Manhandled
Holds, counters, and a lesson in surrender.
⚠️ Content warning: Explicit sexual content; consensual power/play dynamics; pro‑wrestling holds/impact; profanity. 18+ only. Read at your own pace.
The gym after midnight had a church’s hush—rubber mats drinking sound, jump ropes hanging like quiet vines, chalk dust swirling in the blue light of the EXIT sign. Lincoln loved it then. The machines were off, the front desk dark, and the ring—his father’s pride—sat like a squared moon in the middle of the room, its red ropes glowing in the security lights. He had a toolbox in one hand, a roll of gaffer tape in his back pocket, and the lingering smell of WD-40 on his fingers.
He was twenty-one, an engineering major with a summer’s tan and a mechanic’s patience. If it squeaked, he oiled it. If it wobbled, he braced it. He knew every stubborn bolt in the place, every soft spot in the canvas, the exact pitch the ropes gave back when you pulled them just right.
That’s why he noticed the ring rope’s subtle dip before he noticed her.
Something hit the ropes with authority—thwack—and slingshotted back to center. Lincoln looked up, squinting into the overhead glare.
She was alone in the ring, a midnight thunderhead in black. Sports bra, trunks, kneepads, wrists taped. Her skin gleamed the way steel does after a good polish. Her hair was pulled high into a whip of a ponytail. The gold of a title belt lay folded on the near turnbuckle like an animal taking a nap.
Victoria. The Black Mamba.
Lincoln had seen her on posters, on the gym’s website, once in passing earlier that week with a duffel bag slung over one shoulder. Up close, she had the kind of presence that rearranged a room. Shoulders like carved stone. Thighs that redefined the word leverage. Eyes that appraised and measured. Professional wrestlers came through his father’s place all the time—sparring, rehabbing, borrowing the sauna—but Victoria brought a charge with her, like static before lightning.
She noticed him when he set the toolbox on the apron. “Are you the gym maintenance and lock‑up guy tonight?”
“Rope,” Lincoln said, and popped the toolbox. “And whatever else needs love.”
She tilted her chin at the middle strand. “Third anchor is giving. I want to run the new sequence and I need the rebound clean.”
“Give me five,” he said, and vaulted up onto the apron. Up close, the rope’s sheath had a subtle fray where the nylon met the turnbuckle. He unhooked, tightened, checked the pulley hidden in the post sleeve, then hooked again until the tension sang. He pressed his palm into the line. It pushed back like a held breath.
“Better?” he asked.
Victoria took three quick steps, hit the rope, and came off it like she’d been loaded into a slingshot. The canvas popped under her boots. “That’s dessert,” she said, the corner of her mouth lifting. “You fix the top rope too?”
“Wasn’t broken.”
She smirked. “Everything’s a little broken.”
He stowed his tools and lingered, elbows on the top rope. “You working out something new?”
She glanced at the folded belt, then back at him. “New finish. Cobra clutch variant. Higher torque, faster tap. Great for TV. Bad for skeptics.”
Lincoln laughed. “Skeptics?”
She paced as she talked, shoulders loose, breathing steady. “The men who call it fake. The ones who think choreography means soft. The ones who don’t respect what it takes to make it look beautiful and not die doing it.”
He should have left it there. He should have nodded and gone to change the air filters like his list said.
Instead, tired and cocky, he said, “I mean… it is scripted.”
Silence. The word hung between them like a fly begging to be swatted.
Victoria stopped at center ring and looked at him with surgical calm. “Scripted isn’t fake,” she said. “You’re an engineer, right? You design bridges. Does knowing where the load will be make gravity fake?”
Lincoln opened his mouth. Closed it. “Fair.”
“Tell you what,” she said, rolling one wrist, then the other. The joints clicked like the cock of a gun. “Help me test the hold. You can be my bridge.”
He eyed the gate. He eyed her. He knew how to fall; he’d grown up in this place. He’d watched a hundred sessions, taped ankles, held a thousand stopwatches. His father always said, Respect the ring and the people in it, or they will teach you manners.
Lincoln drew a breath and slid between the ropes. The canvas gave underfoot, familiar and springy. From up close, Victoria was taller than he’d guessed by the posters, or maybe it was the way she carried herself. He offered his hands without thinking. They locked up—collar-and-elbow—and her grip was warm and alive.
“You okay with this?” she asked, voice low and professional.
“Yeah. I’m Lincoln, by the way.”
“I know,” she said, and then the lesson began.
