38: Comhraic (Kevin’s Apartment)

Kevin / Comhraic is an original character created by Celtic Fire (Twitter: @the_celticfire, Instagram: @thecelticfire). This story was written by me, but is a sequel to this story, written by Celtic Fire. You can check out the rest of Celtic Fire’s work here.

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I stood there in the hushed corridor of Kevin's high-rise, fist clenched at my side. Sweat clung to every inch of me, tank top plastered to my chest like a second skin, running shorts riding low on my hips. The run through Central Park had been brutal – my legs were burning, my lungs felt ballooned and exhausted. The run came after an hour at Iron Fist Forge. Hooks and crosses into the heavy bag and Bob dummy, the scent of leather and sweat thick in the air. Now, up here on the penthouse floor, the building's AC brushed cool against my flushed skin, but it did nothing to cut the heat radiating off me as I imagined what I’d be doing once Kevin answered his door.

My own smell hit me then as I waited. My body was sharp, with the earthy tang of my armpits and groin mixing with the sweat of exertion. I shifted and felt my cock twitch in the damp fabric. 

Fuck, it always did this after a good sweat. Like my body was signaling readiness, whispering about what it wanted to come next.

I knocked again, three firm raps that echoed too loud in the silent hallway.

The door swung open after a beat, and there he was. Kevin. Or Comhraic, depending on the light in his eyes. He leaned against the frame, sleeves rolled up on a crisp white shirt, top button undone just enough to show the edge of those Celtic knots curling over his skin. His beard framed a face that flipped from neutral to knowing in an instant. Those dark and steady eyes swept over me, lingering on the sweat trailing down my neck, the way my tank clung to the ridges of my abs, lower to the outline in my shorts. To the gray tank top’s sweat rings across my chest and under my arms.

I hadn’t called ahead, but he was not shocked to see me. Not even close. A smirk formed at the corner of his mouth.

"Knew you'd be back for round two," he said with gravel in his voice.

I met his gaze, my pulse picking up just as it had begun to settle after the run. The first time we met had been intense: his fists finding my gut in this very apartment, each thud rearranging my innards until I begged for more. Now here I was, again, uninvited but expected, body still humming from the gym.

"Couldn't stay away," I replied, stepping closer without asking. The cool air from his place rushed out, carrying a hint of coffee and leather.

A chuckle resonated from deep in his chest. He pushed the door wider, his bulk filling the space like a wall.

I smirked back, letting my eyes trace the broad lines of his shoulders, the way his shirt stretched taut over that thick chest.

"I’m here to return the favor this time," I said, voice steady. "If Comhraic can take it."

He scoffed, a rough sound that rumbled from his gut, his belly visibly contracting to shoot the air from his mouth as his eyes rolled. His gaze sharpened on me, flicking over my frame before he paused, jaw tightening just a fraction.

"Fine," he said after that beat. "I'll take a beating from you. Gladly. If you think you're strong enough to put me down."

I scoffed right back, smirk widening as I leaned in closer, close enough to catch the faint spice of his cologne cutting through my own musk.

"So, can I come inside, or are you too chickenshit?"

He stepped aside then, arm sweeping the door fully open, those dark eyes locking on mine while he sized me up head to toe, deliberate, like measuring a target… I wondered if I’d become his punching bag again if I couldn’t take him down. But just as quickly as the thought entered my mind, I discarded it.

I knew I could take him down.

"Get in," he growled.

I crossed the threshold and the door shut behind us.

I followed him into the living room, the space wide and shadowed, city lights bleeding through floor-to-ceiling windows. Kevin moved to the bedroom with his back to me at first, his frame casting a long shape against the wall as he walked up to it.

He unclasped his watch first, the metal ticking soft as it hit the top of his dresser, the leather band coiled like shed skin. Next came the shirt. He popped the buttons one by one, deliberately, his thick fingers working them free. The fabric parted, slid off his shoulders, and pooled at his feet. Those Celtic knots twisted across his body now, black ink looping like roots dug across earth. Scars and bruises laced through them; silvery lines, puckered at edges, mapping breaks and bites from fights long buried, and purple markings leftover from fights more recent.

Fights, I reminded myself. Not workovers. Every bruise and scar on his body was earned in a fight, not given to him in submission.

I stepped closer, eyes tracing the grid of damage, as I considered how I’d work his body. I followed old healed fractures along his ribs, a jagged pull under his left pec from some blade or bone. Now, it’s all just skin laid bare, history etched where no one else got to see – or, if you did see his scars, you were likely about to feel his fists, too. This was a privileged view, like flipping open a book of battles that he carried alone or only shared with his next battle.

"Turn around," I said, voice low, hand itching to become fists.

He did. It was a slow pivot, chest heaving once under my stare. Coarse hair dusted the slabs of muscle, Celtic knot tattoos curling over skin, the cut of his muscle dipping toward his navel. His belly sat solid, unflexed in the moment, a faint curve as his muscle hung loose, not yet deployed for action.

