Thanks for the reviews! Next up...I have to slap a WARNING on this. It's very intense. No musi or superstars were hurt during the writing of this chapter. Don't try this at home. Have fun!
John Bradshaw Layfield limped into the elevator car, his back nagging at him, his white Stetson crooked on his head. He pressed the button number 7 and flicked his honey eyes at the metallic doors as they began to silently slide closed.
"Hey, wait!" A familiar voice called out, and John shoved a pointed boot in the way of the door. It sprang back and the bald man sprinted in, huffing, and offering his thanks. Layfield simply nodded and arched his back as the doors began to slip closed again, grimacing at the pain.
"Ah'm getting too old for this." He mumbled lowly, not realizing Glen was watching him closely with the ghost of a smirk giving his lips a slight curve. Glen quietly lowered the duffle that was on his shoulder and slowly unizipped it, hoping John was too distracted to notice the minute 'zzzp' sound issuing from bag as he opened it. Appartenly, John was too distracted with his back, one of his hands curved around to knead at the lumbar as soft sighs and groans whispered from his lips. The sounds only spurred Glen on to what he knew was going to be a fun night for both of them. When he'd read Layfields' request on that Post-It note, he had laughed darkly—an expression that was more Kane-like than Glen-like. But for what John had scribbled on his slip of paper, the perfect hand had drawn it.
Glen left the bag in the corner of the elevator and as the fifth 'ding' sounded from the elevator he whipped Layfields' hat away and easily took John to the ground. Layfield immediately wove a string of booming curses and nearly dislodged Glen before a knee was ground hard into his lower back, bringing a yelp from him. His fingers scrabbled at the slick flooring of the elevator as tears sprang to his eyes as the weight being pressed into his spine.
"What are you doing ya fuckin' son of a bitch!" Layfield spat, trying to shift a little, but only making the pain worse. Something cold and metallic slipped over his head and tightened around his neck. The pressure on his back released and despite the ache he got to his feet quickly, not wanting to be leaped on again, but as soon as he was up he was yanked sharply forwards, almost pitching down again. His fingers slipped under the tight chain around his neck in attempts to loosen it as he raved, but Glen yanked again, sending Layfield to his knees.
The grounded man snarled up, behind them the last 'ding' sounded and the doors began to part. Glen reached over to the keypad and shut them again. From his knees, John looked up at the bald man panting. His soft, chestnut hair was mussed and falling over his forehead, his honey eyes burning with enraged fire, a trail of sweat dripping down his jaw.
"What—what do you think yer doin' Jacobs!" Layfield bellowed, shocked when the butt of Glens' hand connected sharply with his face, whipping his head to the side. The Texan blinked and shook his head, then with a cry lunged at Glen and wrapped around his legs in attempt to bring him down. For a moment the two scuffled on the floor of the elevator, both cursing at the other, though most of the damnation was poured upon Glen from John. Finally John was forced to stop, curled on his side, as he gasped for breath and hacked as the links around his neck tightened until he felt dizzy…and twitchy beneath his jeans.
The moment he stopped struggling, the links around his neck that seemed like a noose loosened. Layfield gasped and coughed and rubbed at the sore ring around his neck gently as his tough fingers would allow. His shapely lips pulled back from his perfect teeth in a grimace and he blinked up at Glen who was standing over him with a wide, devious looking smile.
"Tonight you're gonna do as I say, bitch." Glen sneered, fisting his hand in Layfields' hair. "Get up."
"Fuck off! I ain't no ones goddam bitch!" John growled, tearing away from Glens' grip on his hair and leaving light strands behind. Glen shook his hand out and the torn tresses fluttered to the floor. John got to his feet and leaned in the corner of the elevator. He dragged the sleeve of his disheveled shirt across his eyes and snarled at Glen as the bald man tilted his head down and looked up from under his heavy brow, the threatening posture a Kane-like gesture.
