The UnderTaker is taken by a new hot on the scene female wrestler. They develop feelings through a slow burn romances

Mark Calaway, ever the professional, wore a smooth fitted gray business suit that one would wear for a corporate meeting. Mark sat in the back of the arena, watching two females going at it. One much more athletic, noticeably so, then the other but it was an even match up. At least Mark thought so. His eyes lingered on each form as they danced about the ring trading blow for blow. This wasn’t even the main event and that much was evident from the lackluster faces in the audience, mostly other wrestlers and trainers. 

She reminded him of himself when he had first started. His large stature made him prey for the smaller, quicker types and honestly, brute strength only went so far in winning the audience. It was true. People wanted to see high fliers and nimble, agile champions instead of people who were more suited for boxing. 

Mark’s posture was exceptional and his movements seemed almost picture perfect and calculated as he reached up to his suit pocket and plucked out from it an arena card. Unfolding it, eyes never looking away from the match, he brought the paper upward, blocking his view only slightly, allowing him to gaze at the various names printed upon it and the match at the same time. 

Marjorie

Re-folding it, he placed it snuggly into his pocket again right over his heart. She had spirit, that was for sure and her willpower, remarkable. Both opponents in the ring were worn out and gasping for breath. The two females sized each other up, earning them both time to recoup their strength and their breath before locking themselves against each other in an exhaustive display of sheer stamina. Marjorie’s sheer brute force tossed the opponent to the ropes but Marjorie didn’t capitalize upon this advantage, instead taking time to re-energize herself a little more. Mark winced, realizing that Marjorie was attempting to summon up strength that she no longer possessed. Marjorie was going off of pure adrenaline and each moment was precious and she was wasting it. 

Wrestling was a demanding sport. Nothing else zapped your strength like wrestling for merely five minutes but this match was long, and lingering still. Marjorie was not giving in to her exhaustion. Not yet. She fought with a spirit most wouldn’t notice, and even if they did, wouldn’t be able to comprehend how or where to begin to appreciate such a display of mental and physical fortitude. 

Mark clenched his large hands against his knees, tightening with each passing moment. His long gray dress pants smoothly brushing upward his lower leg, revealing his thin charcoal dress socks. For once in a very long time, he wasn’t being introspective. This was as good of entertainment as being in the ring himself. Like watching a play that captivated a person, Mark was lost in a sea of wonderment. The match was nearing at a close though, each female on their last leg, so to speak. With a spear, the unnamed woman took down Marjorie with frightening ease. Mark had no idea who the opponent was, but honestly didn’t care. 

They locked themselves in a tangle of flesh and flailing arms, each trying desperately to earn the upper hand. Marjorie finally found herself on top of the smaller framed female, pinning her, earning a slow count down from the ref. 

One!

.

Two!

.

.

Not so gracefully, the opponent squeezed out from under Marjorie’s form and shoved Marjorie onto her side while promptly taking over the wrestling match, attempting her own pin.

Mark, without thinking, quickly stood up, perhaps the only one in the audience who actually felt the need to participate in the event. With his loud, deep voice, he called out “That is some bullshit! That was a slow count ref, and you know it!”  No one really expects to be heard, especially at a wrestling match but everybody heard, probably even the ref. Some people scattered in the front side seats looked back. Mark didn’t back down even if he did feel a little oddly about his outburst before promptly sitting back down in his seat, his calloused hands running from his chest down to his stomach, smoothing out his business suit in a professional, cooling off manner and continued to watch the match. 

One
Two
Thr -

Marjorie placed her hands under her opponent and with shocking and startling strength, bench pressed the female off of her, tossing her like a rag doll. Marjorie returned to her feet. Exhausted, breathing quick and shortly before the two females engaged in yet another competition of strength. Mark had spent so many years in the ring, he could tell the signs, the signs of lack of oxygen, the signs of adrenaline finally dissipating leaving only a tired, frail opponent. The knees wobbled, caving in as Marjorie’s opponent danced around her skillfully, and struck just behind the kneecap. Marjorie tumbled and collapsed. 

This time, however, it was one sided and while Marjorie had willpower, she was not invincible and was pinned effortlessly. 

Where most saw a winner and a loser. Mark saw something else. He saw the real winner. He saw potential. He saw a future. He saw someone who needed to be trained. Someone who needed to know the secrets of the profession. But most of all, Mark Calaway saw someone who was capable of learning those secrets, someone willing to, someone who wanted to. Nothing could replace, nor buy, passion. The passion he saw burning in Marjorie’s eyes. She didn’t look like a loser. 

---

Part of training was working the audience; much like the match last night. No tickets were sold. No one was paid for anything. It was just very, very realistic sparring. Mostly the trainees who utilize the facilities were present for the show. It didn’t mean that Marjorie wasn’t pissed at her loss to Miss Prissy as she called her. No one else did but her though. Marjorie, however, was not one to lose her concentration in training just over a silly, silly, silly… stupid loss because some ref wanted to slow count her just because Miss Prissy had big fat fake tits and …. It wasn’t even a real match, exactly, anyway. No, it definitely rolled off her mind like the sweat dripping off her body. 

Marjorie threw a punch at the heavily pummeled punching bag, hard enough to actually make her pause from her repetitive strikes upon that heavy object. Ouch! She shook her hand off before walking over to the locker-room to sit down and rest where it was at least somewhat cold and secluded. Give her hand a little time to mend itself. 