Pants next. His belt buckle clinked; the zipper buzzed down. He shoved them off, kicking free, standing in black briefs that sat low on his hips. His thighs were thick as trunks, and calves corded and powerful. The bulge there stirred – I noticed – the fabric tenting just slightly as he must have imagined what was to come and how he’d handle it.

I approached him then, feet silent on the rug, cataloging every mark like terrain I'd explore later. A deep gouge low on his side, pinker than the rest – must have been recent. Dots from stitches over his hip. His abs were faintly visible despite their relaxed state; not carved, but showing off functional power coiled under skin.

"Forgot how good the damage looks good on you," I said softly, stopping in front of him. "Every one of these scars tells a story, doesn’t it?"

I didn’t flirt or comfort the beast of a man before me. Instead, I ran my fingers along the scars as I spoke, my voice turning down at the end of each sentence, listening for a reaction. I wasn’t here to beat Kevin, I was here to lay my fists on Comhraic.

He held my gaze, eyes flipping dark. No words. Just a deep inhale. His thick chest rose, belly pushed out, loosened in full, and soft under the scars. Air filled him, then rushed out in a controlled whoosh, midsection deflating, going slack. Then the bricks of his abdominals formed into solid muscle.

Comhraic was here. He stared back at me, another man entirely. Hungry. Ready.

"Hit me," he growled, stance widening. "Show me your power, if you think it’s enough to take me down."

I smirked, closing the gap between us, one deliberate step that brought me chest to chest with him. Comhraic's eyes locked on mine, unblinking, that predatory glint sharpening as he waited for me to begin.

My fingers hooked the hem of my tank, peeled it up and over my head in one fluid pull. Damp fabric slapped the floor beside his shirt. Just shorts now, clinging to my thighs, the cool air raising goosebumps across my bare torso, a blank canvas in contrast to his tattooed and scarred body.

I balled my right hand, knuckles softly growing white, and drove it forward. The punch was hard, even to start. But I knew he wanted to be taken down, not offered up. Most guys I meet keep their core relaxed, or expect me to, because it’s pure fetish play. But as a boxer myself, I respected Comhraic’s requirement that he be taken down; brought to his knees in spite of his strength, not in absence of it.

The crown of my knuckles slammed into the center line of his gut, just above his navel. Firm resistance met me there as expected, like my fist had hit a leather bag packed with cement. Not like how my body usually welcomes shots to the gut. Mine yields, soft and inviting when I want it to. His? Dense and powerful. No give.

He exhaled then, a deep, controlled rush of breath that deflated his midsection inward, the skin tightening further. Comhraic didn't flinch. Didn't grunt. Just stood there, stoic as stone, eyes boring into me like he dared me to try again.

Bet.

His skin felt as though it heated up against my knuckles, coarse hair rasping soft as I circled the spot above his navel. It was time to lay out the plan. I wanted Comhraic to know what he was getting into here.

I pressed my forearm across his chest, feeling the thick muscle come together, flexing under my weight.

"Here's how this is gonna go," I commanded, voice steady, locking eyes with him. "I know what you’re telling yourself." 

My voice dropped as I dragged a knuckle along the hard ridges of his abs. "That you’re too solid for me. That my fists will bounce right off."

I leaned in closer, my lips brushing his ear. "But here’s the thing, big man: I don’t need you to let me in. I’m gonna take it. Punch after punch, until your muscle turns to shit, until your abs are so wrecked they welcome me in. And when you’re finally soft…"

I pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, smirking. "That’s when the real fun starts."

My knuckles grazed the taut muscle beneath his skin. "I’m gonna start where you’re strongest. Right here."

I tapped his abs once, twice, in the center of his belly, below the solar plexus but above the navel. “When you’re struggling to catch your breath as I punch it out of you, when these abs can’t flex anymore, when all you’ve got left is a soft, bruised gut," – my smile was all teeth – "I’m gonna fucking own it."

His jaw clenched, beard twitching, but those dark eyes never wavered from mine. His predatory fire flickered as he stared me down, daring me without a word.

I pressed harder, fist kneading against his abs now, mapping the give of his core. (There was none.)

"I'm timing you, Comhraic. How long till your legs buckle and you tap out. No fighting back. You prove you're tough by taking every punch on my terms. Deal?"

Comhraic's nostrils flared. His gaze sharpened, lips parting in a silent snarl of agreement. An unspoken acceptance to the challenge, promising he'd endure until he broke – if I could break him.

I pulled my fist back, muscles coiling, then snapped the next punch forward in a straight cross: clean, centered, knuckles aligned dead into the pit of Comhraic's gut, just above his navel like I said I would. The impact landed solid, a deep thud echoing off his dense core, my hand jolting from the resistance. Thick muscle layered under that scarred skin, unyielding as stone, protecting his intestines without so much as a muffled squelch. Just pure, battle-forged density stopping my fist.

Comhraic grunted with a sharp rumble from his body, his abs contracting harder. His eyes narrowed, beard twitching again in a wordless staredown. He just planted his feet wider, shoulders rolling forward an inch.