She moved him like a diagram come to life—wrist control to side headlock, mat return without malice, a quick arm drag that redirected him rather than threw him. She narrated as they went. “Feet under you. Don’t post with your palm, post with your forearm. Good, good. Breathe.”
Then she raised the temperature.
A snapmare tipped the world; he landed seated and she was already behind him, one long arm snaking under his chin, the other trapping his bicep. The cobra’s embrace. Her forearm settled across his windpipe—not choking, just making its presence known. Her chest pressed between his shoulder blades. He could smell cedar, sweat, a hint of mint from her water bottle.
“This,” she murmured, “is the classical grip. See where your weight wants to go?” She shifted a knee against his spine and his body answered without permission, heels sliding. “That’s me giving you a road you don’t want. The trick is I close the exits.”
He tapped her forearm to acknowledge the hold. She released at once and stepped back. Professional. Controlled.
“That felt… real,” Lincoln said, rubbing his neck.
Victoria cocked a brow. “That felt light.”
For the next ten minutes she put him through paces: Irish whip into a tight armbar, a hip toss so clean he bounced and laughed despite himself, then a second, less charitable whip that took him sternum-first into the turnbuckle and knocked the laughter right out.
“Breathe,” she said again. “Scripted means I know where we’re going. It doesn’t mean the road isn’t uphill.”
Lincoln wasn’t small. Six-one, two hundred, the kind of strength that came from years of hauling plates and equipment, not just repeating bench numbers. Somewhere between the armbar and the second hip toss, something mule-stubborn woke up in him. Respect the ring, sure. But he wasn’t furniture.
When she reached for wrist control again, he changed the angle. He caught her momentum, stepped in, and pivoted his hips the way he’d seen a thousand times and tried three. Victoria let the motion develop, because that’s what professionals do—they care for their partner. Her feet left the mat, and for one suspended heartbeat the world inverted. He completed the arc, hands guiding, shoulder anchoring—a tilt‑a‑whirl into a kneeling backbreaker setup—only he held her there instead of dropping the knee, her back arched, breath rushing out in a sharp sound.
It wasn’t perfect. It didn’t have to be. It placed her there, draped over his leg in a position that suggested too much for midnight.
Heat shot through the air like a flare.
Victoria blinked up at him, ponytail spilled across his knee. One of her hands had found his thigh for balance. The pressure felt like a brand. Lincoln’s grip had gentled without him deciding to; he held her the way you hold a live wire you’re not ready to drop.
“Where’d you learn that?” she asked, voice a shade lower.
“Watched a lot of tape,” he said. “And you’ve been throwing me around for ten minutes. I learned fast.”
“You landed me safe,” she said.
“I wasn’t trying to hurt you.”
A smile tugged at one corner of her mouth, slow and dangerous. “You couldn’t.”
He let her roll free. She stood with a feline shake, chin high, eyes brighter now. The teasing was gone; something else had arrived—evaluation, interest, the kind of predatory focus wrestlers saved for opponents who could give them the match they wanted.
“Again,” she said.
They circled. He felt the burn where the rope had kissed his shoulder, heard his own breath turn into weather. She feinted, he bit, and suddenly he was on his stomach with her knee riding the small of his back, her hands capturing his wrist and elbow, his face turned to the canvas.
“You see how light this can be?” she asked, barely any pressure on the joint, just enough to prove control. Her voice brushed his ear. “Imagine what happens when I stop being polite.”
He swallowed. “Was that polite?”
She laughed—low, genuine—and let him up. The laugh did something to him he tried not to acknowledge.
For the next sequence, she called the moves before they happened—“lock-up, shoot, drop-down, leapfrog, duck the line”—and they flowed like water. He surprised her twice more: once reversing the waist-lock to take her back, chest to her spine, his breath raking the curve of her neck; once catching her mid-charge and pivoting her into the corner, bodies close, the thud of her back hitting buckle softened by the fact that he was already there, absorbing impact, hands braced on the ropes to either side of her head.
They held there. Neither moved. Sweat ticked down his temple. Her stomach rose and fell against his.
“Scripted,” he said softly, because suddenly he wanted to say the word again and see what it did.
“Staged,” she corrected, the syllable a whisper that shivered. “But real.”
His eyes found the pulse at her throat—a delicate flutter out of place on a woman built like a weapon. Her gaze dropped down, lower past his midsection, then returned to his eyes with a question and an answer braided together.