Marjorie’s hands came to her face as she leaned down into them. She was tired. She had been training all day and that fact was very evident in just how sweaty her attire was. Her figure was bulkier than most female wrestlers, not fat, per say, but her thighs were unflattering to say the least, or at least that is what she’d say. Unlike most, she chose to train in a sports kimono bottom which loosely but firmly caressed her plump rear end and shapely legs. To add insult to injury though, they were charcoal black, making her sweat even more. Even the bottoms were earning some of the saturation from her upper body sweat but that fact remained concealed from her impeccable wardrobe tastes, specifically the color. It was her sleeveless shirt, however, that bespoke of her intense training. The neckline of the gray shirt was dampened darkly with liquid, along with her armpits and the sides of the shirt. Marjorie knew she didn’t smell at all that well but that didn’t stop her from training and perhaps she might even put on another coat of deodorant. 

Quickly rubbing her hands in her hair, letting her damp hair dry out on the ground behind her, she replaced hands with a towel and just closed her eyes and sunk backward to face up toward the ceiling. It felt good, how long had she been at this? She heard boots against the locker room floor. They echoed, making their approach impossible to not notice. It must have been one of the big girls, she thought in passing before her eyes curiously opened, just to see who it was. Marjorie saw a towering man before her. Built like an ox, evident even with his white t-shirt and leather biker jacket. Complete with overused, ripped blue jeans and a pair of expensive looking boots, Marjorie couldn’t help but linger her now widened eyes along his mustache and beard, slightly unkempt, but still remained sculpted, like a statue. 

It dawned upon Marjorie who this man was... The UnderTaker. His lips slipped back, smiling widely as he noticed her realization. Chuckling under his breath, he walked nearer, sitting himself upon the bench. It was not like it changed his size or anything, even sitting down he reigned over her. Marjorie immediately felt the bench, strongly constructed; give way under his impressive weight and dip downward. 

Still with her body arched backward, towel in her hair, and breasts heaving outward, Marjorie’s movements were slowed down conscientiously though. Licking her parched lips, she mustered up her best smile, which just seemed awkward in the already awkward situation. With head tilted to look over, and upward at the Undertaker, she finally spoke. 

“Hey…I think you are in the wrong locker room…No, the wrong stadium.”  Pausing, she flashed an amused smile. “and the wrong state to boot.” Marjorie had grown up watching him. As he grew, she grew also. His dreams realized became her dreams unrealized yet pursued to the best of her ability. He always retained his cool, savvy natured self though, which Marjorie knew all too well.

“You’re Marjorie, right?” Mark asked confidently. 

“Yes?” Marjorie was befuddled but inquisitive. 

“Then I am definitely in the right locker room.” He thinks for a minute. “But the right stadium,” Mark retorted charismatically. “and the correct state, actually.” Mark flashed a smile, his teeth exceptionally white and near perfect.

“Okay. But why are you here?” She laughed, looking away, trying to act natural which came across as anything but.

“For you, of course, Kiddo.” Mark took his hand and playfully rubbed it into her damp hair. It was oddly soothing to have someone else do it, but it didn’t diminish the fact that she was shocked how much of her scalp he could palm with ease. Mark could definitely palm a basketball. It was a playful rub before he pulled back his intruding hand, but not because of some notion he was invading her private space, but because it seemed natural to pull it away at that moment. 

Marjorie couldn’t help but laugh playfully and smile at herself, even blush a little. But she couldn’t find words. Her mind was foggy with confusion. The UnderTaker. Here… Why? For her? That just didn’t make sense.

“I get this a lot, you know. But the first thing you have to remember in wrestling is that it is a business. You have to keep your wit about you in the ring and out of it, especially in the locker room. The first thing I tell anyone back here is that I am just a person, just like you. You know. I have different interests; I do other things, right, but still, the same. See what I am saying? I saw you last night and you looked very… soulful. Talented” 

Finally she found her footing and returned back and forth. “That is flattering… I just don’t really know what to say. I had an idea when you said you were looking for me but… to hear it. It feels…” Marjorie chuckled again and looked upward into the Undertaker's eyes, it took a lot to be able to look into the eyes of a legend. “What did you want, Mr. Calaway?”

“Mark, please.” 

That wasn’t too business-like…

“Mark. Oh, my name is Marjorie, not ‘kiddo’” She was friendly, even as she did the quotations with her fingers. 

“You got some natural raw talent. You got the moves, you definitely got the charisma. Figured there might be something I can do to help you out on, like, the fundamental parts of your training. It could help out, never know. But really, it will help.”

Mark’s body being as large framed as it was, Marjorie didn’t even notice the water bottle, rather canteen, on his other side which he brought toward her. Mark handed it to Marjorie who quizzically grabbed it, their hands brushing together. Electricity that only grew stronger by the water's conductivity. 

“Gotta keep you hydrated. Looks like you need it, most of your fluids are on the floor and around the gym. What time did you get in here?” He spoke with authority but concern, and genuine interest, something foreign to culture nowadays. 

“Seven a.m. Sharp. Every Saturday.” She drank the water bottle content. She barely had time to admire the flask-like canteen, which didn’t much match Mark’s outfit, but with him in a business suit… she thought trailing as she eagerly consumed the liquid, some of it spilling out of her mouth, trailing down to her neck refreshingly. The water was deliciously cold, not too cold, but cold enough. Just right. 

Pulling his sleeve up, he glanced at his watch. “You should be getting lunch right about now.” 

“I ate a healthy, large breakfast. You know how it is in training.” She said after gasping for air, pausing her drinking of the water. 

“Four square meals a day. No exceptions.” He said kindly yet firmly. “You done with that?” 

Marjorie nodded as he took the canteen, shook it a little to gauge how much was remaining, and held it over Marjorie’s head.  “Ah… What are you…” 

“Ahhh…” She exclaimed as he drained the remaining little bit over her head. Marjorie moved but not quick enough, earning her a nice decent bit of liquid, cooling to run over along her head and dribble down her face, neck, and even shoulders. 