I stepped off, shaking out my wrist, the sting in my knuckles buzzing – but he didn’t need to know that. The heat of the hit lingered in my fist. This wasn't like before, when his fists drove into me, each one sinking deep, churning my guts like loose, slithering ropes, feeding the burn until I craved the next impact. No, Comhraic absorbed it whole, a brick wall swallowing the force without a single crack in the facade.

I sized him up, eyes locked on those massive hands hanging loose at his sides. Comhraic's chest rose steady, the knotwork tattoos shifting with each breath. His fingers curled tight, knuckles whitening like he was coiling for a counter-punch. Fists itching to swing, body screaming fighter even as he stood there.

"Hands," I barked, voice cutting sharp through the room. "Open them. Palms flat. Now."

He froze, shoulders tensing, that predatory stare flickering with raw frustration, maybe even hunger. His fingers uncurled inch by inch, palms facing in, hanging empty. No clench. Just obedience once again.

I stepped in closer, close enough to feel the heat rolling off his skin, the faint evidence of his cologne from earlier in the day mixed with the building musk of his sweat, mixing with my own. "You don't swing back. Not here. Not with me. You take it. Understand?"

Comhraic's jaw worked, beard scraping against his chest as he nodded once with sharp and reluctant cadence. I began to wonder if he agreed to this for his own good, too. To prove he could to himself as much as to me.

"Yeah. I get it."

But his eyes said differently. A percussive outburst was building within him. This wasn't his world. This was just him, stripped bare, letting my fists own his gut. He'd always been the one breaking others, with rumors of comas, bans, bodies left twitching in underground pits. But, passive? Never. No one had ever pinned him like this, made him swallow the urge to destroy his opponent.

Yet he held. Palms open, stance solid. Sweat began to bead on his brow, trickling down into the coarse hair on his chest.

"Good," I said, pressing my open hand flat against his belly again, feeling the residual throb from that cross. His core quivered – barely – under my palm. "Keep 'em open. Show me you fight the itch."

He exhaled rough, the sound scraping his throat. "Not easy."

"Won't be." I pulled back, arm loaded with another cross, this one aiming lower, straight into the curve below his navel.

His fists stayed open, trembling slight at the edges as I slammed in.

The impact rippled through his core – a solid, muffled thud as his muscle compressed against packed guts, absorbing the force. His body jolted once, broad shoulders dipping forward, but he straightened quick, breath exploding out in a guttural whoof.

I pivoted left, resetting my stance, eyes locked on the faint red bloom marking his skin. Sweat slicked his torso now, tracing paths through the coarse hair. His palms hung open, fingers splaying wider as if fighting the ghost of a counter-punch.

I snapped a hook into his right oblique, arm arcing tight from my shoulder, fist curving in to jam against the ridged side of his gut. The punch twisted his midsection, churning the dense layers inward, forcing his obliques to buckle under the lateral grind. Comhraic twisted with it, hips shifting, a low groan scraping from his throat like stone on stone.

His gaze dropped then, tracing the flex of my arm as it uncoiled: the swell of my bicep peaking, veins standing out under sweat-slick skin. He lingered there, eyes narrowing in something like hunger, appreciating the swell of my chest when I breathed deep to reset. It didn’t look like he was just watching me, but devouring what he saw. The way my pecs shifted, the cut of my abs tightening as I loaded the next punch.

"You built like that just for this?" he rasped, palms still flat but trembling now.

I only smirked in response, stepping in close, heat tangibly radiating between us. I could now smell his sharp musk mixing with mine.

Straight cross to the solar plexus next, my rear hand thrusting forward, knuckles spearing up under his ribs. The blow compressed his diaphragm more than he expected, it seemed. My knuckles slammed into the upper wall of his gut, forcing air out in a sharp bark. His chest heaved, breath straining as his core spasmed around the blow, intestines folding tight against his diaphragm. He did not fold or stagger, though. That iron frame merely absorbed the impact, redistributing the force through his body.

Comhraic's eyes drifted again, this time to my shoulders, the broad flare rolling with each punch. He swallowed hard, his gaze now focused on the muscle moving under my skin: my delts capping thick, traps rising as I powered through. I detected a sense of unvocalized appreciation, like he was mapping my power the way I'd previously mapped his scars and tats.

I switched angles, slamming him with an uppercut that rose from my hip into his navel, fist hooking upward to plow dead center. The impact caved his belly inward for only a split second, his thick, dense muscle yielding just enough to let my knuckles grind against the coiled mass inside. A deeper thud this time, his bowels shifting with the upward drive. He grunted, knees dipping once, but he locked them fast, palms flexing open wider as he restrained himself.

I pulled my fist back slowly, shaking the ache from my wrist as I smirked at him.

His breath came ragged now, chest rising in shallow pulls, but those eyes stayed on me, trailing the sweat carving lines down my torso, the ripple in my quads as I shifted my weight. Admiration laced his face, but I knew that behind the admiration for my body and power was a deeper drive to flatten my guts again.