"You are tonight. So I suggest you cooperate, if not, then I'll just have to make you!" To prove his point Glen pulled on the choke chain, a raspy cough came out of John as he stumbled forward but managed to keep his balance. Glen wrapped the leash around his own wrist to keep it secure and reached for Johns' shirt collar and popped button after button, tearing some of them because John was struggling with him, until his salmon colored shirt was splayed open. Glen practically tore it from Johns' body and cast it aside.
Then came Johns' belt, the moments Glens' fingers curled around it a solid punch landed to the side of his head and Glen fell backwards, dragging John down on top of him with a gagged yell. Pain seared through Johns' neck as the metallic coil pulled him harshly down. His first instinct was to get back up and he jerked up hard, only to have his air cut off and land on top of Glen again. Stars danced before Johns' eyes as Glen rolled him off and stripped him of his belt, pants, and underwear. Blearily, John could make out Glens' barked orders for him to get up.
Shakily John got to his knees and rolled his eyes upwards to Glen, squinting at the pale round face with glimmering dark eyes. He tried to say something more, but all that came out was a gasp. Still not one to give up without a fight, John reared back to punch Glen again, thought this time he was planning on connecting his knuckles with a different head. But he was tired, already drained from a grueling match with Mysterio and then from this tussle, that Glen easily intercepted his attempt at defending himself.
"Stupid, stupid bitch." Glen laughed lowly as he grabbed Johns' belt from where it had coiled on the floor and yanked both his hands behind his back. John tried again to struggle, and even Glen was getting tired, with having to fight him so much…but it was really fun. Glen gouged his knee into Johns' back again and leaned into it. Johns' cry filled the tiny compartment and his struggling ceased for the moment, allowing Glen to secure his wrists with the strip of leather that donned the brand 'Giorgio Armani' engraved into the buckle.
Glen gripped Johns' chin and forced his head up.
"Now, you listen to me you worthless cunt, you're going to do as I say."
John spat in Glens' face, the other mans' glare dropping into an expression as cold as stone as he wiped the spit away and back handed the proud Texan, drawing blood from his lip.
"Get up, you cock sucking whore!" Glen yanked the man to his feet and looked him up and down, nude but for his brown and tan cowboy boots and the cuffs of black socks that were visible from the tops. Glen smirked, and grabbed Johns' Stetson and capped it onto his head as the Texan glared at him venomously. Laughing, Glen pushed a button on the keypad and the doors sprang open with a dainty sound. Layfield shrank back in embarrassment when Paul Wight, Chris, and Matt were all standing waiting on the elevator. Show averted his eyes with a booming laugh and Chris pawed at Matt with one hand while scrubbing with his eyes with the other, screaming at the top of his annoying voice that he needed bleach to pour into his baby blues. Johns' face burned crimson as Glen led him past the three, Matt whistling and yowling mockingly as the others laughed.
John yanked back, choking himself and gaining more laughter that was cut off as the elevator doors closed again. He fell to the floor, without his arms to catch him for balance his cheek scraped against the carpet searing away a swatch of skin. Glen sighed, and wrenched him up to his knees by his hair.
"Crawl then, I don't care, but we're getting to my room one way or the other." Glen yanked on the chain and John coughed. He tried to struggle to his feet but kept falling as Glen pulled and pulled on the chain so that it was biting into his flesh in a raw, blistering, ring.
Once at the door Glen swiped his keycard as John murmured curses under his breath and squeezed his eyes shut at the sting of sweat. Glen threw open the door and kicked John in the side, rolling him into the room, and slamming the door closed behind them.
"Jacobs what are you doing you mother fu--"
The pop of Glens' open palm against Johns' jaw sounded like a gun shot in the room. He wrapped the chain around his wrist, shortening it to an absurd length, and bent, pulling John so they were nose to nose.
"Let's get one thing straight here…wrestling god." Glen mocked, his voice dripping with disdain. "I am your god tonight, and you—well you're just a dirty little bitch."