She ducked under his arm in a smooth slide and took his back again, fluid as silk, cinching the cobra clutch but higher, nastier, her forearm across his jaw, her hips glued to his, her weight the law of the land. He could feel the shape of her strength everywhere they touched.
“This is the new one,” she breathed. “Modified angle. Less oxygen. More surrender.”
He made himself laugh. It came out rough. “What if I don’t?”
She tightened fractionally. Not pain. A promise. “You will.”
Lincoln could have tapped. She walked him back until his shoulders kissed the buckles. Instead, he pushed off the buckles and rolled them both, using momentum and the ring’s spring to spill them sideways. They landed tangled, him half-on, half-under, her thigh hooked over his hip, his hand somehow finding the small of her back. The position said things they hadn’t said yet.
They stared. The gym was very quiet. Even the EXIT sign seemed to dim a shade.
Victoria’s lips parted. “Okay,” she said. “Maybe you don’t need the beginner lesson.”
“Maybe,” he said, “I want the advanced course.”
The smile she gave him this time was all edges and invitation. She peeled herself up inch by slow inch, never breaking eye contact, and offered him her hand.
“Water,” she said. “Then we decide who manhandles who.”
“Pretty sure I’m behind on points.”
“You’ll catch up,” she said, and the way she said it had nothing to do with scorecards.
They climbed through the ropes together. He tossed her a bottle from the cooler. She cracked the cap, drank, throat working, eyes on him over the plastic. He drank, too, the cold a shock that didn’t help.
By the time the bottles hit the bench, they were toe-to-toe again at ringside, heat humming between them, the kind of current that turns decisions into inevitabilities.
Victoria’s fingers brushed his wrist. “One more round,” she said. “No audience, No script, Just us.”
Lincoln nodded. “Ding, ding.” He mimed ringing an imaginary bell with a flick of his wrist.
She led him back through the ropes, hand at the small of his back, and the ring welcomed them like it had been waiting all night.
Their bodies moved together, sweat-slick and electric. Collar-and-elbow again, a testing of waters. Her breath was a warm puff against his jaw. He could see the calculation in her eyes, the strategic shift from professional to personal. This was a new kind of lock-up.
Lincoln snaps a side headlock on her—tight and tucked, his chest to her shoulder. The mat-smell floods his nose—canvas, rubber, her sweat. Got her.
Victoria doesn’t pry; she counters. A palm digs into his lower back, a forearm to his ribs, and she drives him forward three hard steps. He has to move or get folded. She shoves at his spine and shoots him off—he turns, takes the ropes across his back, and rockets out on a taut, angry twang, springing to center.
He lowers a shoulder to meet the rebound.
She’s already there. She steps in, posts a hand high on his shoulder, threads her other hand between his legs to the inside of his thigh, turns her hips, and scoops him clean. His feet leave the canvas; the world inverts.
She rides him down in one brutal, beautiful arc—a rebound powerslam—her weight through his chest, forearm firm across his collarbone to keep him safe. The ring booms under them.
The canvas punched the air from his lungs in a heavy whoosh. The impact wasn’t painful—it was a deep, resonant shock that vibrated through his spine and radiated out to his fingertips. He lay there, stunned, his body singing with the sheer physicality of it. His cock, trapped against his thigh, throbbed in time with his heartbeat.
Before he could even draw a full breath, she was on him. Not for a pin. Her knees landed on either side of his head, boxing him in. The black fabric of her trunks filled his vision. She hooked two fingers under the inside seam at the leg opening and slid the panel aside in one sure motion.
Her cunt was revealed, a dark, glistening slit against the brown skin of her inner thigh. The musky, sweat-laden scent of her arousal hit him, sharp and intoxicating.
“Lick it,” Victoria commanded, her voice low and thick. No teasing. No question.
He hesitated for a heartbeat—surprise flickering—then he smiled and buried his mouth between her thighs. His tongue found her in one broad, wet stroke. She was hot and tasted of salt and something uniquely her—a faint, earthy tang. He sealed his lips over her clit, sucking as his tongue worked her open.
Don’t chase. Find the edge and hold it, he told himself, the way he watched the ropes take and give.
An involuntary, shivery sigh slipped out of her. Her thighs clenched around his ears, her hips rolling forward, grinding herself against his mouth. “Yeah, just like that. Get it wet. Get it ready.”
He fucked her with his tongue, plunging deep, then circling her swollen bud. Her fingers tangled in his hair, locking him in place like a hold of its own. He could feel her muscles tensing, the beginning of a tremor in her legs.
