Snowball had heard of the many islander and aquatic nations of the Kraken, seen firsthand the sheer power of that species' first ambitious hopefuls, particularly Konga's new rival Rachel. He'd learned that even a top-class grappler in the Primal Clash like Gabriel had met his match on vacation. Was STILL meeting his match, if his extended absence was any indication.
Snowball booked a one-way flight to a great island city. Certainly the wonderful climate, scenic coastlines, thriving nightlife, and top-of-the-line cuisine were potent draws for the common visitor. But the Polar Bear had beelined to this particular city for one reason alone.
Ruben, a regional champion of the Kraken, a combat prodigy blessed with an almost impossibly formidable constitution and a ravenous training ethic to match. One who shared the same weight class as the mighty, beefy Snowball.
The promise of such a worthy opponent was like a sumptuous, luxurious feast laid out before Snowball. And the polar bear was deeply determined to devour it.
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Red flesh ploughed white flesh. White flesh ploughed red flesh. Red and white flesh ploughed together.
Feet planted squarely into the mat, wrapped together in a ferocious clinch, the dueling grapplers bore the full weight of their mighty, meaty bodies against one another and CLASHED.
This was no swift dance of flurries and footwork, nor any technical exchange of skill and counter. This was a pure, primal pummeling, power against power, abandoning all thought of defense or precision. Both combatants shared a guarantee of unavoidable collision, physiques wielded as battering rams, relentlessly trading point-blank impacts until at least one of them could no longer stand.
Warm, sweat-slathered flesh heaved and pressed, shoved and slapped, rippled and shuddered. Over seven hundred kilograms of meat and muscle crushed and grappled passionately, hungrily within the confines of the fighting cage, striking a tableau like two titans of fertility battling for dominance upon the tapestries and murals of lurid ancient history.
The real core of their contest raged between them, inside the burning pressure of their grinding, clenching, mashing bellies, plastered together by the ferocity of the mutual clinch. Girth plowed into girth, length locked with length, feeling each and every throb and pulsation they induced in each other. The true and most pure locking of horns between studs, bringing forth their most potent weapon and their most vulnerable target at the same time, leaving all semblance of guard or avoidance by the wayside to deeply and thoroughly wrestle and smash.
Brutish. Grueling. Raw. Weighty. Hungry. Entangled.
The sheer strength and endurance of both wrestlers, the sheer stamina and virility of both studs were mashed together in blunt, relentless exchanges, a bucking, bulldozing brawl of a bearhug where not a single punch or kick was thrown, just bosoms and bellies and bell-heads and balls smacking and thudding and slapping at ruthless mouth-watering pace. Shoulders, chests, and cores plastered tightly together by the iron grips of their clinch, bright crimson and snow white grapplers squared their stances, wound up their hips, and HUMPED.
Manhoods, balls, groins, thighs, and stomachs, lathered in sweat and other emissions, crashed together again and again, in such force and direction to let loose a symphony of primal noise that lit a fire in the belly of every woman in the audience.
PLAP PLAP PLAP PLAP PLAP PLAP PLAP PLAP
The siren song of sex, of mating, of breeding. An orgasmic overture of reproductive wrestling, an auditory feast rewarding the many who had paid top dollar to witness this duel in person.
Champion and challenger fully committed themselves to single combat, hell-bent on conquering the other grappler, even if he himself was brought low in return. To have come together so intimately, so deeply, so proudly in front of so many... meant an indecisive result was simply unacceptable. Thorough victory, thorough defeat... or thorough mutual destruction were the only options.
Their toughness and stamina excelled as ultra-first-class. Their raw might and sheer reserves of lust stood out as nothing less than overwhelming. Truly, in the midst of any other head-to-head clinch with any other opponent, either one of them could have been considered an immovable object. So when their brawn, bulk, and breeding beef smashed roughly and deeply, and each wrestler felt no give in their rival, momentum cancelled out in a scrum of slapping, jiggling meat, deep down they knew that they were in for a slog.
Not a single fist was brought to bear, not a single knee, not an elbow, not even a headbutt.
But the duel was still an utter slugfest.
