Live And Die By The Sword

It was as horrible as it looks, from the moment Saif decided on such a cruel hold. His arms felt as if they were about to rip from the sockets, and there was absolutely nothing he could do to stop her. Forced to endure such agonizing torture, his legs were the only thing he could move. And those lower limbs could do nothing to save him from this position. Times like these when he was in trouble, he could always rely on Grant to help him. He knew how to guide him through the storms, keeping him focused and from losing control. But as much of a leader he is in Femi’s life, even the Manicunnan couldn’t find a way to help Femi get out of it.

What’s worse is that he’s not there. He has no support. No friends, no family. Just a bunch of strangers packed in a Momentum Arena and a woman half his size. Said woman was also about to rip his arms apart. If he was born of a different skin colour like his other Irish brethren, many could have seen his face shifting colours. Dark red of embarrassment and pale white of fear when he realized Saif could go even further. The boundless creativity she has in her twisted mind to think of many ways to destroy the human body.

And here was Femi who only knows how to throw his fists around. Damn good at it but that wasn’t enough to save him.

Anyone can see that he was done for. Any other person or wrestler would have submitted already. And while Femi does have the capacity to do so, the thought didn’t occur to him. All he could think about is pain. Even the many thoughts he had about tearing Saif apart were being drowned by pain. Femi couldn’t think. Mind and body froze by pain. His muscular arms felt like it could rip right off at any moment by such a brutal, merciless assault. The worst part was that he could make this end. He could stop the pain and from things getting more worse than it could. All he needed to do…was worship. But that was far, far too much for him. His pride wouldn’t allow it. To simply kowtow to this damn woman was not up for discussion. Femi would stand pat, spitting at the foot that was offered to him. What was to say she wouldn’t let go if he did agree? No, it was not going to happen. It will not-

And then, pop. A simple flex of her thighs and it happened. Femi’s eyes went wide, nearly bugging right out of his head. He didn’t just felt it happen, he heard it happen. Both arms jerked out of place, disconnected out of its socket. “Wh…wha…” A choked gasp followed after, the whole thing not registering in his mind yet. But eventually, it did.

“Wha-what the FUCK!?!? WHAT THE FUCK!!?!?

Femi was stubborn. As stubborn as a mule. Within the boxing realm, Femi took some of the worst and kept on going, despite what it meant for his personal wellbeing. But Saif…she was on a whole different level. Femi screamed. He already was before, but this was different. Femi thought he was loud at times. But never in his wildest dreams did he think he could be this loud.

The way the audience reacted was fascinating. In fact, Saif made a mental note to go back and view it all when this was over, simply to see the faces for herself and study as many as she could from a computer scene. Fascinating, really.

Some of them looked on in horror, as if watching some gruesome movie, as if they were experiencing true terror. Their mouths were agape and their eyes spread open, trying to process the fate of the man in the ring? Empathy? Something like that, perhaps, though she strongly doubted any of them could truly comprehend the agony that Femi was going through.

Some of them were amused. After all, while this hadn’t been the match they had expected, it wasn’t too far from what they liked about the AFW. Seeing a smaller woman dominate a man, breaking him apart, the kind of cruel, crushing violence that they paid good money for, satisfying their lewd cravings. This had to be like candy to them, a forbidden fruit they loved to suckle on.

And then there were the ones who just stared. Unblinking. Unmoving. Unflinching.

Those were her favorite.

But as much as Saif wanted to sit back and enjoy her moment, she could not. There was a broken man to deal with.

When his arms parted from the rest of his body, when she felt them go slack between her thighs, Saif uncrossed her legs and stood, gazing down on him to admire her handiwork. There was something almost artistic to the sight, seeing this fine form torn asunder, to see these joints, so magnificent, reduced to nothing. A bit like an Heironymus Bosch painting, if she remembered correctly.

But it wasn’t enough, not even close. He wasn’t worshipping, still to tied to his mortal vessel to realize what was required of him. Pain alone would not be enough to get him there - she would require something darker, deeper.

Without a word, she stepped back and grabbed Femi by the ankle, using it to lift him up and flip him over. It was no easy task, especially with him thrashing about, but she did manage it after some effort, rolling him and forcing him to stare at the sky. Open to anything she could think of, and she did have something specific in mind.

She took his legs and threaded them with her own, putting her in the telltale position for the figure-four, a classic wrestling move. Her variation was unique, however, as she arched her back and planted her palms on the floor, using her flexibility to increase the pressure and make a painful move all the more excruciating.