Just as suddenly as she’d mounted him, she lifted, giving him an inch of daylight. He planted both palms on her ass—firm, shameless—used the grip for leverage, and slid his head out between her knees. Air rushed back in.
He surged to his feet. Victoria rose with him, a predator scenting momentum. She drove a forearm to his chest and shot him off. He turned into the ropes, took them across his back, and rebounded hard.
She met him mid‑ring, turned her hips, and snapped him over in a crisp hip toss. The mat boomed. Before the bounce was gone, she flowed with him—knee pinning his near arm, a palm to his sternum like a mock cover—then pivoted and settled back across his face, knees wide, claiming her seat like a throne.
Her cunt dripped onto his chin. “Again. Lick me clean.”
He obeyed, his tongue delving eagerly. This time, he focused on the rhythm she liked, a fast, insistent flickering on her clit. Her moans became curses. When her thighs began to shake, she pushed off him. He saw his chance. As she rose, breathing hard, he ankle‑picked—snatching a single—and cinched it just long enough to make a point, teasing the lock. She gave the beat its due, then rolled her hips, posted a hand, and kicked free.
She laughed, a sharp, delighted sound, as Lincoln stumbled back. Her body coiled; she snapped into a swift kip‑up, landing on her feet in a fighter’s stance. She charged, a bull‑rush of desire and frustration. He pivoted, matador‑slick, letting her blow past and guiding her into the turnbuckle. She twisted at the last second and took it on her back, then slid down, as if it was a real match, exaggerated pain across her face. He stood over her, his own breathing ragged. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his sweat pants and pushed them down, his cock springing free, hard and aching. He took a step forward, the tip brushing her lips.
“Your turn,” he said, his voice rough. “Lick it.”
Her eyes held his, a challenge and a surrender. Her tongue darted out, a pink flash, and licked a slow, wet stripe from his base to the tip. Then she took him into her mouth, her lips forming a tight, hot ring. She sucked, hollowing her cheeks, her hand working the base. The sensation was blinding, a direct line of pleasure to his core. He groaned, his fingers threading into her ponytail.
Breathe. Count it. Don’t blow the spot, he warned himself, riding the edge instead of tipping over it.
But Victoria was never one to be dominated for long. As he tensed, skirting his edge, she released his deck with a noisy pop, then she slid between his legs and ghosted behind him. Her arms cinched around his waist, fingers locking at his navel. He had half a heartbeat to register the clamp before she dipped, popped her hips, and arched—German suplex. The ceiling snapped past; the canvas rose up and slammed him in a thunderclap. She bridged beautifully, held him there for a brief second, then released as the ring shuddered under them.
Before the ring stopped vibrating, she was on him. She rose, thumbs hooking the hips of her trunks; in one economical motion she slid them down and kicked them aside. The sight jolted him—he read the next spot and kicked his sweatpants free, boots scuffing the canvas. She lowered back to him, took him in hand, set the head at her entrance, and sank down in one smooth, devastating motion.
“Fuck,” they both gasped in unison.
She began to ride him, her powerful thighs pistoning up and down. Her tits, confined in the sports bra, bounced with each movement. He reached up, tugging the fabric to the sides to free them. Her breasts were heavy, nipples hard and dark. He squeezed and pinched, rolling the tight peaks between his fingers.
“You feel so fucking good inside me,” she moaned, her pace increasing. “So thick. Stretching my pussy just right.”
The slap of their skin, the creak of the ropes, their mingled grunts—it was a symphony of sex. He could feel her inner muscles gripping him, milking him with each descent. His hands moved to her waist, gripping the hard muscle there, helping her drive down onto him harder, faster.
He blew out a breath and dropped into a ringside growl: “Momentum shift—Lincoln with the reversal…”
“Call it after you hit it,” she shot back.
With a surge of strength, he rolled her. She landed on her back, her legs flying up. He caught them, hooking them over his shoulders, bending her almost in half. This new angle was deeper, devastating. He set the angle and worked a hard, unshowy rhythm—deep and precise—each stroke knocking a gasp out of her.
He dipped back into the ringside voice: “Oh, he’s got her—how much more can she take?” He drove into her with abandon, keeping the cadence brutal and clean.
She tried to laugh and slipped into his bit: “Oh God—the Black Mamba is in trouble.” The next thrust stole her breath. “Fuck, I’m… damn… really am in trouble. Don’t stop!”
Angle, leverage, breath—you got this, he thought, locking the cadence until her eyes crossed and her pussy started to cream.