Hips, glutes, and loins clenched, pistoned, clapped. Kraken and polar bear ploughed each other in a torrid mix of sumo wrestling and furious mating.
Hips cocked back, glutes still trembling and rippling from the prior impact, muscle clenching, breaths hitching.
Hips swung in, grips on each other's flesh tensing and jerking, hauling each other in with combative coordination.
PLAP
Loins met in yet another pelvic pummel, the full weight of two dueling super-heavyweights heaved into torrid cock-ramming. Rigid rods crammed vigorously into the dark, hot battlefield between their owners, solidity matched against solidity, an electrifying heat coursing along their lengths as their ravenous grappling sought the slightest softness or slowing, the slightest hint of weakness or fatigue to exploit.
PLAP PLAP PLAP
Balls slung forward into each other with jarring, jiggling claps, charging in with the momentum of rival pelvic blows to batter and bludgeon. Amidst all of the other assailing sensations of the bout, the testicular joust barely registered to Ruben and Snowball, yet the visceral sight of such thick and juicy love-sacs cannoning into each other in sprays of sweat and emission transfixed the gaze of every woman in the audience with enough luck to witness the impact. The symbolism was deliciously clear. Every single scrap of pride was being placed on the line, every slightest reserve of strength or flesh thrown into the fight.
PLAP PLAP PLAP PLAP PLAP
The sheer immensity of both grapplers' physical and sexual endurance was such that had the two chosen to erect even a modest defense or hold their reserves of strength back, their battle would have ground on in interminable stalemate, fighting to a draw because they could recover their stamina at a faster pace than their match could consume.
The raging pride that burned within each grappler's chest, each grappler's gut, each grappler's groin could not accept this. A fight like this was meant to be decided, not dragged out.
And so their clinch abandoned all aspect of self-preservation, ignoring any opportunity to restrain the opponent's movement or minimize impact. Ruben and Snowball lay completely and utterly open to one another, welcoming each other past their many layers of defense, pushing so deeply and thoroughly inside each other's guard that both of them would have no choice but to absorb the full unbridled weight of each other's impacts head-on.
And absorb it they did, each entangled so flush with the other that there was no escaping the true onrushing force of each warrior's might, the deep, wet echoing claps of their raw bulk and the picturesque sprays of sweat leaping from their juddering brawn displaying the sheer exertion and fury both wrestlers were committing, no, POURING into a clinch that might otherwise have been slow or intimate.
The poise, class, and comeliness of their proud strutting walks to the ring were long since discarded, abstract things trampled beneath the pounding boots, flexing thighs, and pistoning glutes of their owners. Mouths capable of honeyed words and sinfully articulate flirtation now let loose naught but lusty primal cries, bellows laced with aggression and arousal, gulping pants as the combatants took in as much oxygen as possible to fuel their burning muscles, and prideful growling grunts. Their clash had degenerated into something obscene and beastly, a pair of roaring alphas pumping into each other in a clash too erotic to be pure combat, and in an embrace too savage to be pure lovemaking.
PLAP PLAP PLAP PLAP PLAP PLAP PLAP
The rhythm of their rumble was relentless. The pace of their grappling was unforgiving. Twice every second, their meaty bulk slammed together, a punishing tempo that would have flattened any lesser fighter in short order. But for Snowball and Ruben, this was but the bare minimum they needed to bring to bear against each other in order to whittle down their prodigious toughness. They refused to unleash the crushing force of their punches that doubtlessly would have hastened the conclusion of their fight; this wasn't about deciding the superior fighter, it was about deciding the superior STUD.
Stubbornly, bullheadedly, quixotically, the wrestlers nestled their most vulnerable regions firmly and heatedly against each other, their chests, bellies, and manhoods mashed together in a lustful, prideful locking of horns, then drove them savagely and repeatedly together in an all-offense, zero-defense marathon of mutual body-thrusting. Their body parts that they normally would have guarded from incoming damage were now placed on the line as weapons, battering rams with which to bring down the opposing physique.