"Ah'm not--" Another pop to his jaw, harder this time. Johns' head spun with dizziness and pain and he snapped his mouth shut, tasting the tang of blood against his tongue. The taste sent a sweet moan from his closed lips and Glen grabbed his chin roughly, fingers digging bruises into soft flesh.
"You disgust me you diseased little cunt." Glen hissed, using his palms against Johns' chest to shove the Texan onto his back.
John moaned and writhed, the ache in his back making his muscles scream. Glen let some slack up on the chain and undid his jeans. He shimmied them down to his ankles and then kicked them off, followed by his shirt flying over his shoulder. He straddled Johns' chest and stroked himself, smearing his twitching head against Johns' face and lips as the Texan squirmed.
"Open your mouth, bitch!" Glen demanded, his hardness growing. "Open your mouth like the dirty whore you are!" Glen gripped Johns' jaw and shook him when he didn't obey, the back of his head hitting hard against the floor on the last thrust. With a closed-lipped moan of pained pleasure John arched under Glen, the movement making his back yelp at him again, but the fire running through his veins was enough to endure. Glen started shaking him again, and stars swam before the Texans' eyes as his world went dizzy and topsy-turvy. "I said now damn it!" Glen bellowed, yanked the collar so hard it tightened and bit the skin, pinched the flesh between the rings, and immediately cutt off Johns' air. He gasped for air and the moment his mouth sprang open in need, it was filled not with air but with Glens' raging stiffness.
"Suck." Glen demanded as he thrust into Johns' mouth. The Texan coughed and gagged, still barely able to breathe. The sensation the lack of oxygen was giving him was exciting combined with Glens' brutality had John twisting and writhing beneath the other man, wanting relief for his aching member. Johns' lungs and throat burned with the need to breathe, his chest was tight with it. Glens head was tilted over his shoulder, eyes rolled back in delight against the wet, warm, feeling of Johns mouth and his throat spasming around his cock as he banged rhythmically into the Texan as he spat degrading things at him.
Johns' head was getting lighter and lighter. The ceiling blurred in and out of focus before his eyes and he started to buck wildly, his body demanding to unseat Glen, to loosen the choke, to get air! His arms and hands were numb behind him, long ago fallen asleep due to being tied off with his own belt, and when he tried now to pull them free all he felt was a dull, sluggish, movement of those limbs and the slow tingle of pins and needles as they attempted to revive themselves. The anxiety and danger overwhelmed him drove him crazy, and he didn't know if he needed his hands free more to shove Glen away to get air, or to stroke the fuck out of his engorged hard on.
Finally and unexpectedly Glen loosened the choke, and Johns' immediate reaction was to suck and gulp in air, but instead he got one final, jack-hammer thrust from Glen into his throat, gagging him so hard that he was sick and started to choke on Glens' seed and chunks of vomit. Glen rolled John to his side and banged him between the shoulders until a puddle of goop spilled out of his mouth and down his chest. John coughed and hacked, his breathes hard and painful.
"Who am I?" Glen panted as he jerked John to his knees by his bound wrists. The Texans' arousal was throbbing flush against his belly and a pitiful whine dripped from his lips as he wheezed. "Who am I!" Glen demanded again, tearing Johns' hair and dragging a moan from him that sent tingles of excitement through the dominators body.
"You-yer…oh!" John struggled to find his words as such intense sensations tore apart his body. "Ah, you—you're…my—my god." John choked out, and Glen slammed him back to the floor, his face connecting so hard with the floor that blackness flooded his vision and a warm wetness trickled down his face. He could vaguely make out Glens' voice coming down on him again like an iron fist but it wasn't clear. In the darkness silver specs swirled, bursts of color lit the backs of his eyes like psychedelic fireworks. There was a sensation of being shaken, again and again and again. Slowly, the fuzz before his eyes cleared and light came back. All he saw was the carpet and a mess of cum, bits of vomit, and blood smearing it.
"Who are you? What's your name! What is it!" Glen screamed at him, the sounds more animalistic than human.