I loaded a jab to his left oblique, quick and precise, snapping it in to test the side. My fist jammed sideways, compressing the flank, sloshing his guts inside – you could tell. A sharp grunt was forced from his body.

He wasn’t broken; not yet, anyway. But the edges were beginning to fray. Sweat was beginning to pour from him and his core began to quiver, especially his obliques. I sized up his guts again, bicep coiled for his navel, ready to bury into it.

My fist was chambered low and drove straight into Comhraic's lower gut, knuckles spearing just below his navel, where I met dense muscle. The blow jammed in, compressing his muscle against his bowels, a thick thud vibrating up my arm. His frame jolted, hips bucking once, sweat flinging off his skin in a fine mist. I could feel the foundation beginning to crack, but it would be a while more, I thought.

Sweat was tracing salty paths down his chest now. His eyes flicked to my abs, narrowing on the flex as I reset, the tight ridges of my belly glistening under the room's dim light.

My rear fist thrust forward, burying into the same spot, but deeper this time, twisting at the end to grind into his intestines. Comhraic's belly caved an inch, then pushed back hard, his breath whooshing out in a ragged bark. His legs shifted wider, thighs straining, quads locking to hold ground.

He swallowed, gaze drifting to my pecs, the swell rising with each pull of air.

Another blow without taking a break: a hook from his left, arcing in to plow his left oblique again. My fist sank in, churning the mass inside, forcing his lower gut and right oblique to briefly bulge with the displacement of his guts from my punch to his side. A low wheeze escaped him as his body twisted, but his palms stayed open, fingers splaying like claws. Red skin bloomed wider across his gut.

I stepped closer, arm whipping upward in a vicious uppercut, knuckles slamming into his solar plexus. The impact speared under his ribs, crushing his upper belly in one brutal drive, his intestines again folding tight against his diaphragm as my knuckles plowed through his proud abs.

Comhraic's eyes snapped closed, an involuntary grunt ripping from his throat.

I leaned close, breath hot on his thick, sweaty neck, and growled into his ear. "There we fuckin' go."

Comhraic's grunt hung in the air, rattling around my head, fueling me. I didn't give him time to reset. Arm cocked low, I drove another uppercut straight into his solar plexus, knuckles again plowing up under the ribs with full hip torque. The blow hammered his diaphragm, again compressing the upper guts into his diaphragm. His insides buckled as air exploded from his lungs in another choked grunt.

As I pulled my fist back, he twisted his body once and then straightened up, eyes watering at the edges and his beard slick with sweat.

I stepped in tighter, our chests nearly brushing, the musk of his pits thick and tangy now. I snapped a straight cross burying deep into the pit of his gut, just above the navel. My knuckles plunged past the outer wall of thick muscle this time, sinking into looser territory where his intestines had been avoiding much abuse. No full yield yet, but his muscular resistance softened a fraction. A deeper grunt tore from him that was involuntary and guttural – just his throat working hard as breath stuttered out uneven, forced from his body.

Sweat began to soak into his waistband. His palms flexed open wider, fingers trembling, but he held stance.

One more to the solar plexus now, as I worked to finally break through his abs. My fist rose sharp from the hip, slamming upward to crush the nerves and organs under his sternum. The impact jolted his frame, his lower guts flaring as his upper gut folded around my hand. Another grunt ripped free, this one hoarse, breath catching mid-exhale.

I pulled back slowly, shaking the throb from my knuckles, feeling the shift settle in. His abs weren't iron anymore. Fuck yeah. They were finally yielding deeper now, letting me grind past the surface into the squish of bowels below. Breath control frayed too; inhales came shallow, ragged pulls that didn't fully refill his chest anymore.

A heat built in my gut – the satisfaction of knowing I was getting closer to breaking him. This beast, always the breaker, started to crack under my power.

I planted my feet firm on the rug, my chest heaving in rhythm with his fractured breaths. His midsection quivered now, slick with sweat, the tattooed skin pulsing red under the dim light. I chambered my right arm low, shoulder rolling tight, hips twisting to load the power.

This one aimed dead center: his navel. My fist plowed forward, slamming into the indented circle of his belly. The impact caved him deep, my hand burying past the scarred skin and dense muscle, sinking into the hot, yielding mass of his innards. Intestines compressed like thick mush under my knuckles, squishing into his body with a muffled thud.

An involuntary grunt burst from his gut, the air punched from his body. His eyes snapped shut again, his beard framing a grimace as the pressure rippled through him. Comhraic's face twisted, nostrils flaring wide. An animalistic growl rumbled up from his chest.

He lunged for me then, his massive frame surging forward in an attempt to take me down, those open palms curling into mits as he reached for my shoulders.

But instinct kicked in: Years of drilling footwork and counters at Iron Fist Forge were etched into my muscle memory. I pivoted sharp on my lead foot, rear arm whipping upward in a brutal uppercut. My knuckles hooked low from my hip and plowed straight into his navel (again) with violent torque. The blow drilled deep, fist vanishing into the softened pit, grinding his intestines against his unyielding spine – the knuckle-tap clearly felt upon my fist after I’d plowed through his bowels in an instant. His intestines churned and flattened under the force, nearly doubling him over as his torso buckled forward.