“No. Trust me, it feels good. You need it.” Mark said as he noticed her reaction to the canteen rising above her head. He even went as far as to place his other hand against the opposite side of her head and pushed it near where the stream would be. It wasn’t forced. It was guidance. Guidance which Marjorie couldn’t, nor never would refuse. 
 
Leaning back into the stream of water, Marjorie closed her eyes and immediately fell into a trance of relaxation. She hadn’t realized how burning hot she really was. As quickly as the stream started, it ended. She took the towel and rubbed it over her hair and neck, pat drying herself but more so collecting the valuable drops of cooling liquid to smear along her body just a little longer. 
 
“If you can’t finish what you're drinking during downtime, put it in your hair. Liked it, right?” 

“I do it from time to time myself, actually. But usually after training.” 

“During the middle is the best. That much needed cool down without the shower. Are you hungry? I’m hungry. Let’s go get some lunch, we need to talk anyway. Two birds, you know?” 

“Sure?” She stood up, going to her locker. “Let me just get something else on.”

“No, you look fine that way. You should be proud of what you’re wearing and what you're doing. You know what most people do on Saturdays? They sit, watch television, and eat unhealthy food. But you, come on, look at you. You are doing something most can’t, even if they tried.” He laughed, and stood up himself, walking out of the locker-room. 

“I really think I should wash this sweat off before I ever think about getting lunch.” 

“I just poured water on you. But if you want to get ready, who am I to stop ya, ya know? Do what you normally do. I will wait outside while you get ready.” Mark called out behind him, as if he needed to with his booming voice, while he was about to exit the locker-room, to give Marjorie time to change. 

She stood there looking inside her locker. Heart racing still. It was like being in a match. What would she normally do in this situation? It’s never happened before, so how was she supposed to know? 

Marjorie chooses to take a quick shower. Just enough to dampen her body with something other than sweat. And in a flash, the lovely wrestler tossed upon her voluptuous, yet athletic form a light brown shirt and some pants. She was very much an earth toned person. 

---

Mark had been tossing around the punching bag with his fist. Marjorie stepped out of the locker room not five minutes later and scouted the gym area for … the Undertaker. Still seemed so weird, even to think about it. Not like she needed to scout or search for him though… he was the only mammothian sized brute in the place. 

“Sorry it took so long.”  She called out, flashing an apologetic smile. Mark looked behind him. He returned her smile. His understanding. That was before the punching back came back to him. And with the tremendous weight he was putting into it, it came back with twice its force. The undertaker didn’t go down, but it did loosen his balance slightly, noticeably. 

“Quite alright. Just… kinda distracted me for a moment.” Mark chuckled, playing off what had just happened. He didn’t feel dumb, but most of all, he didn’t look dumb. He was beyond such things, at least to Marjorie. 

“Well maybe if you keep your eyes to yourself.” Marjorie chimed in, laughing a little. The scene grew awkward, yet again. The tension and odd sensations were mutually felt though neither knew it. 

They both exited the building together. It was quiet. Each passing, curious, random question Marjorie could think to ask, she did but not in such a way as to be considered annoying or bothersome. All small questions though, chit chat, nothing too substantial. And Mark would, with consideration, answer in a short line of words. Marjorie blinked her eyes a little, she’d not been out all day besides the jog here. The sun was high in the sky and scorching upon her exposed tender pale flesh. Normally, she would have brought her bike, but given she planned to be here all day, and already brought her lunch, which she would never tell Mark, she really had no use for a ride. Besides, jogging in the cool night breeze was more stress relieving to her than any other action she could possibly do. Almost any other action…

Mark walked over to his bike. It was a chopper. It was parked dominantly in front of the entrance to the gym. Surely he would have gotten a parking ticket had he remained inside much longer. Luckily for him, Marjorie was in a rush to return to the ‘strangers’ side after her brief shower to figure out what exactly was going on. She wasn’t THAT good, she knew that. Dedicated. Sure. Strong. Absolutely. Strong-Willed? In spades. But why her and not little miss fun bags of breasts? 

“Oh, oh, I forgot to mention… I didn’t really bring my bike.” Marjorie quickly mentioned upon it dawning on her. Mark had slipped his leg over the gigantic machine and sat himself down already. A hand reached out and took Marjorie’s own. His rough, coarse fingers smoothly ran along her palm. 

“Don’t worry. You can ride with me.” Mark said.

Marjorie accepted the hand graciously, dexterously lifting her leg to put it over the mammothian bike. Her weight didn’t even phase the bike's position, not at all. Only when Mark rested his own butt upon the bike did it sink to the road. Mark hadn’t even started the bike yet.

Finally, after a few moments' delay, in which time Marjorie uncomfortably traced her hands around The Undertakers form, Mark took off his own helmet and handed it back toward her. “I was never a boy scout. Sometimes I am not always prepared.” 

Marjorie took the helm and clutched the bike's sides, straddling it as she closely put it on herself. 

“What if we get into a crash?” Marjorie spoke softly and with great concern.

“Funny. That’s exactly what I was thinking. Don’t worry about it. Look at me. This body’s got some wounds, but I’m still here, aren’t I?” 

“Okay…” Marjorie laced her fingers, once again around the body of the UnderTaker, leaning her head forward to rest upon him. She would have enjoyed running her fingers along his cut chest and just everything, but that was not in the cards. But perhaps it wasn’t in the cards because she couldn’t imagine doing something like that, at least not in jest. She could barely get around the bend of his sides. They, however, were equally as impressive and ripped as his stomach, or so she imagined or rather remembered from his many matches. And with her fingers stroking along the leather jacket, she could now confirm what she always knew. He was three hundred pounds of muscle, the apex of a man. 

