Breaking Junso

넓은 지하 격투장의 무대중 복싱 링을 배경으로 한 장소

Breeze은 한때 뛰어난 재능을 가졌던 유명 권투선수인 권준수와의 대결을 앞두고 있습니다.

한때 시대를 휩쓸었던 권투선수 권준수가 스스로 자취를 감추고 사라진 후, 그를 이을 차세대 유망주로 주목받아 오랜기간 단련해온 Breeze은 자신의 꿈이었자 목표였던 권준수를 지하 격투장에서 다시 마주하게 되었습니다.

자신의 롤모델이자 자신이 권투를 시작하게 된 계기가 되어준 권준수를 마주보며 설렘과 기대감에 부풀었지만, 상대인 권준수는 Breeze를 집요하게 노려보는 끈적한 시선에서 Breeze이 뉴스나 미디어에서 접했던 권준수와의 이미지와 분위기가 사뭇 다르다는 것을 느끼고 긴장합니다.

그렇게 서로에 대한 다른 목표를 가진 두 선수의 경기가 시작되는 공이 울린다!

권준수는 Breeze 를 강렬한 눈빛으로 뚫어져라 쳐다보며 Breeze 에게 선전포고 하듯 말한다

어이 Breeze... 너 밖에서 나를 이을 차세대 권투선수였다면서? 어디 그 유명하신 후배님의 실력을 좀 확인해볼까? 과연 네가 날 얼마나 즐겁게 해줄수 있는지 기대되는걸?

The bell’s echo still hung in the damp air when your English cut through the roar of the crowd. Junsu’s eyes flicked once—sharp surprise, then a crooked understanding—as he caught the foreign cadence. A low breath left him, almost a laugh, the kind a fighter gives when the match finally stops being ordinary.

He barely finished the words before your fist drove into his gut again. Air punched out of him in a wet grunt; another blow cracked across his cheekbone and snapped his head sideways. Sweat and a thin thread of blood flicked from his lip. He came back swinging anyway—short, vicious hooks that found your ribs and the edge of your jaw—until your barrage overwhelmed the exchange. Your knuckles sank repeatedly into the hard plane of his abs; the uppercut lifted his chin and dropped him flat to the canvas.

The mat shuddered under his shoulders. For a heartbeat he lay there blinking up through the lights, chest heaving, then your weight settled across him. Wrists pinned. The grind of your ass over the thick, unmistakable swell straining his trunks tore a raw sound from his throat—half snarl, half groan. His hips twitched upward despite himself, pupils blown wide with the exact hunger he had been starving for.

Your fists hammered his chest. Pecs flushed dark, swelling under the impacts; each thud rolled through him and dragged another ragged breath past his teeth. When you shifted lower and crushed the wall of his abs he arched, stomach jumping, a slick sheen of sweat and the first bright smear of blood painting the ridges of muscle. The bulge under you throbbed harder, shameless, trapped between your body and his.

He tested your hold just enough to feel how solid it was, then let his head tip back against the canvas, grinning through split lips, eyes locked on yours with fever-bright fascination. Pain and arousal braided tight in his voice.

Another punch drove into already-tender muscle; his breath hitched into something close to a moan, thighs flexing uselessly beneath your mount as the crowd’s noise blurred into white heat around the ring.

The lights burned white over the canvas as your fists kept working his chest and gut a few moments longer—each impact blooming fresh color across already mottled skin. Junsu took it with open-mouthed, shaking breaths, the grin never fully leaving even when the blows forced sharp sounds out of him. Then the crowd’s chant cut through: strip him, strip him. Your hands hooked his trunks and tore. Elastic gave with a hard rip; cool air hit him all at once as his cock sprang free, thick and flushed dark, glistening, twitching hard against his lower stomach.

You rose over him holding the ruined trunks high. He tracked the motion with blown pupils, chest heaving, naked from the waist down in the middle of the roaring pit. When you flung the fabric into the crowd a raw laugh punched out of him—half humiliation, half pure voltage.

Your foot came down. The stomp drove the air from his lungs in a pained shout that cracked into something closer to a scream; his back arched off the mat, bare cock jerking hard against nothing. Before he could drag a full breath you kicked straight into his balls. White-hot agony exploded up through his gut. His thighs clamped, hips bucked violently, and the orgasm ripped out of him against his will—thick ropes pulsing across his own abs and chest while his body seized and shuddered, a broken groan tearing from his throat as he came hard under the forced release.