Sumo wrestling and stand-up fucking blended together in vigorous heaving coexistence. The violence of their many collisions sent shockwaves rippling through their pecs, guts, backs, thighs, and glutes, yet the sweat-lathered wet smacking and the sensuous squelching from between their humping hips infused a sexual overtone into their aggression. Girth speared together and balls swung forth, yet the two shoved into each other ruthlessly, years of yokozuna-class experience brought forth in an effort to gain ground within their octagon arena. Neither shied away from the manhood-to-manhood contact necessary to bring their dohyo-worthy body-thrusts into full contact, and thus their sumo duel evolved into a mating duel.
Their perception of the world around them shrank down to just the two of them. Nothing existed but the heat and firmness and pressure of the other grappler embracing them. Nothing else mattered except taking the next lunge from the opponent and giving back to them in equal measure. No other thought to the future but to keep hugging and humping until the foe was reduced to softness and submission.
There was no mortal danger in this kind of single combat, but the sentiments both shared and harnessed were morbid in their own right. To abandon any and all thoughts of guarding oneself, to discard every pretense of self-preservation. To present their most exposed, most sensitive areas as simultaneous combat instruments and targets. To take each other head-on, nose-to-nose, heart-to-heart, toe-to-toe in equal, undiminished exchanges. To clash without the slightest trick or technique, without quarter, without pause, in thoroughly mutual punishment. To refuse to retreat or even hesitation, to continue the duel until at least one of them had been completely and utterly defeated. To drag out and expend every last shred of one's stamina and will in pursuit of victory, no matter how Pyrrhic. To squash the foe through brute force and raw throbbing manhood, even if the cost was being squashed in return.
Wrapped up in their breeding bearhug, the sumo studs pushed and pressed, pumped and pummeled. Their long, hard contest was punctuated by rumbling, throaty moans surging up from deep within their cores as the wrestlers, synchronized like longtime lovers, climaxed amidst their lurid clinch, studly horns issuing milky, viscous heat into the dark, pulsating, shoving battlefield that was their bellies and crotches. The jousting juggernauts barely slowed, even through rumbling clenching orgasm, so focused on staying in the fight and keeping up with the opponent.
Gobs and gushes of stud-milk began to spatter the canvas beneath the tableau of furiously pistoning bodies above. The unrelenting humping and bucking churned their ejaculate into an obscene mix of Kraken and Polar seed that coated their stomachs, thighs, and cocks, puddling between their obstinately planted boots.
They fucked like Yokozuna. They sumo wrestled like lovers. Grappling and lovemaking blended together like the warm squelching cum between them.
They had entered this ring knowing full well that this would be a serious fight, a serious fuck.
But neither shied away from the hard truth. This was their raison d'etre.
Nothing else mattered but the next fight, the next clinch, the next round of sex.
And now they'd found their best one yet, in each other.
Their blood was up, their studhoods were thick and hard, and their hearts were pounding.
With grim determination, both threw themselves at each other, every ounce of fat and muscle heaved into the wet roiling melee. Ruben and Snowball gave and took. They gave it to each other hard, they took each other deep, sumo-squashing their sexes in raunchy repetition.
Gutsy. Graphic. Grueling.
For twenty minutes, they ploughed each other.
For forty minutes, they ploughed each other.
For sixty minutes, they ploughed each other.
For eighty minutes, they ploughed and Ploughed and PLOUGHED.
PLAP PLAP PLAP PLAP PLAP PLAP PLAP PLAP PLAP
The stunning duration of their marathon match barely registered to either wrestler.
This is what they signed up for.
This is what they built themselves for.
This is what they LIVED for.
Fight to the finish. Fuck to the finish.
I'll finish you. You'll be finished.
The one finished at the end shall be you.
I'll finish you, even if I must be finished in exchange.
I'll finish you, even if you finish me.
Even if we finish together. Even if we finish each other.
And if we finish each other...
We'll climb back into the ring to finish each other all over again.
And again. And again.
Even if we keep at it for a week. A month. A year. A decade.
Come at me. I'll come at you. We'll come together until it's settled.
Lock horns with me until it's decided. Lock horns with me to the bittersweet end.
Let's fight.
Let's fuck.
Let's finish it.