The bike was turned on and they were on their way to grab some food but all she wanted to grab was already in her dainty, sensitive digits. 

Mark had his hair done in a professional ponytail that wiggled in the air. This would have been problematic had it not been for the fact that even with her behind him, she was small enough to not be harassed by flailing, yet organized hair. 

Mark, the UnderTaker, Mr. Calaway, whichever acted the perfect gentlemen. Though Marjorie didn’t need it, he aided in her dismounting of his large bike, after all, a monstrous man like him rode something more size appropriate for himself and rather inappropriate for the dwarf which rode along with him. She wasn’t going to turn down the offer of aid though. The door to the restaurant was opened by him, and he even pulled out her chair. A perfect gentleman. Which gave Marjorie slight little butterflies that flapped in her stomach, but currently they just wouldn’t stop. It was a mix of being sick and infatuated. 

They sat, each looking at the other. Naturally, Marjorie’s eyes fluttered on the occasion to much more inappropriate sights to behold on such a body sculpted by what seemed like God himself. Mark offered a wide smile, his teeth as white as ivory and his charm overwhelmingly powerful. Where they ate was much more high scale then what the cashier was used to or had even been to but she took it with good measure and adapted rather easily to the new setting. This, however, did not stop her from giving wide eyes to the wonderful variety of detail to the setting of the restaurant. It was glorious, to say the least, with art, replicas naturally, of some of the most alluring designs known to man. Hell, even the architecture was appealing.

“So what made you get into the biz in the first place, Marjorie?” Mark asked as they waited for a waiter or waitress. 

“Well, Mark…” The name was still so foreign as it rolled off her tongue, “I just, I don’t know. I just like it, I guess.”

Mark laughed heartily, other patrons of the restaurant looked over at them. Mark didn’t pay them any mind, and in turn, following suit so did Marjorie. Of course, she’d never have noticed people looking at them had it not been for a couple sitting directly in front of her, slightly off to the side. Had the couple been directly in front of her, visibility would be less than perfect given the ever ox built undertaker that consumed and enthralled her vision. Far too enthralled by her companion, Marjorie brought her attention fully back upon Mark. 

“That is an answer you give to friends, family members, even to other wrestlers. What is the real reason, what drives you so?” He inquired more pressingly and though his words may seem penetrating into her complex psyche it didn’t feel that way to her and nor did Mark intend for it to come off that way. They were off in their own little world, others be damned. In this world, decorum and conversational etiquette had no place. 

“Well…” Marjorie smiled, pausing a moment, her soft hand running through her ever so short yet still slightly shaggy charcoal hair for a moment, more so to gather her wit about herself as she spoke. “That is a complex and rather complicated…”

“I didn’t ask the question if I didn’t want to know the real reason.” Mark spoke softly, tenderly, leaning in, his elbow on the table, a sin given the forum, and his fist jutting and supporting his chin as he gave his best look of interest. 

“People go about living their lives, some might want to live what they are living… but others, they do not. They aren’t very keen on where they are in their life, or just don’t know how to, well, escape it. You know that feeling? I think everybody, comfortable with life or not yearn for that feeling of absolute freedom” Marjorie tossed the conversational baton to Mark. 

“Absolutely. So, you are trying to escape your life through being in the ring?” 

“No. I like my life. Well, most of it. Some of it at least. I mean, I got cats so… it’s a plus. But I like the feeling of being someone else entirely. In the ring, everything is different. Everything is as clear, crystal clear, as it could ever be. There is a person and you try to pin them to the best of your ability. But… it isn’t just that, the audience, the cheering, it is electrifying, it just makes me feel like I have never felt before and there is nothing else…”

“But riding a motorcycle comes close to it, isn’t that right?” Mark said, he spoke of knowledge far past her age but still he spoke from a mutually shared experience of what drew them to the ring in the first place. 

Marjorie couldn’t help but manage a small, tender smile of sincerity. “Almost but not quite. But you understand what I am trying to say, right?” 

“Of course. I knew before you said it. I just wanted to hear you say it.” He laughed again, his own large hand came to his head, rubbing it, his face turned, eyes looking at an empty table located to the side of them before he returned his gaze to the amateur wrestler. 

The waiter then came, bringing water, bread, and a few other rather interesting trinkets along with him. The butter was amazing, slightly pink and orange in coloration – as odd as that sounds. Marjorie couldn’t help herself but immediately take a knife and spread the butter upon the bun, eating it promptly. With a bun half stuffed in her mouth, Mark replied to the question given to him by the waiter. 

“Yes, we are ready to order.” 

Marjorie had the look of ‘no we are not’ on her face, which he clearly noticed and waved away without so much as a second thought. 

“I would love some lobster, anything lobster. Just bring me a big lobster and the lovely lady over there, she will take a steak, well done?…” His eyebrows lifted upward, indicating that she would need to fill in the blanks herself. 

“Well done.” 

“Well done.” Mark mimicked the answer, though the waiter had already been jotting down the reply given to him by Marjorie. “and instead of fries, or whatever else it comes with, a potato, a few of them in fact. The girl over here needs her healthy foods. And a little bit of gravy, just enough but not too much. Use your best judgment on too much and not enough.” Mark said before the waiter inquired for beverages. “Water for the both of us. If the food you are making is actually good, we don’t want to drown out the taste now do we?” Mark looked at Marjorie, as if cueing her to speak again. She questioning shook her head, Mark shook his head as well, his eyes darting to the waiter, who also smiled in kind and shook his head also. 