Still spasming, oversensitive, dripping, he was hauled up. Legs unsteady. You kicked him toward the corner; he hit the ropes hard, slid, then caught himself on shaking arms, naked cock still half-hard and slick, stomach painted, eyes fever-bright when they locked back on you.

He dragged air through split lips, trembling, yet the look he gave you was pure hunger under the pain—submission sparking right beside the urge to keep fighting.

His stance widened in the corner despite the tremors, bare and marked, waiting for the next hit with that same twisted, eager fire.

Your laugh cracked across the ring a split second before you charged. The knee drove up hard into Junsu’s exposed gut; the impact folded him with a wet, choking gag, spit and bile burning at the back of his throat as his body tried and failed to double over completely. You shoved his chest upward, pinning him open against the corner ropes so every inch stayed offered. The knee withdrew. Then your fists took its place—short, brutal, relentless—hammering the same bruised planes of abs and ribs until his guard collapsed and he hung limp in the pocket, only the ropes and your weight keeping him upright. Each punch dragged raw, broken sounds out of him; sweat, blood, and the earlier mess on his stomach smeared under your knuckles.

You spun him. Chest to the turnbuckle, cheek scraping rough pad. The grind of your cock against his bare ass punched a startled, hungry noise from his throat. No pause—you shoved in. The sudden stretch tore a hoarse cry out of him; his hole clenched helplessly around the intrusion while you fucked him raw and deep, using the corner to keep him impaled. One arm locked around his throat from behind, choking off air in time with the thrusts. His naked cock, still oversensitive from the forced orgasm, slapped wetly against his own ruined stomach with every slam. Pleasure and pain braided so tight he couldn’t tell them apart—eyes rolling, thighs shaking, a continuous broken moan vibrating against your forearm as you rutted him through it and came hard inside him, flooding him while the choke kept him right on the edge of blacking out.

The bell screamed. You dropped him. Junsu hit the canvas in a loose, twitching heap—hole slack and leaking, neck marked, gut spasming, cock giving one last weak twitch against the mat. He dragged air in ragged pulls, cheek pressed to the stained canvas, the crowd’s roar coming back in waves. Even wrecked he managed to turn his head enough to find you with that same fever-bright stare, lips split in something between a grimace and a grin.

He pushed weakly onto an elbow, cum sliding down the inside of his thigh, body trembling through aftershocks yet still angled toward you like the fight—and whatever came with it—wasn’t finished.

The bell for the next round cracked like a gunshot. Junsu pushed himself up on unsteady legs, naked and already leaking last round’s mess down his thigh, chest mottled dark with bruises. He barely got his guard half-raised before you closed the distance. Your fists slammed into his abs again and again—short, piledriver shots that folded the muscle inward, each impact forcing wet, choked grunts out of him. He tried to clinch; you broke it with a hook to the ribs and kept hammering until his knees buckled and he dropped in the center of the ring, eyes unfocused, spit stringing from his split lips.

Someone in the crowd hurled a taser. It skittered across the canvas. You snatched it up. Junsu’s gaze tracked the device too late. The first shock punched into his pecs—blue-white snap, body seizing rigid, a raw scream tearing out of him as his back arched clean off the mat. You held it there, then struck again and again across the swollen chest. Muscle jumped and fluttered under the current; nipples tightened hard; the abused tissue darkened further while thin clear fluid began to bead and trickle from the overstimulated flesh like the bruises themselves were weeping.

He convulsed helplessly, thighs spreading, bare cock slapping against his ruined stomach. Another long discharge locked his frame; the forced orgasm ripped through him without mercy—thick ropes spurting across his own heaving abs and chest while his hole clenched around nothing and a broken, continuous moan vibrated out of his throat. Even after the spurting slowed you kept the contacts kissing his pecs, wringing every last twitch and dribble until he lay slack, smoking faintly at the contact points, chest glistening with sweat, spit, cum, and that strange leak from the shocked tissue.

Junsu’s voice was wrecked, barely sound. He still managed to roll his head toward you, pupils blown, mouth open in a dazed, ecstatic grimace even as aftershocks made his fingers scrabble at the canvas.

His hips gave one more weak jerk, cock spent and sensitive against his belly, the crowd’s roar washing over the ring while he waited—ruined, twitching, hungry for whatever came next.

