was especially careful. He knew that Wilder was about to try and get him down on the mat, and he wanted no part of it-certainly not after that humiliating defeat two years ago. When the Meowstic blew his whistle, the Hawlucha jumped back, going on the defensive as the Incineroar started to make his move.

The two of them were about the same size, which made playing defense a little more feasible for Villalobos. He could hop about, leading Wilder along, throwing out the occasional jab to make the Incineroar back off a little, maybe help the big cat get a little tired and easier to bring down. And, for a while, that strategy seemed to work; Wilder occasionally made a big move, like a huge left hook or a lunge forward to take down the Hawlucha, but Villalobos was shifty enough to avoid it.

At least, until he got cocky. Figuring it was time to make a move of his own, Villalobos waited until Wilder was in range before flicking his leg forward, aiming a kick right at the Incineroar’s belly in an attempt to wind him and make him vulnerable to attack. And yet, when he felt those beefy mitts wrap around his ankle, the Hawlucha knew that he had made a grave miscalculation, indeed.

With a wicked sneer spread across his face, Wilder lifted on Villalobos’ leg, pulling the Hawlucha off of his feet and, with a giant swing, sent him sailing across the ring, landing in a heap on the floor. The bird came to a stop just before the cage that surrounded the ring, and he would have grabbed hold for leverage before he felt those hands work at him again, flipping him onto his back and getting him ready for Wilder’s specialty.

Even after all the times they had fought, Villalobos still felt a pang of fear when he looked up and saw Wilder’s massive, beefy bare ass looming over his face. That ass, thick with muscle and fat and rich with salty, sweaty musk, was Wilder’s proudest feature; he used it to abuse his weak opponents, to take their breath away, to humiliate them. He frequently got fans begging to kiss his ass, or even just to take a deep whiff of its scent; sometimes, he would oblige. But right now, he was less focused on kissing and sniffing and more focused on sheer power.

The crowd laughed and cheered as that fat ass swallowed up Villalobos’ face, the Hawlucha bucking and writhing beneath the Incineroar’s weight as Wilder crossed his arms across his chest and grinned for the camera. Villalobos’ hands began to push and smack and shove at his enemy’s thick, smothering rump, but that just made it wobble from the attention and get his face wedged even further between those sweaty cheeks.

To speed the process along, Wilder lifted up his feet, slowly, making the crowd go wild at the sight of those heavy soles reaching up to Villalobos’ bulge, about to swallow it up. Unlike the Hawlucha, Wilder wasn’t about to stomp on those sensitive balls; no, he was just going to tease, to rub his smooth soles up and down that speedo-clad crotch, slowly massaging, slowly milking.

There was a reason why Wilder was called the Breathtaker by some. He loved it when his opponents couldn’t breathe, when they kicked and groaned and panicked underneath his weight, or choked by his arms or legs, wordlessly begging for oxygen that wouldn’t come until their cocks twitched and they shot their load. He wondered how long it would take for Villalobos to crack this time around. Given how hot and sweaty and hellishly musky the Incineroar’s gorgeous ass was, he imagined it would be fairly soon; but then again, Villalobos had surprised him before, like back in 2011.

As Villalobos attempted to shift his lower body to avoid those invasive feet, he expended even more energy, and more air, which made him go weaker and weaker still. By the time a shameful splotch of semen spread along the bulge of his speedo, he almost wasn’t moving at all. The crowd cheered, and Wilder stood up, roaring and flexing. 1-1 tie. Best two of three.

“Well, now. That’s not something you’d see on the greens of St. Andrews, isn’t that right, Spalding? Erm, Spalding? Well, it would seem as though my partner’s a bit distracted.”

As Villalobos stood to his feet and took in deep breaths to replenish his strength and get him back into the groove, he decided to take a page out of Wilder’s book. He reached down and peeled down his own pair of underwear, tossing the stained fabric aside and getting ready for the final round. The crowd was on tenterhooks, waiting to see what would happen next.

The fighters got into position, and the Meowstic placed his whistle in his mouth.

Fweeet!

There wasn’t much strategy involved, at least not right now. The two men were hungry, and itching to see the other brought low. They lunged forward, the big naked studs grappling with each other, hands clawing and gripping as their feet shifted and tried to find leverage to get the upper hand. When it seemed like Wilder might have found an opening to bring down his opponent, Villalobos would twist around and get right back into the fight. The crowd was eating it up, and it sounded like one big roar of noise.

“I confess that I’m not used to the, erm, volume of this event. Although it seems my good friend’s gotten into the spirit.”

With a great clatter of a heavy man’s back pushed up against the metal cage surrounding the ring, Wilder was pinned in place. His shoulders were gripped by the vise grip of Villalobos’ hands, and the Hawlucha got up close and personal, snarling as he readied a frenzy of attacks.

His fist balled up and launched itself forward, landing against Wilder’s abs with an audible thump. When Wilder doubled over from the blow to his gut, Villalobos shoved him back against the cage, his grip shifting to the feline’s neck to hold him in place. Now, winded and pained and desperately horny, Wilder was fully vulnerable.

As Wilder choked and gasped around the hand on his throat, Villalobos’ other hand reached down, wrapping itself around the Incineroar’s dick and pumping furiously. There was no build-up, no teasing; there was just a feral desire to make him cum, now. Wilder kicked his legs, trying to free himself from this position, but he didn’t stand a chance against the Hawlucha’s determination. As the crowd worked itself into a frenzy, Villalobos’ hand was a blur up and down Wilder’s cock, and the big feline himself was getting closer, and closer, and-

“RRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAGH!”

Screaming and thrashing and shuddering, Wilder’s cock pulsed in his opponent’s hand, before shooting a jet of sticky white cum from the head and splattering onto the canvas. With a roar of victory, Villalobos let go of his rival, letting him tumble to the floor as the Hawlucha relished in the adulation of the crowd.

“And there you have it, folks! The EWA champion of the 2018 season is none other than the Mexican Milkman himself, Arturo Villalobos! That’s his fourth championship total, and something tells me he’s not going to slow down. And it seems like he’s got a new fan in my friend Spalding!”

“WOOOOO! ¡VIVA ARTURO!”

“Yes, indeed. Live from Tempe, Arizona, I’m Percy Bettencourt, and I’m going to go back to my hotel room and stare at the ceiling for several hours. Thank you, and enjoy the rest of your day.”