“Definitely not. Only the best tasting food is served.” The waiter then scurried off. 

Marjorie didn’t really know what to say. Her order was hijacked but it wasn’t as if she was angry about it or anything, after all, she didn’t mind steak and potatoes, well, if they were delicious and in a place of this nature, well, the idea of getting anything she wouldn’t think was absolutely wonderful was mind boggling. 

“Don’t go thinking you are going to get dessert either.” He chimed in, breaking the small sized female's thoughts. “Because tonight, you and I, we are going to work on your technique. See if we can’t make you a better wrestler. But enough with that talk, that is business talk, we are out at a nice restaurant, let us enjoy ourselves. Besides, I would love to know more about you. I don’t really know much about you, but you know a lot about me, don’t you. I am still at a disadvantage here.” 

Marjorie simply smiled, nodded, and followed his suit – seemed like he was the type of man who was always in charge, but he didn’t demand being a leader, Marjorie guessed that people just wanted to follow him. But with a body, and charm like his, who wouldn’t freely follow him? 

“I mean, unless you have something better to do?” Mark followed up, realizing he was taking a lot for granted but given his station in life, not many refused what he said, and sometimes he needed to be reminded of this fact, as much by someone else as himself. It had just become rather natural to assume certain things.

Marjorie thought wickedly fast. Work. Work. More work. Probably house cleaning. But those things came second to Mark, the Undertaker. She shrugged off her duties the moment they came to mind, which came to mind only after the fact of her unspoken agreement to his offer by shaking her head up and down. Training!? With The, THE! Undertaker. Who could refuse?

“Why…?” 

There was a long silence between them both.

“I don’t understand…” Mark started saying before Marjorie quickly realized her mistake of conveyance. 

“Why me… I mean, I really am not anything that special.” Marjorie was honest to people around her but she, herself, was also cursed with being honest with herself. Not just from time to time, but always. She couldn’t lie to herself, what type of person could? 

“Look at me, Marjorie. Look at me…” Mark’s words are firm as his elegant body. His two fingers dominantly pointed at Marjorie and then guided her attention directly into his eyes. She could get lost in them, did for some time, listening to his words which made her body melt. “Everyone is special, they all have their own little special qualities to them, you know? Like me, If I wasn’t the undertaker, would I be less special then you? No. We are all special, understand?” 

“Yes, Mr. C… Mark. But why me. I just don’t understand.” 

“You got soul, kiddo” 

“Marjorie.”

“And feisty. You got soul and soul is something that is needed in this line of work. You don’t know yet but you will be sacrificing your health, your life, everything for this job but you have that cold, solid look of determination. You have what it takes. I can see it. You can too. But you can feel it. You know you want this, and I know you know it also. I am just here to give you a helping hand, guide you on the path to a sold out stadium of cheering, wild fans.” Marjorie could definitely tell he had to pause with each sentence, constructing it in his mind before speaking it. “It is unlike anything you have ever known.” He didn’t stutter, but he definitely was walking on glass each time he spoke and Marjorie was patient, though she didn’t know what to say, it felt weird… it sounded almost as if Mark was a fan of hers. Odd. Mutual fans of each other. Who’d have thunk. 

“I really don’t know what to say. I never really thought…” 

“Naw, you don’t need to think about it. You don’t even need to realize it. But it’s in you. Just know I see it and if you don’t see it yourself, trust me and in my opinion. My professional opinion. But I am not here to give you a pep talk or anything of that sort. Nobody loves a preacher.” 

“Unless you are Christian.” 

Mark laughed a little. The sensual little minx was quick minded. He used to be as quick as her but age got the better of him nowadays, even then though, in his more youthful and ambitious days, Mark was quick minded, too quick though that his incessant stuttering prevented him from being who he really was. 

“Fine, fine, fine. You got me there. But still. Marjorie. You are good, really good, you have what makes a star a star.” The Undertaker spoke with unwavering confidence but his facial expressions gave way to him considering exactly what he had said to make sure it made sense. Mark was growing rather comfortable talking willy nilly and instead of his slow consideration prior to speaking, he would slowly consider after speaking.. “What’s wrong?” 

Mark had realized Marjorie’s attention was divided between him and the other patrons which inhabited this unique, high scale establishment. 

“I just feel so underdressed…” Marjorie finally said after snapping her attention back to the goliath before her, once her eyes reconnected with him though, she slowly felt compelled not to drift her eyes away. This conversation had become too real, and she just wasn’t comfortable with it, which gave her proper time, rather spare time to consider her physical conditions as much herself as the people around her. “Not that there is a problem being underdressed.” She coyly remarked, winking a little, a small grin dashing across her lips before following up with “but not in a place like this.” 

“Would you like to go someplace else?” Ever the considerate one.

“We already ordered…” 

“So?”

“No, it is fine, just getting used to it is all.” 

Before she finished speaking, The UnderTaker stood up from his chair and walked around the table, his hands struggling with each button. Thankfully there weren't many, but finally he stood behind her. She didn’t look behind her, her eyes looking as if petrified, to the couple in front of her. No one really paid much attention to them, which was good, but still, Marjorie felt as if more than a few eyes were lingering, watching and studying her and his every movement. 

“Stand up, Kiddo.” Mark said, this time though, his voice lowered into a playful, knowing mannerism. He was toying with her. Not in a mean nor malicious manner though, but toying with her all the same. 

Was he flirting with her? Was Mark Calaway flirting with her!? The UnderTaker? THE Undertaker. No. Definitely not. She drank a little too much alcohol without having drank any. She was attention drunk, perhaps. As she stood up, he slowly draped her youthful form with the leather black biker jacket, leaving him with but an undershirt, an under shirt that clutched to his form for dear life. 