He staggered, knees dipping, a choked “UGH!” scraping out.

Before he could fold, my left hand shot up, my open palm slamming flat against the thick slab of his pecs, his coarse hair rasping under my fingers. Powerful muscle yielded just enough under the shove. I drove him back, power surging from my core, pinning his bulk against the wall with a solid crack.

His back hit wall, shoulders jolting, forcing another grunt from his throat – his short, ragged, breath knocked loose again.

"Get the fuck back," I boomed, voice dropping to a baritone rumble that filled the room, dominant edge cutting sharp. "You belong to me now."

Comhraic's head snapped up, eyes locking on mine, flickering with shock and a bit of fire. His chest heaved under my palm, the swell of his pec rising and falling in uneven pulls, tattoos swelling and sinking. Sweat dripped from his brow, tracing into his beard, but he didn't push back. Not yet. His gut clenched around the ache, intestines still settling from the deep plow, red skin blooming darker across the navel.

I held him there, palm firm on his chest, feeling the thunder of his heartbeat through the muscle. Heat radiated between us now, his musk thick, raw, mixing with the salt pouring off my own skin. My cock stirred in the shorts from the way his body yielded under my command.

"Breathe," I commanded, easing the pressure a fraction, but keeping him pinned.

He exhaled slow, the rasp turning to a hiss, his massive frame sagging just an inch against the wall. Palms uncurled again, fingers splaying flat against his thighs, obedient and breaking. The growl faded, replaced by a low rumble in his throat, eyes tracing the cut of my abs, the flex in my arm holding him.

I pulled my hand from his pec, stepping back one pace, but close enough to strike. His gut quivered, exposed and tender, waiting for what came next.

Comhraic's exhale came first. A deep, grunting sigh that flowed from his core, hands rising to clutch his belly. Fingers splayed over his gut, pressing the tender swell where my fist had plowed his intestines flat a moment ago.

He doubled over then, torso folding slightly at the waist, as if the pain had hit him delayed. His face dropped forward, beard scraping my sweaty pecs, the coarse prickle mixing with the salt on my skin. His breath blasted hot against my chest as he exhaled sharp, pained breaths.

With his nose pressed to my muscular chest, he inhaled deep through his nostrils, pulling in my musk, the raw tang of pits and exertion. He then exhaled through his mouth, ragged and controlled, chest shuddering under the effort. Again. Inhale, nose flaring against my pec, drawing that earthy scent like fuel. Exhale, mouth parting to release the burn low in his gut.

His hands pressed deeper into his aching belly, intestines still churning. My cock throbbed in response, arousal spiking from the sight of this beast, broken open, breathing me in while his core throbbed.

Comhraic's breath stuttered against my pec as I rested my hand on the back of his neck. My thumb traced the sweat-slick ridge of his trap. Satisfaction fell over me. This unbreakable brute, folded against me, his core a throbbing ruin from my fists. I'd cracked him open just enough to work his soft insides.

He inhaled again, nose buried in my hairy pecs, pulling my musk deep into his lungs. Then he shifted, face turning toward my armpit, nuzzling into the damp hollow. Another inhale, slower this time, nostrils flaring wide as he drew in my natural scent.

"Fuck," he rasped, voice muffled against my pit and bicep.

I chuckled softly, the sound rumbling from my chest. Anticipation grew tighter in my gut, arousal mixing with the thrill of his surrender, though I knew I wasn’t done with him yet. "Yeah, you like that?"

Comhraic's head snapped up, eyes flashing to mine. His open palm curled into a fist in an instant. Before I could move, he drove forward a brutal sucker punch low into my gut, knuckles driving straight into my lower intestines. The blow buried deep, compressing my bowels flat against my spine, a vicious thud that blew smashed my intestines through my core like a sledgehammer. Pressure exploded inward, my innards flattening and bulging my obliques and upper gut out under the force.

A noise came from my throat that was half a chuckle, half a grunt, and entirely involuntary.

I didn't fold. Instead, my instinct surged: my legs planted wide as I shoved both palms into his chest, driving him back against the wall with a solid crack. His bulk hit the wall, but I was already in. My right fist cocked back and my hips twisted with full torque. I plowed it impossibly deep into his unprepared gut, knuckles driving into him just above his navel, my fist again tapping his spine through layers of unprepared muscle and soft intestine. His bowels and the thick, relaxed muscle of his abdomen violently sloshed and flattened under the impact, a muffled thud echoing sounding through the room.

A pained, breathless grunt exploded from Comhraic’s throat. He doubled over finally, torso folding sharp at the waist, his hands clutching his wrecked guts as his knees buckled an inch.

