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bones."
    "What the fuck? That can't be your last fight; you have to give me a rematch. We have a two-two tie, you can’t let it end like that," I said raising my voice as loud as I could, ignoring my sore throat.
    "I told Buddy before the fight this would be my last one. I don't see the problem ending with a tie. Equal!" he snapped back.
    "It’s unsportsmanlike to refuse the looser a rematch. Stop being such a pussy," I said probably sounding childish, but I wanted my rematch. I had to win our last fight, I had to be at the top.
    He looked thoughtful for a minute, grinning at me slyly, "I thought you might say something like that so I will give you a rematch but I have a few stipulations."
    "And those would be what?" I asked irritably, he sounded like a diva. “You need your own pansy-ass dressing room?”
    "I was thinking it would be at my house, no audience, and just grappling. That way you won’t be as embarrassed when I make you my bitch."
    It was on the tip of my tongue to say no because I liked striking, and wanted to give him matching black eyes, but I’m very competitive and I wanted a rematch. And although I preferred fighting with my fists, grappling could be a good release of tension. "When are we going to do this?"
    He gave me a playful grin before responding, "Tonight, if you're up for it, that is." Even if I wasn't feeling up to it, I wouldn't have been able to refuse the challenge in his statement. I just nodded my head. "If you think you’re okay to drive, you can just follow me home or you can ride with me if you want,” Striker said as he pulled sweats on over his athletic shorts. I got up and went to do the same.
    Finished putting my clothes and shoes on, I turned around to see Striker watching me from the bottom of the stairs, his bag thrown over his shoulder. I grabbed my bag and went over to him. He motioned me to go up first. I waited by our cars while he shut off the lights and locked the doors.
    "I live about 30 minutes from here, if you're sure you can drive, and are up for another fight,” Striker said as he approached the cars.
    "I'm fine," I grunted. "Let’s go."

    ****

    "Are you sure you don't want to shower first?" Striker asked for the second time since arriving at his house a few minutes ago. I shook my head, like I did when he offered a drink or asked if I wanted to relax on his couch.
    “I just want to get to the grappling. Why shower when we will just be getting sweaty again?” I asked irritably.
    “Okay, have it your way,” he said with another smirk before sauntering into his room. A few minutes later, he came out in just a bright red jockstrap. There's no way he could have fought earlier in this jock, with how little support it provided. His cock and balls were barely contained in that small front pouch. The jock was only held up by the thin waist strap, which was barely above the base of his cock, a couple inches below his waist. Then an even thinner strap from the base of the fabric below Striker's balls looped around each thigh just below his firm, round ass. “My shorts are in the dryer downstairs. Follow me.” Walking down the stairs after him, I couldn’t keep my eyes off his ass.
    The basement was where he had his laundry supplies in one corner, the rest of the room was a home gym, he also had a large mat in the back corner. I walked over to the mat, standing there in just my black shorts, I watched as Striker ruffled around with the clothes in the dryer. After finding the pair of shorts he wanted, he leisurely bent over and stepped into them. He slowly pulled them up his legs, flexing his ass as he stood. I had to hold in a moan at the view he was giving me. By the time he finished his reverse-strip tease, I was uncomfortably hard in my own jock.
    Now we were getting into position to start our rematch. He was standing on the mat across from me in nothing but his tight white shorts. Tight enough I could see his skimpy red jock through them. I was having trouble