And it was not without an added element, something that might elude the casual eye. Like this, her calf was pressed against his most private part, and as she moved her leg and thrust upwards, she worked her leg against his body, Up and up and up. Slow and steady. A sensual stroke, ice to soothe the searing pain he felt, a carrot in the middle of the stick.

Despite the sport that he participates in, Femi hasn't broken many bones in his body. Though the few times that it does happen, the initial shock wasn't so nasty. In one instance, he broke his knuckle due to self-inflicted injury, punching a metal lift wall that usually bounced back due to its thinness. But one day, Femi hit a bit that happened to have a strut behind, and his hand collapsed into it, hearing a sudden crack. It wasn't noticeable until he had looked like a tennis ball had been inserted to it. Femi was just thirteen when it happened, and was coming from boxing training. A foolish thing to do. A common theme when it came to any of his injuries, no matter how big or small. He was just stupid.

Absolutely stupid.

Such stupidity hasn't been knocked out of him ever since he was just a wee lad. But the last few Femi could just brush it off and keep ongoing. It didn't matter if he had a canoe carved in his head, if he still has those two, tree-trunk arms and hard rock fists, he will always keep fighting for another day.

Just that it never occurred to him when those arms would be taken away from him. It was shocking to not be able to move the same limbs that he uses every single day. From menial tasks to fighting, they were an essential part to him. And now he couldn't move them. The limbs, the muscles, the nerves, seemingly disconnected from the rest of his body. The tensed-up fists were lax underneath the gloves' leather padding, not even able to curl even one. The only thing he could feel was the pain. Hot searing pain, as if embers were poured over it on the inside. Confusion followed after. The constant question kept popping up like an unwanted notification in his brain. He was so used to just lifting them effortlessly without any difficulty whatsoever.

But why can't he move them? Why won't they bloddy move?

A lot was on his mind, a frenzied panic of emotions overwhelming him. Before he was helpless, but still had a feeling in his arms. Now, he was just vulnerable. Nothing to help him whatsoever. Entirely defenceless for the whole world, exposed as when he came out of the womb. Only when he was rolled over onto his back could he actually look at the target to his seething hatred.

Her.

She has beaten him decisively and convincingly against an opponent many would have written her off. She destroyed his arms, clipped his wings so that he couldn't dare stand against her. One would think that would have been enough to satiate her. It wasn't. Although he couldn't move his arms, his legs were another story. They were left unmarred from her destruction, even as Femi used them to boot her into the corner. She wasn't just satisfied in just breaking his arms. She wanted to break him.

His legs would end up being threaded with one another, Femi's lack of understanding of wrestling coming back to haunt him once more. Between the absolute confusion and the sheer panic from his arms not working as they should, it was a cocktail of paralysis that Femi wasn't prepared for. He watched as his tree trunks that he calls legs would get bent and folded to bring pain, unlike any leg day regime. In comparison, her legs looked smaller as they ground against each other. Flesh to flesh. Muscle to muscle. Bone to bone. But despite all of that, it was clear which pair was in control.

Shown as he would thrash about, yelling out in pain. His upper body swayed from side to side, gritted teeth as Saif bore on the ubiquitous hold. Escape was on his mind immediately. Maybe if he'd use his arms-

Ah yes, he can't use them.

The fact that he had forgotten the moment he tried to move those arms, but they would remain limp like spaghetti. Surely nothing could get any worse than this.

It did.

If Femi was one of the spectators watching, he would question whether or not arching her back like that would make this more torturous. Femi would get his answer to that burning question, as the pain flared up even more. He yelled even louder than before. The suffering was worse than he could imagine, his legs ached more than he could believe. All of this was happening, and he didn't pick up on something subtle. Something nobody would notice unless one sees through the carnage of flailing bodies. Something was rubbing up on his most precious jewels. Only caught when he found himself getting a hard-on. Despite all the torment he was experiencing. Another part of her game? Way too many questions left unanswered.

One of them was: could it possibly get any worse than this?

The answer to Femi’s question was ‘Yes’. Yes, it could always get worse.

Saif knew this better than most, knew there was always a lower level to sink to no matter how close to the bottom one reached. She had been pulled out of that hole, but she could never forget the ordeal that led to it in the first place. The struggles. The despair. The suffering. It was a fire, a crucible that ultimately lead to her ascension and salvation.

In a way, she envied Femi. It was a journey that one could only take once, truly, and she wished she could go down that road once more for the experience alone.