I grabbed his shoulders, yanking him upright against the wall, his sweat-slick back sliding on the surface. No mercy, fucker. My left fist snapped in next with straight cross burying into the same spot, deeper still, plowing past the outer guard into his already aching loops of bowels. But he braced, abs flexing hard under the scarred skin, turning his midsection to solid muscle. His abs forced my knuckles out of his bowels, jarring my wrist with the resistance, but the force still churned inside him.

Comhraic grunted again, deeper this time, face twisting as the ache throbbed in his guts.

His gaze locked on mine. Sweat poured off us both, mingling in the heat between our bodies, his musk raw and feral, fueling me as much as my drive to really break him. My cock throbbed harder, the ache in my own gut present.

"Flex all you want," I murmured, pulling my fist back slowly. "I’m taking you down."

He swallowed hard, abs still locked, but a tremor ran through them: Cracks were forming in his defenses.

I eased back a step and let my eyes rake over Comhraic's torso. His muscle gut glowed red now, patchwork blotching across the dense slab; faint at the obliques, redder near the center line of his gut where my fists had churned deepest. Sweat glazed it all, rivulets tracing the Celtic knots. His briefs tented, his cock straining within, arousal that he couldn’t ignore coming from the beating itself.

But higher up, at the center of his solar plexus, a new shadow formed. Purple-black, thumb-sized, the skin already swelling around it. Fresh damage, capillaries bursting under the repeated uppercuts, marking where his diaphragm had buckled hardest.

Comhraic dragged in deep breaths, chest expanding slowly. His inhale dragged ragged through his nose. His exhale whooshed out his mouth. His beard quivered with effort. He hadn't clocked the brand new bruise yet. My index finger extended, tracing the edge of the mark gently, my fingertip grazing the heated skin.

"Look at this," I said, voice low, circling the center with feather-light pressure. "Solar plexus taking the worst of it. It's purpling fast, probably tender already, swelling. Beautiful, though. You felt my knuckles reach your core?"

His eyes snapped down, focused on the sight. His body went rigid, shoulders hunching forward. This was unfamiliar territory. No one's ever lingered on his breaks, traced the evidence with reverence instead of mockery. He’s never let someone do it.

"Fuck," he rasped, his voice thick and gravelly. His cock jerked in his underwear, bulge thickening, precum darkening a spot on the fabric. The thought hit him visibly: The replayed image of me marking him, owning that bruise like territory I’d claimed. His arousal spiked, his cheeks flushing under his beard and his breath quickening to match the throb within his guts.

I pressed my finger firmer against the bruise. His free hand twitched, hovering near mine, but stayed back. Comhraic's gaze dropped to my finger, now circling the bruise. His abs quivered under the touch.

He swallowed thick, his voice rumbling from his chest. "Never let anyone do this… one-sided like that. Fights? Sure. I’ve been broken before. But the control's always mine. No one's ever... made me take it."

His words hung in the air between us.

I pulled my fist back without taking a pause. No words. Just torque from my hips, my right fist snapping into him with a straight cross. My knuckles plowed dead center into his lower gut, driving deep into his bowels just below the navel, where his intestines rested thickest. The blow buried wrist-deep, compressing his innards flat into him. A deep thud sounded as his core yielded soft and sudden.

Comhraic's breath exploded out in a guttural “Oof!”. His powerful torso buckled forward an inch, his knees dipping, but he locked them fast. His palms splayed flat against the wall; his chest heaved, the coarse hair matted with sweat, but his briefs strained tighter, cock surging hard against the fabric, precum soaking through. His hips twitched involuntarily, grinding toward the pressure, face flushing hot under that beard. A low moan left his body, raw hunger sounding from his mouth.

I stepped closer, fist still embedded in his broken guts, twisting once to grind deeper.

I twisted my fist harder, grinding my knuckles deep into Comhraic's lower gut, feeling his intestines move and shift against my fist. He groaned, his abs locking tight around my fist, his dense muscle pushing back like steel.

That resistance fueled me. Punches flowed then: Instinct took over. No pause, no plan. Right cross to his navel, burying wrist-deep into half-braced guts. Left hook churning his obliques, my fist plowing in sideways to rock his bowels. Uppercut driving into his solar plexus, compressing innards into his diaphragm until his breath barked out of him.

Comhraic stood solid at first, his thick abs rigid, with grunts forced from his chest with each impact. Sweat flew with each punch, from both of us. I felt a surge through my pumped-up body – power, pure and right, my body owning his after he’d owned mine.

Minutes blurred into each other. Hooks blurred into crosses into uppercuts. Impacts into the pit of his gut, the solar plexus, back to the pit, and to his lower bowels. No mercy.

His breath finally cracked. His knees buckled once, threatening collapse, as my knuckles started to sink past the fading guard of his physique, plunging into soft guts.

I grabbed his shoulders, yanking him upright against the wall, his bulk sagging into my grip. This mirrored it exactly: Him wearing me down last time, my breath failing, my knees dipping until I begged. Now reversed, his core softening, faltering under my strength.

Comhraic’s sweaty skin slid under my fingers. His gut softened further, the dense slab wavering, no longer pushing back with that iron edge. His breath came in short pulls leaving his chest heaving through the tatted knots.