Marjorie’s reactions were slow, her mind working at full speed but her mouth unable to process the word she wished she could say, wanted to say, but at the same time didn’t want to say. What if… what if she would say something wrong. What if this business meeting / meal turned just a little too uncomfortable for the UnderTaker? What then… What about training with him tonight? She was more worried now in this situation than she had ever been about the fellow patrons of this upper class establishment. It took all of her willpower and aged experience around guys to muster up a retort. “You don’t have a good memory, do you?” 

Marjorie smiled, Mark smiled. She couldn’t see it per say but she could feel it. Feel it in each stroke of his clammy palms upon her shoulder as he straightened and readjusted the article of clothing gifted to her. The jacket was large enough to dip down to her knees, or just about near that vicinity. Bending down, Mark brushed his mustache against her ear as he whispered. But, to be frank, even his whispering came out to be as imposing as his body, about the same volume as if Marjorie were regularly speaking, enhanced all the more powerfully by his sheer closeness to her lobe and ear canal. 

“I have the memory of an elephant. I just like the face you make when you hear me call you kiddo.” 

“You can’t even see my face.” Marjorie lowly said, her eyes fixated on the couple before her, as if looking back would make the mirage dissipate and all that would remain would be sand dunes and sandblasting soullessly through the wind. Petrified apparently wasn’t a strong enough word to be used at this moment. 

“Doesn’t change that you are making it, now does it?” And with that, like the mirage dissipated, those warm, robust hands left her leather coated shoulders. He extended his hand outward to indicate for her to sit down again, at which time he lifted the chair clean off the floor, an inch or so, but the feat was rather… demonstrative of his physical capability. With her promptly up toward the table, he walked back to his own seat. Moments lingered, her teeth nervously bouncing off her lower lip but she couldn’t help but feel this was kind of personal. It was ironic also, it was now Mark who was ---

“Looks like now I am the one underdressed.” Mark smiled. The food had come just then. Had time flown that fast, how long had they been there. How much time was spent talking and how much in awkward silence? Was this sexual tension. Marjorie was unsure about a lot of things but she was certain that with each passing moment she was hiding more and more in her shell. Mark just then grew silent as he began to eat his meal. Even though her own meal was literally right under her nose, she could still smell his lobster. And it looked so utterly fresh. It was fantastic and though she wasn’t a glutton, the strong desire to eat both meals was just in the tip of her mind. 

Finally she began to eat, cutting the steak up with her keen edged knife. She cut the entire thing though, not yet even taking a piece of it to her mouth. She was intimately self-conscious. It wasn’t because of Mark, not about him being a male either, it was because of The UnderTaker. The legend. The hero. The person with such strong resolve and business sense to make himself a millionaire. Odd, she never gave that much though. She’d never even seen a millionaire, let alone eat next to one. 

Throughout the meal they talked, mostly about unrelated things to business but given the situation, Marjorie was an open book – at least to most things but Mark was quick to backpedal from a topic that made her uncomfortable. They even got onto the topic of family, which Marjorie didn’t volunteer much on the subject but Mark did. It was hard to imagine The UnderTaker as a person but it was becoming easier every moment they shared a menagerie of conversational topics. 

Mark talked about Texas Red, his first name he went under, and how he missed being a rookie. He spoke with sobering wisdom and perhaps even a touch of regret but he never really showed it, his words already usually well thought out. 

`But one time as Texas Red, the debut match in WCCW, me and the other guy were oiled up with this special oil, I don’t know what the hell it was but when we got into the ring, it was a disaster. It was probably the worst day of my life to tell you the truth, Marjorie. We wanted to end the match as soon as possible but even trying to make a pin was horrible. Just so slippery.”

A low throaty chuckle escaped Marjorie as she almost purred. “You and another guy oiled up, slipping and sliding all over each other. I don’t really see how horrible it could be. Maybe I just need to visualize it better to understand your pain. How did you take him down to the mat? Did you spear him, maybe grab his leg with your hands and who was on top ----“

“Alright, Alright. Take it into the bedroom.” Mark protested smirking, a little uncomfortable at the subject at hand though, perhaps not because of what happened to him oh so many years ago but what was happening right at this very moment. 

“Think I might just do that.” 

The trip back to the gym didn’t go as smoothly as it did getting to the restaurant. Marjorie’s hand clutched around Mark who still remained underdressed, his warm leather coat, fit for a giant, wrapped around her as she was to him, or she should have been at least. Her grip remained as loose as when they started this journey, perhaps even looser than that. She wasn’t leaning with the turns and on more than one occasion she wondered if her grip was firm enough around those smooth, bulky muscles. Mark noticed this, it was hard not to, after all Mark had gone off talking about how his bike was an extension of his own body when he rode. Coming upon a stoplight, his callus hands repositioned the youthful wrestlers reassuringly around him, smiling at her over his shoulder. She still needed to look up to see this. “Don’t worry.” Though she couldn’t connect her hands, her fingers found something to hold onto. The grooves of his very articulated muscles of his stomach. 

“That's a girl!”

As time slipped by, it went unnoticed as Marjorie was enveloped by something else entirely, something that robbed time away like a thief. From the butterflies in her stomach, to the frantic, yet calming haze of fog that clouded her mind and every action she took, to the softness of the cotton material as she kneaded her fingers into the hardened abdominal muscles of Mark gave her a relaxation that she’d never thought she would feel with or even about another person. A feeling reserved for her jogs or being on a bike, alone, wind in your hair. Turning her head, she placed her ear upon his back and despite all the noises that wiped about their forms, she only wanted to hear one thing and it was singing to her, and her alone. The gentle thud of this man’s heart. 