"Jo-John…Lay--"
"No!" The chain jerked tight on his neck, then slacked. "Bad dog!"
"Joh—n…"
"Bad dog!" Glen cried again, snapping the leash. John whimpered. "Don't you remember, you fucking cunt, don't you remember what I told you your name was, you filthy piece of shit!"
John racked his clouded mind to try and think back to the elevator, it was all jumbled, the insults Glen had thrown at him many and harsh. The bald mans' voice growled against his ear, heated, full of venom.
"B-bi-bitch." John stuttered out quietly.
"What!"
"Bitch! M'name…is Bitch." The proud Texan said louder, his throat screaming raw and ragged from abuse.
"That's right." Glen laughed darkly, and licked his lips. He reached for Johns' wrists and untied the belt, tossing it aside. Johns' arms fell to his sides, against the floor, like dead weight. From the shoulders down he couldn't even feel them anymore, complete numbness had taken them over, though he was sure by morning he would be begging for painkillers and Jack Daniels. "Now, get up to your hands and knees little Bitch."
Moving his arms was out of the question. Moving any part of his body seemed about as easy as asking him to touch the sun. There wasn't a part of him that wasn't in pain, but still he found himself trying. He finally managed to get his knees under him, his ass up, but his arms refused to do anything but tingle minutely, his face still planted into the soiled carpet.
Glens' hands found Johns' hips and held them, the chain still twist around his wrist for use if needed, and helped steady the shaking man beneath him. Glen was already rock hard again, and without preparation, he forced his thick length into Layfield whose agonized cries filled the room.
The burn cut through him, and the splitting pressure just seemed like it would keep coming and coming, never ending. His fingers struggled to work, biting into the carpet, tearing the nails. His quivering legs turned to Jell-o and gave out, but Glens' strength held his waist and kept him from collapsing completely as the big man thrust and wiggled to get his full length inside. Finally, the movement stopped for a moment, and John breathed out a relieved sigh as tears freely flowed from his eyes and mingled with the mess dirtying his face. Warmth drizzled down his thighs, and the pain, the delicious pain—felt like fire eating through his insides, as though Glen had just impaled him with a hot iron. Shocked, he heard his own voice in his ears, his drawl intensified, bending his own words until he could barely make them out, the pleading in them pitiful, as he begged Glen to fuck him, despite the feeling that he might not recover from this.
The moment of stillness did not last long. Glen started up a quick, hard, pace, banging in and out again and again, making Johns' teeth clatter together and cut his tongue, rattling the very bones in his body, until John was sure they'd all turned to useless powder. In desperation Johns' hands scrabbled at the carpet as new peaks of pain and pleasure were reached and with a scream that seemed to shred his throat, he came hard, coating his own belly and chest with release. Moments later, Glen came, and pulled out, kicking Johns' ass to the floor. The Texan just laid there in a spent heap, his mind drifting from him, his eyes barely open.
Glen fell to his knees, panting. He loosened the choke leash and slipped it over Johns' head, freeing him at last, though the poor guy was unconscious. Glen rolled John to his back and lightly slapped his gooey cheeks—his face ruined with the mess and streaked with blood from a cut in his eyebrow and from his mouth. John didn't respond. What small slits Glen could see of his eyes just rolled. Glen reached for his shirt and used it to clean Johns' face, chest, and belly of the mess. Glen managed to get John into his arms, his body limp, as Glen carried him to the bed and situated him with pillows. He turned on the bed side lamp and grimaced when the light spilled over Johns' neck, the column ringed with thick black and purple bruising form the choke leash. The wound above his eyes still leaked blood, and Glen went to his bag to find some bandages. He finished tending to John, then slipped into the other side of the bed, curling away from John. As Glen drifted to sleep, the words on the Post-It note scribbled in Layfields writing floated before his eyes. Break me—John Layfield. As Glen drifted to sleep, he wondered if maybe he'd gone too far. But then again, it was Mark who had suggested the choke leash.