I plowed another punch into his lower guts and felt no resistance this time. Nothing but soft bowels until my fist met the limit to which it could drive into his body. But then, no solid abs pushing my fist back out. Without a moment to pause, I ground my knuckles into his soft lower guts. A harsh grunt sounded from him.

"You're a tough son of a bitch, Comhraic. You can fuckin' take it."

He straightened an inch, eyes locking on mine, pleading silently for the next. He said no words; just the gaze burning into me.

I threw a hook, jamming into his navel, churning his bowels from the center of his gut. His frame buckled, knees dipping again, but again he did not go down. Another grunt exploded from him, louder.

"You can take more."

His eyes settled on me, begging harder with no words, but with the tilt of his head. His body sagged, his strength was ebbing, but that stare pulled me in, demanding I push him to the limit.

I cranked up the power, thrusting a straight into the pit of his gut. My knuckles vanished deeper than before, his intestines squelching under the blow. The thud echoed in the room as his core caved around my fist with almost no resistance.

"Fuck yeah,” I encouraged him. “Come on, fucker—hold it together."

His gaze never broke from mine, his eyes glassy now, silently demanding escalation. His legs trembled as his gut hung throbbing, red, and swollen; his musk thick between us.

I threw an uppercut from my hip, slamming through his solar plexus. The impact compressed his upper intestines into his diaphragm again. He grunted hard, his body folding forward into my shoulder.

But those eyes met mine as he doubled forward. His eyes locked on mine, imploring. More. Deeper. Break me.

I twisted my fist, still embedded in his diaphragm, grinding once. His core released as he let out a short groan, his belly yielding now, his intestines a hot mash under my knuckles. His grunt dissolved into a moan.

Physical collapse edged closely now. Mentally, he aligned fully, that silent beg etching every blow deeper into us both.

Comhraic's muscular gut quivered before me, the dense slab of meat slack now, no trace of that iron guard left. His breath was shallow, his eyes glassy but locked on mine.

No more words. Just the drive. My fist shot forward, straight into his lower gut, my knuckles sinking in just below the navel. His abs did not engage, the thick muscle gut going 100% relaxed, soft and unguarded under his scarred and battle-worn skin. The blow obliterated his liquified bowels. A forceful ripple exploded outward, his soft muscle gut blowing out with the impact, his lower intestines squelching under the force of the impact.

All his breath forced out in a baritone rush – low and resonant, the sound vibrating from his chest like a thunderclap. The noise connected directly to my cock, the guttural whoosh of a broken gut.

Comhraic's knees buckled fully, his massive frame crumpling forward. I caught him mid-fall, my beefy build absorbing the weight, my arms wrapping around his shoulders, our sweaty muscular physiques slapping together, chest to chest. Slick skin slid, our hairy pecs rasping against each other. His bulk was heavy, but I held him up, my thick quads bracing, feeling the thunder of his heartbeat hammer against my own torso.

I shifted, one arm banding his waist, the other cradling his neck. Gently, almost tenderly, I nuzzled my mouth to his ear as he breathed deeply against the throb in his guts. My lips brushed the damp lobe, his beard tickling my jaw.

"I want to punch the cum out of you," I whispered, voice deep, rumbling against his skin.

Comhraic moaned an affirmative, wrecked sound that dragged through his throat. His face nodded into my sweaty pec, his nose pressing the swell of my muscle, inhaling my scent with a shudder, his hot breath flowing across my nipple.

I shoved Comhraic upright, his back slamming against the wall with a wet, sweaty thud. His knees wobbled, but he prepared himself.

My thumbs hooked the waistband of my shorts, yanking them down in one rough pull. I kicked free of the shorts and my cock sprung hard and heavy into the cool air, precum slicking the tip already.

Comhraic's gaze dragged over me, his eyes only half open as he breathed deep, his body lazy with the ache throbbing in his guts. His breath heaved through his open mouth, fogging the space between us. His beaten belly rose and fell, the swollen mass stretching with each inflation and deflating softly.

He shifted, slow as molasses, fingers grazing his black underwear. He pushed them down his thighs, letting them drop. His cock bobbed free – thick, veined, jutting rigid from the nest of hair, the head flushed deep purple, a bead of precum dangling before his underwear hit the floor.

"Fuck," he sighed gently, his hips arching forward. "Do it."

I pressed my bare chest to his, my cock grinding against his leg, his rigid length stretched ahead of him in anticipation for the impacts to come.

I planted my right fist firmly against his lower belly, my knuckles nestling into the soft curve below his navel. His scarred skin yielded immediately with no resistance left – whether he couldn’t or had given in only he knew.

I leaned in, mouth brushing his ear again.

"Your abs failed you, Comhraic," I murmured with a soft baritone rumble. "Crumpled under my knuckles and let me bury my fist deep into that muscle gut. But you took it, stood there, and proved you can surrender to another man’s strength."

He groaned deep, the sound dragging from his throat, his clear arousal thickening. His cock throbbed against me, more precum now smearing across my thigh.