The constant, consistent, steady vibrations of the motor between her strong legs did have something to play with just how willing she was to toss out her inhibitions enough to actually sink so far down in romantic bliss unbeknownst to Mark. But for right now, it was probably best. This entire day was intensely stimulating. 

The problem was, however, that Mark was feeling this pull of attraction also. Mutually. And that went a little different for him than for the youthful scarlet latched upon his body, clutching him closely, with a death grip of softness. This was business though. Business, he reminded himself. 

It had grown late. They had spent a lot of time in the restaurant just talking and the ride which they subsequently passed the gym several times over. She wasn’t complaining and he didn’t seem to be in a rush. Upon arriving however, it was empty, dead even. It was odd that she had forgotten that today was an event, not an event revolving around her, but still a rather sizable event for the gym so many of the regulars were doing that. Whatever that was. Wherever that was. She never really bothered with things like that. Marjorie used the gym for one thing and one thing only- training. It looked like a ghost town. Lights still remained on, just desolate. 

Mark refused his jacket being handed back to him, citing he was comfortable as is and he was going to take it off anyway. “It is going to be cold tonight, you’ll need it for the ride home.” 

She never forgot, but it was tucked in the back of her mind. She was here to train with him. And by the looks of him, well, he trained hard and surely she would be learning a lot. A crash course was both exciting and dismal. 

Giving his jacket a final much too friendly whiff, Marjorie placed it in her locker. Air freshener unlike any she would ever have again. God, she just hoped she wasn’t going to look like a moron or something. He saw something in her, He is taking time out of his excruciatingly busy and painful schedule to train her, specifically. It was a lot of pressure to say the least. 

With her familiar black karate shorts and an earth toned shirt, she walked over to The UnderTaker. There was silence between them. They each knew that something just wasn’t right. There was something different. Much different. This wasn’t just an ordinary day for either of them. Which is an easy feat for the short haired cashier, but for Mark, it was intensely unique and entrancing. 

“You ready?” 

“Not really.” 

“I can respect that.” He laughed as he instructed her on the stretching. Mostly the stretches consisted around her legs and thighs. Like a helpful instructor, a trainer even, he stood behind her as she laid flat on her back upon the cold mat. She wanted his jacket again. Looking upward, she could see outlined from his pants an unmistakable bulge that pressed against the tight insides of the blue jeans he wore. It wasn’t hard, just… big. Naturally. 

“Bring your foot upward.” 

She did so without hesitation. His palm grasped her bare foot, covered only by a brand new fresh pair of socks which she’d put on just moments before, and he pulled inward. Marjorie tried to keep perfectly still as her foot was pulled toward his stomach, stretching it perfectly. Rinse and repeat a few times, a few to many. Much like putty, Marjorie’s legs were as limber and dexterous as a ballerina. They burnt, they tingled, but with the collection of sweat that slipped down her energetic, sleek body was a much less welcomed sensation, at least in this circumstance, which tingled just between her thighs. It helped with the pain though. Standing up was a task and walking was a feat. 

“You need to stretch more often. Okay? You do it as a warm up and cool down, right?”

She nodded, resting herself against the cold red brick wall of the gym, taking the newly filled silver canteen of water to her mouth, as instructed, again, by Mark. 

“Gotta do it in the middle also. You should stretch slightly less than you drink water for breaks. Need to keep that heart beating on down time not to mention loosening you up for the real training.” 

The gavel fell. He was sadistic, she swore. 

Each moment of their training was an eternity, physically for Marjorie, mentally for Mark. There was a line, invisible as it might be, that each crossed as they stretched. They were going through perfectly normal motions, tried and true in sports, and yet there was so much more to it. Try as she might, Mark didn’t do them himself. She would love to have seen and even helped him stretch. As for the actual training, however, it became more complicated. Wrestling is a very hands-on sport…  

Legs like lead, Marjorie leaned against the corner of the ring as Mark paced to and fro. He was a lumbering hulk in a significantly smaller ring than what he was accustomed to. He didn’t just dwarf Marjorie, but the ring also. Sweat beaded from her damp, weighted down hair, catching itself ever so often upon her thick, full eyebrows where its path was altered to stream down the outer part of her eye and then her cheek. She’d never been so tired in her life. What was he thinking about? She wasn’t complaining though. The rest was good. 

Deep in conflict with the situation he found himself in. Each grazing touch between them since they met had been like electricity and often met with awkwardness and hesitation. She had spirit. It was something that he couldn’t deny. Spirit and passion. He didn’t know where she worked, or even if she went to college. It all seemed so trivial; he’d seen all he needed to know in her eyes late last night. It drew him here, to be with her… to train her. To do what no one else did for him. Times were always tough, having to flee to Japan for a few years as wrestling’s popularity was in jeopardy, having no real friends except for the kindness of whatever league he was in at the time. Some leagues are much more unfriendly than others. There were upsides to being a loner by nature, he’d always have his bike and the great outdoors – the roads just keep going on, until they don’t. That’s when you make your own road. Your own adventure. 

With the canteen in hand he handed it to Marjorie, silence. He was having a moment, she could tell what it was about, she knew not but even in her muscle searing state, she was curious but didn’t  inquire. “Drink up.” He said as Marjorie devoured the canteen, the drink was long, sloppy, and greedy. The water flowed from her mouth as she poured it inside, dribbling much like her sweat down her body. The coolness was refreshing. She didn’t mean to do this but right now she just wanted water, fast – in her mouth or on her body apparently it didn’t concern her. 