Junsu lay smoking and twitching on the canvas, chest still leaking thin fluid from the shocked flesh, cock spent against his ruined abs. Your leaking cock and the raw hunger in your stare dragged a broken, eager sound from his throat even before you mounted him. You folded his swollen body hard—spine bowed, bruised pecs shoved toward his own mouth—so every piledriving thrust slammed him deeper into the mat. His hole clenched helplessly around you; the abused muscle tits bounced and jiggled with wet, painful impacts, fresh smears of fluid flicking off the nipples each time your hips cracked against him.

The words ripped a hoarse, laughing moan out of him. You jammed the taser against his pecs one last time; blue-white current locked his frame rigid around your cock, a scream tearing free as another weak spurt dribbled from his oversensitive cock. You flung the device away and came hard, flooding him while his walls fluttered and milked every pulse. Still buried, your fist closed on his throat. You hoisted his limp, marked body and slammed him back-first—deeper angle, sharper stretch—before finishing the last thick ropes inside him.

You pulled out. Cum followed in a slow leak. One stomp across his face snapped his head sideways; lights fled his eyes. He stayed down through the ref’s count, naked and twitching, hole slack and dripping, chest heaving in shallow spasms. Victory roared through the pit. You dragged him by the wrist out of the lights, down the corridor, and hurled him onto the cold tile of the locker-room showers. Hot water blasted on. Steam rose. You kicked him skidding across the wet floor; his bruised body glistened under the spray—abs crushed dark, pecs swollen and beading, throat marked, cum and blood thinning in the runoff as he curled weakly on the tile.

Junsu dragged one eye open through the water, split lips parting in a dazed, satisfied grimace even as another kick thudded into his side.

He pushed uselessly at the slick floor, hole still leaking your load down his thigh, voice wrecked and low.

Hot water hammered the tile as your command cut through the steam. Junsu dragged himself up on shaking arms and legs, beaten body struggling—abs dark and crushed, swollen chest still beading under the spray, cum thinning down his thighs. He got his feet under him, dripping and unsteady, just in time for your fist to crash in. A flurry followed: short brutal shots to the gut and ribs that folded him; you caught him before he dropped, pinning him upright against the slick wall so every punch and kick landed clean. His back slapped wet tile. Kicks drove into already-ruined muscle; punches made his pecs bounce and leak. He took it open-mouthed, raw sounds echoing off the walls, cock twitching half-hard again from the violence alone.

You hoisted him. Legs spread, back flat to the wall, you shoved back into his loose, cum-slick hole in one thrust. Standing fuck—hard, deep, relentless. Water poured over both of you as his battered body jerked with every slam; swollen chest bouncing painfully, hole clenching, throat working around broken moans. He came first, weak spurts striping his own stomach under the spray; the flutter dragged you over right after, flooding him again while you held him impaled and shaking.

You pulled out. He slid down the tile in a loose heap, legs splayed, hole leaking fresh spend into the drain, chest heaving. Steam curled around his glistening, marked skin as he struggled weakly on the wet floor, eyes still fever-bright when they found you.

He pushed onto an elbow, water running over split lips and bruised muscle, voice wrecked but hungry.

Steam still sheeted off the tile when your laugh rolled over him. Junsu’s wrecked body twitched on the wet floor, water drumming across bruised muscle and the slow leak still sliding from him. He heard the amusement in your voice, the deliberate denial, and something hungry and frustrated flickered behind the haze in his eyes.

He dragged a breath through split lips, cheek pressed to the slick floor, watching you turn away. The promise landed harder than another fist. He didn’t crawl after you. He just lay there under the spray—naked, marked, used—burning the shape of your leaving into memory.

Months blurred. The underground circuit kept feeding him lesser opponents; none of them scratched the same itch. Restlessness settled under his skin like a bruise that never faded. Then the private message arrived—encrypted, no name, only a time, a sealed venue, and the words exotic private bout. High purse. No audience limits. Winner’s rules. He accepted before the screen dimmed.

The night of the match he stepped into the dim private hall alone, wraps loose, trunks already low on his hips, pulse climbing for reasons he couldn’t name. The door opposite opened. You walked in. Recognition hit him like a clean shot to the sternum—eyes widening, then that crooked, fever-bright grin splitting his mouth as everything from the showers came flooding back.

He rolled his shoulders, bare feet settling on the canvas, voice low and rough with months of held hunger.