Pressure built low and mean, heat tightening up his spine. She felt it too. “Not yet,” she panted. Her legs pushed against his shoulders, shoving him off and away. He slides out, his dick coming out frosted.
Before he could protest, she was turning, getting onto her hands and knees. Her ass was in the air, her glistening cunt exposed, beckoning.
“Finish it,” she growled, looking back over her shoulder. “Fuck me from behind. Do it.”
He moved behind her, his hands locking over the hard shelf of her hips. He buried himself in one stroke—deep, no testing—her slick heat taking him. Then he worked a brutal, steady pace. The sound was obscene, wet and slapping, the ring giving a little under each collision. He widened his stance, drew her back onto him, and adjusted the angle until her breath hitched and stayed hitched. One hand climbed to the small of her back, pinning her there; the other rode her hip, steering micro‑shifts—deeper, tighter, right there. She braced on her forearms and arched, meeting him, riding the rhythm he laid down until her sounds broke into short, hungry bursts.
Her voice dropped, deep and throaty, slipping into the commentary booth. “Black Mamba flipping the script.”
She pushed back against him, forcing him onto his back again. She kept him inside, locked in even if just by the tip. With superb balance, she straddled him in a reverse cowgirl, sinking back down onto his cock with a cry.
Now she controlled the pace, fucking herself on him, her back arched, her head thrown back. He could see everything—the muscles of her back working, the curve of her ass, his cock disappearing into her. Her ponytail whipped his face with every bounce, sweat‑slick and taunting. He reached up, his thumbs finding the tight pucker of her asshole, rubbing circles around it.
She slipped back into the announcer voice, low and lustful. “Oh, a dirty, illegal move—but the ref doesn’t see it. Fuck, Lincoln.”
She started to really ride him—leaning forward, then driving back to take him deeper—then looked over her shoulder, ponytail snapping, eyes daring him to keep up. He answered with a palm pressed to the small of her back, his other hand sliding lower; his thumb circled once and then pressed in, firm and sure.
That was the trigger. Her body seized, her cunt clamping around him in rhythmic, pulsing waves. “Fuck—you’re gonna make me tap out… I’m coming!” Her shout echoed in the empty gym as a hot spray burst from her, splashing his belly and shaft. The pressure forced him out—the head slipped free slick with her—and she convulsed again, thighs shaking, breath breaking into ragged little cries. He held her hips and steadied her through it, eyes wide.
When the tremors ebbed, he slid his drenched length back into her in one smooth, claiming push. She gasped, clutching around him, aftershocks firing through her as she rode him down to the hilt.
The sight, the feel, the sound of her shattered his control. His hips bucked off the canvas, driving up into her as deep as he could go as his own orgasm exploded. Heat rushed up his spine and burst, his cum pumping into her in thick, endless pulses. He lost the sound he’d been holding—a hoarse, unguarded bark he couldn’t swallow.
She rolled her hips in time with his release, milking each pulse, and looked back over her shoulder. “That’s it—submit to it. There’s no shame.”
He shuddered under her, calves knotting, fingers splayed useless at his sides. Each tight squeeze wrung another hot spill from him until he felt emptied and a little lightheaded. She kept him there, guiding the last pulses with small, deliberate tilts of her hips—total control—then shot him a look over her shoulder, eyes blown wide and satisfied in a way that made the whole night make sense.
She collapsed backward onto his chest, both of them spent, gasping, slick with sweat and come. The ring held them, a silent, sacred witness.
He reached up and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her tight against his chest, her breasts settling on his forearms. She breathed a laugh down at him. “I told you you’d catch up.”
He let out a breath, a crooked smile tugging at his mouth. “So technically… who won that match?”
She didn’t move, just laced their fingers tighter. “Technically? I’m on top—and your shoulders have been down longer than a three‑count.”
She tapped his arm with two fingers—tap, tap. “Rule one,” she murmured. “You never call it fake again.”
He nodded, throat working. “Rule two?”
She rolled over him, breasts free, nipples dragging across his skin—heat and aftershock. She posted her forearms on his chest and breathed, “You’re coming to more of my sessions. Help me with my holds.”
He lifted to meet her, finally taking her mouth—the first kiss of the night. “Deal, Champ.”
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After-hours in the ring, Lincoln learns “scripted” still leaves bruises—and the Black Mamba writes the rules. #Dblkrose #BSPDarkWeb #DarkErotica #Fiction #Manhandled #ProWrestling #WrestlingRomance #BlackMamba