But there was merit in being on this side of the exchange, in being the giver and not the received. She had done well in bringing Femi to his lowest point, of stripping him of all the earthly gain that he was so proud of. His body had failed him. His arms had failed him. In a moment, his manhood would fail him, too - a center of pride, without question, and not without reason. She knew nothing of his sexual life, but she doubted he was a man unfamiliar with pleasure and vice. He had lovers. Partners to warm his bed. What would they saw to see him now, to know what was coming.

She could imagine, and the thought spurred her on, made her move even faster and harder, thrust longer. He was going to cum - her time as Kim had made her an expert at reading such things, of knowing the ways of a man’s body. The only question was when, and if he would enjoy it as much as she hoped.

”Do not fight it, Femi.” She spoke to him, her words scarcely carrying over the crowd, slithering through the air and making their way to his ear. ”You are surrendering to your body, letting go of your earthly ways. This is natural. Unavoidable. There is no shame in it, not if you recognize how crude a vessel you reside in and attempt to move beyond it.”

She arched her back in full now, a perfect on, standing on tips of her toes to maximize every inch. Her body undulated, as if a rivers flowed through it, transferring every long thrust into his loins. Up and down, up and down. Faster, faster.

”Let me show you.” She spoke in gasps. ”Let me show you how weak you are.”

Femi didn’t like this. He hated it. Loathe, detest, abhor, despise, any other word in the dictionary that fitted the term.

But instead of having at least one target to direct his hatred, there were too many to count. Frustration boiled over to the point his head was a mess. Everything that he was feeling, any problem that was bothering him, Femi could at least direct it towards his fists. And that was a good outlet for the man, despite what his fists were aiming at.

But as those arms lay on the mat, unmoving, that avenue that Femi can use was broken. And it all accumulated within the Nigerian-Irishman. Like traffic building up within a motorway, it got worse and worse. The apprehension, the uneasiness of it all, it made Femi uncomfortable. Despite what Saif’s leg was doing to his hardened member. Or at least try to.

It throbbed along the shin, the moans were becoming apparent, yet still mixed with the grunts and cries of Femi. Indeed, he wasn’t unfamiliar with pleasure and vice. With the status that he has, the heavyweight boxer could get any woman in the world. And why wouldn’t he? In Grant’s words, he was a physical specimen. If only they’d see him now. He’d lose that too. Among the many other things, he has lost. All because of that woman.

His breaths grew shorter, faster, ragged. Exacerbated by him craning his head just to see what was before him. His large manhood has developed full mast and straight as a pole and the woman in front of him. With how much he was losing focus, the words wouldn’t reach him, neither was he in the right state to understand them. Femi was in an absolute state of frenzy, and he could say that no woman has brought him to that level before. He was a wild beast, wounded and helpless before the hunter. Incapable of sound thinking other than being ruled by his animalistic and base desires. That is all that he was to Saif. The hypnotic undulations from Saif urging him on further, as if extracting as much energy she can within his soul. The endgame for a succubus. But Saif was more than that. So much more than Femi could even comprehend beyond physical understanding.

Just as much as when the inevitable hit.

It was bound to come, and despite Femi being clothed, it came with a bang. Heralding the awaited arrival of the white-hot semen that shot out of his member, and strong throbs. Like a hard drum beat, it pulsed with great strength, each one offering more gift to the woman. But nothing compared to just how loud he yelled.

It wasn’t just a yell, it was a roar. As if a mighty god was stricken with pain that everyone in the world could hear it. It went as long as his loins kept offering more of the sticky mess. His own spine curving upwards, not as much as the black-clad woman, however. It would have been a sight to behold, had Saif been watching it. Eventually, all great things came to an end and the body once seized and stiff with tremendous ecstasy, would relent, relaxing on the ground. Near deflated, as if all the muscles and bones within his body shrink into nothing. His eyes kept staring at the roof, but Femi didn’t see it all. His body slackened, his legs not even bringing any resistance when still tied in a knot. The man just couldn’t fathom it all.

Saif doubted any of the men and women in attendance truly understood the important of what was happening here, truly comprehended the depth of what they were witnessing. To them, it was something they had seen a thousand times as fans of the AFW, a hundred thousand, even: a man being made to ejaculate against his will by a woman, drawn into her seductive web and drained before their very eyes. They made all the familiar whistles and noises, all the usual taunts and jeers. Pictures were taken, no doubt taking pictures of Femi’s demise to every corner of the world, ensuring the destruction of his boxing career for years to come - if it could ever truly recover from a moment like this. He would be on countless memes, the butt of jokes, the poor victim on the screen of lonely men in dark rooms wishing they could receive the same pleasure, and relieving themselves to have some semblance of it.

A crude fate for such a proud man. Unworthy of a warrior. But it had all been so avoidable. All he had to do was-

”Worship.”