Plucking the tip from her pouty, thick lips, she looked at the canteen, smiling followed with a blush as she handed it back to Mark. “Sorry. I was really thirsty. But hey, at least you can’t pour it all over me, I already did that.” She wiped her glistening mouth off with her forearm. 

Mark lifted one of his hands, in it, a bottle of Fuji Water that he’d been nursing on since the training started. “Yeah but you missed a spot… The most important spot.” He undid the cap, Marjorie looked at the bottle. 

“You can’t be serious…” 

The bottle lifted. 

“I swear to God, Mark.” 

“What? You need it. Get all that sweat off you.” Marjorie grabbed the hand and tried to push it away from her. As the two struggled with the Fuji Water bottle, Marjorie was finally able to wrestle it from one of his hands using both of her own… and her shoulder. There may or may not have even been a bite or two. She wasn’t sure. Victory was hers though!

“I am doing it for your own good, Marjorie.” He said, chuckling as they mockingly struggled.

Protectively curling it to her, the Fuji water was launched toward Mark. The bottle remained in her hand, but the contents however was slightly lightened as water whipped at the taller figure, his white shirt sporting large damp puddles that dripped down his body. His leather pants didn’t get much of the water, but the liquid rolling down his chest would eventually make its way down there. Boots, thankfully, didn’t get wet either. 

Coming to, Marjorie laughed, almost falling to the mat in a fit. Casually, she leaned back against the 

Wow. What a way to end it. 

Corner of the ring. The ring was shaped for people of the goliath, Mark-type bodies, not for little girls no matter how strong they are. Marjorie laced her arms upon the second mid rope, hanging as she laughed. Mark Calway, however, was not at all pleased. His mouth was firm, his teeth running upon the lower bit of lip as he watched in silence as his … student took light of the situation. Was that what she was to him, a student? 

“What, you don’t look amused. Oh, come on Mark. You started this, the very second we met each other.” She leaned her back against the tall corner post, her lush, despite being dried, lips twisted into an amused grin. “I can see why you like doing it though. Look at you. You’re so soaked.” The silence was making Marjorie feel uneasy now, perhaps however it was the lingering, leering, licentious look that Mark gifted her. Nervously, she brought the water bottle to his lips and took a quick drink of the remains. An anxious chuckle or two later, the entire gym was dead of sound, it was eerie. 

Advancing, light dimmed. It was almost like an eclipse as the Undertaker loomed over her. Something about that steel resolve gave Marjorie the impression of her being in trouble. She kind of liked that look. Its effects were almost entirely instantaneous upon her. Clasping his strong hand under the chin of Marjorie, playfully slid down, pulling her lower lip downward. The tip of his thumb, which spanned from chin to upper lip with ease, strummed. With demand but guidance, Marjorie’s face was lifted upward to give each perfect vantage point of the others eyes. Her eyes were entrancingly glazed over, focus utterly on him and him her, perhaps even twofold his way. 

“Being soaked is a laughing matter? I haven’t commented upon it but remember when we… were on the mat and… well, you were there so… Well I noticed you’ve been nursing your own marinade down there.” Marjorie jerked upward as one finger, with precision and articulation, glided along her heavy shorts, right above her pussy mound. 

There was no veil of uncertainty anymore. Mark smirked, in turn so did Marjorie, even if hers was following with rolling eyes, that finger applying pressure upon her nether lips. It was so strong, yet its movements, touches were graceful. It didn’t require much movement. Mark practiced and it showed. “You are perfect, Marjorie. In every way…” His hand cupped along her thick rear end, giving it a secure squeeze, flesh much like pudding as it filled his massive palm. “shape.” He leaned forward, slowly, tentatively slower. It was worse yet though because he was just so damn tall. A fact Marjorie loved, was not subject to her frustration. As he neared, she could sense this was it, this is what she’d wanted for so long. Dreamed of it on more then a few occasions, and sometimes when she felt particularly frisky.. it was right here. Her expressive lips curled and pouted, ready to accept the kiss that was coming. Her eyes closed, trusting him to land the plane himself. This was ‘her’ time. “and form…” 

No kiss came. The hand which teased her most precious of rosebuds, and violated her shapely rear end now stretched from behind her leg to her knee. His palm encompassed it as he pulled it upward, slowly. Marjorie’s eyes opened, looking at what he was doing. Getting the hint, she demonstrated that though she was strong in the legs, didn’t mean she wasn’t flexible. Looping her leg, with his support upon one of the ropes, Marjorie’s hands coiled upon his long, hearty chest, fingers grazing upon the wet white shirt as she followed his ‘advice’. 

Standing on one leg now, Marjorie trembled as that dancing, adventurous hand slipped from the back of the knee upward along her thighs, caressing with just the right amount of force before his thumb pressed into her spread yet clothed mound. Imprisoning her swollen, white nub with the thumb, his movement became sheerly blissfully circulate. His spare hand ran along her sweating medium length hair, right through but not before grasping a little bit of it between his fingers, drawing her to look upward, as if he enjoyed becoming lost in her eyes. Marjorie couldn’t lie, she’d look at them if she could but with such empowering sensations roiling, boiling throughout her body, it was hard to lift her heavy head. 

“I think I finally figured it out, Marjorie. It’s your eyebrows that make you unique and gorgeous. That and those lively lips you have.” The hand with hair in it, maneuvers itself over her shoulder so he could run a finger caressingly through one of her eyebrows before his tongue slipped out, just a little, but enough. “I have a lively tongue myself.” He purred like a bear as he pounced upon her, his lips crashing into Marjorie’s. They lusts mixed and mingled.

This was the start of something beautiful.