"You're a good boy," I growled into his ear, voice dropping even lower.

My fist plowed forward without pause, torque snapping my knuckles deep into his lower guts, smashing the loops of his intestines deep into his gut. His soft and unprotected bowels shifted and flattened under my fist – as my fist came to a stop at the deepest point of his gut, I churned my knuckles to feel the loops of his bowels move under the thick relaxed abdominal muscle.

"Oof!"

I ground my knuckles in deeper, twisting slowly, feeling those bowels mash and shift. He buckled forward into me, knees dipping. I pulled back again, driving into the same spot, but this time with an even deeper grind, his soft bowels taking the beating like the tough son of a bitch he is, even as his intestines sloshed upon impact.

"Oof!"

Again, my fist hammered home, churning the yielding mass of looped guts, compressing them as flat as they’d go under the power of my muscular, boxer-trained body.

"Oof!"

Comhraic sagged heavier against the wall, his breath now panting, his cock jerking wildly between us. My fist whipped forward with a building fury, my knuckles plowing wrist-deep into Comhraic's lower gut again and again in an effort to make him cum by plowing his lower intestines down into his prostate. Harder this time, the impact jolting his beefy frame.

He grunted with each new punch. No words, just accepting each punch into his lower intestines with a building pressure in his groin.

I pulled back, and drove in again. A deeper plunge, my fist churning those yielding intestines like fresh wet clay. His soft muscle gut wobbled with the impacts, the loose guts pressing out his relaxed muscle as they were displaced upon every punch.

"You feel me fuckin’ your guts," I growled, breath hot on his neck. “Huh?”

His eyes squeezed shut, cock still throbbing against my thigh.

I cranked the power again, my fist slamming into his soft innards harder still, my knuckles grinding past the tender curve below his navel. His aching bowels continued to flatten and slosh under the slow and deliberate assault.

“More,” he barely groaned.

I hammered home now, each strike escalating. My fist buried deeper, twisting to mash his intestines as close to his spine as I could; as deep as his gut could physically take it. The loops of his intestines shifted and rippled, yielding completely, the pressure radiating low through his core and into his groin. His grunts dissolved to full groans now, guttural noises rolling from his gut and out through his throat, his body sagging heavier into my brace.

"Deeper," I rasped. “You can fuckin’ take it.”

His eye contact still locked on me, his breath still panting, he only nodded in response.

Bingo. I launched a brutal punch into him this time, like a piston, deep into those bowels. My knuckles vanished, churning the liquified mass of loose organs, a sweaty wet THUD sounding out as his intestines took the full force of the punch.

Comhraic's groan shattered. A jet of cum shot from his cock, the thick rope splattering my hip, his length pulsing hard against me as more cum followed.

My baritone voice thundered "Fuuuck yeah!" as his moan hardened into a desperate plea for the final punches.

I slammed in harder, my fist grinding his lower guts, his bowels sloshing under the crush. Another spurt erupted, his cum streaking across my belly, his groan twisting louder and body convulsing without protecting his guts from any final shots he could take before the wave of his orgasm crested.

I shot another punch into him, a deeper plow. I kept driving in, the punches relentless, each one harder, focusing that entirely soft spot in his lower gut. Every punch was met with his cock jerking wildly, another rope of cum shooting onto my gut or the floor until it slowed to a stop, finally.

Only then did I not pull back for another punch. My fist lingered, embedded, feeling his insides settle through the aching throb in his bowels.

Comhraic's weight crashed into me fully then, his thick frame sagging like a felled oak, his shoulders rolling forward as his legs gave out. I held him again, his cum cooling sticky between our hips. I kept my fist buried a second longer, feeling his bowels clench and release around my knuckles, then pulled back slowly.

Mouth still at his ear, I murmured low.

"You were good, Comhraic. Fuckin' tough. Took every hit like a champ."

He groaned deep, the sound rumbling from his gut, vibrating through our fused torsos. Then his palms planted my chest, shoving me back with sudden force. I staggered one step, laughing as he straightened up, eyes glassy. Laughter bubbled from him too. He let loose a deep chuckle that shook his inked frame.

"Shut the fuck up," he said, still giggling.

That cracked me wider, laughter spilling free, chest heaving against the ache in my own gut from his sucker punch earlier.

Comhraic's hands dropped to his belly, his open palms rubbing the red skin, massaging slow circles into the throbbing guts inside. Deep breaths followed, his wide chest expanding full, and exhales whooshing through his open mouth.

"Fuck, man," he said, voice gravelly again. "That shit was intense. Felt like you punched me straight into my guts. And you made me cum hands-free. Fuck."

He paused, breath steadying, eyes locking mine.

"One-sided beatdown's new for me,” he said. “Always been the one dishing. But if anyone's gonna make me eat a full workover without swinging back... it's you."

I smirked, taking it easy.

"Appreciate that. Maybe we run this again sometime. But we'll need a way to call who takes the punches next. Somehow."

Comhraic smirked back, palms still kneading his aching guts.