Saif repeated that word once more, just as Femi let out of his feral scream, a boisterous cry that could pierce the heavens. It was hard to believe such a noise could ever come from a human mouth - so guttural, so raw, so barbaric. It was more akin to a death cry than any noise of passion, and perhaps, in some small way, that was precisely what it was. Something in Femi had just died, a part of him that could never be brought to life again, but the ashes of which would serve as the birthing ground of something new to rise. Something greater.

She let that noise draw out, felt the wetness against her leg, saw his body waist away into nothing, and with that, she finally let go of her hold and released him from the prison of her legs. Satisfied, she stood up, calm and slow, taking a moment to not only survey her work, but to speak.

”Worship.”

Saif walked around his body once again, circling it as a buzzard does over a fresh kill. Her eyes regarded him cooly, looking into his face and seeing nothingness. This wasn’t Femi anymore, wasn’t the bruiser of a man that she had met only minutes ago. This was a wasted shell, bereft of life, a husk of a human being. Unblinking and unthinking, he laid there in his stupor, as if his body was waiting for instructions that his body would not - or could not - give. A puppet with no hand to guide him. In other words, perfect.

She stepped over him once more, lifted her bare foot, and held it just above his lips. She doubted the word needed to be said again, but she said it, all the same.

”Worship.”

Pain. Nothing but continuous pain. That was all he was able to register at the moment, completely unmoving. Sure, he was conscious, but only in the literal sense. He didn’t need the audience to tell him how bad this was. Not that he was really thinking about them. Or his group. Or even his trainer. He wasn’t thinking about himself, either. At this moment, he was nothing but an abandoned vessel—the consequence of all he had chosen for.

Consequence.

He should have not posted that message on Twitter.

Consequence.

He should have rebooked the fight another time.

Consequence.

He should have protected Grant. His friends.

Consequence.

He should have humbled himself in the ring.

Consequence.

He should have just did what she asked.

Consequence.

The weight of his sins was too much to bear, all he could do was to suffer. To endure such affliction, torment and strife. His body was in agony, what else is there to take? Everything that he prided with would be taken away. Just as those gifts were given to him. How easily that could be done.

He could only lay there as his tormentor circled around him like a vulture eying a fresh corpse. Not a single ounce of mercy would be shown. He got what he deserved. In the lowest of valleys, never to reach the nadir. His eyes didn’t focus on Saif, even as she’s in clear view of his peripheral vision. Not even as the barefoot would be lifted up and then hovering above his lips. But then…

“Worship.”

A slight twitch of his eyes would be the only thing Saif would get. The rest of his body didn’t move, but he did hear that word this time—a word he’d ignore despite it constantly repeated. This time, however, he heard it. Before, there were limitations to his vessel that didn’t allow him to do what was considered baseless. The word worship was attributed to many things. Now? He was rebooted, a completely new man in her image. And there was one thing that would be attributed to.

Atonement.

Without a word, he kissed. He barely had enough strength to crane his head up to reach, but he did. If that was all, it took to find redemption to his lost soul, to atone for his sin. He will do anything.

Anything.

For her.

Glorious. There was no other word to describe it but that one.

To the masses, this would be nothing but a carnal display of dominance. Another man humbled at the feet of a woman, left a battered mess. No doubt, many of them would be gratifying themselves to Femi’s demise later on, in the privacy of their own room. A vulgar display, and one that she had little interest in, even if she could not avoid it. Such men did not deserve that pleasure, but there was little that she could do to keep them from it.

A trifling thought, and a pity. They could not know what was transpiring before their eyes. They could not appreciate the majesty of it all, the weight. A man was dying before them, and in his place a new life was being born. Something so magnificent, so glorious, so beautiful, so wonderful that they could scarcely comprehend it. But through his examples, perhaps…

A single kiss on her feet. Something small, barely worthy of note to most, but it sent a shiver through her body. Saif comprehended its meaning, as she received the workshop she had so eagerly sought. He was on the path of transformation, of becoming a new being. A hard path, but a worthy one, and one that she had no qualms aiding him on. A shepherd with her flock. A flock of one, perhaps, but there would always be room to grow.

Satisfied, her arms folded behind her back, Saif brought that same foot he had kissed upwards and dropped it on the whole of his face, creating a seal over his nose and lips. She did not press down hard enough to hurt him, not even hard enough to hold his face in place if he tried to struggle. There was no need for that force. He would accept this, welcome the darkness, and when he came to, he would be as a baby from his mother’s womb.

A fresh start. A new life. In service to her, as she was in service to Him.