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the case of the masochistic wrestlers


"The Case of the Masochistic Wrestlers" (MMF oral rough)
A Trudy Tolliver story by Souvie
Copyright August 2000

Permission is granted to repost, given that my name and
copyright information are left intact. Comments or questions
are encouraged and can be directed to: More of
my stories can be found at:

"Tolliver, get your ass in here!"

I sighed. "Coming," I hollered right back. Mr. Peterson was a
major pain in my aforementioned ass, but when he called, you
didn't dally.

I shut the door to his office, behind me. "You bellowed?"

"Can the cutesy stuff, Tolliver," he said, talking around the
chewed up stogie clutched between his teeth. "I have an
assignment for you."

"I can hardly wait." So far my assignments, if you could even
call them that, had been covering society functions and
gardening club shows. Here in the south, society ladies loved
their garden parties. There were, however, only so many
different ways you could write about mint juleps and magnolias.

"Are you familiar with the Dastardly Duo?"

"Are they a new rock group?" I asked, tentatively.

"Christ, Tolliver, don't you pay attention to the news? I mean
you help write it, for shit's sake! They're a wrestling team,
part of that group performing this weekend at the Arena. My
friend inside the police department called earlier. Seems like
the pair have been charged with..." he looked at a sheet of
paper on his cluttered desk. "..rape and masochism."


"That's what I was told. A woman named Delta Murphy has
brought the charges against them. They haven't been arrested
yet; they're waiting for a judge to come back from golfing or
hunting or some such bullshit, to sign the warrant." He sat
down behind the desk, propping his feet on top. "I want you to
get down to the Arena, ASAP. I want the scoop on this story.
You fuck it up and I'll see you busted back to the mailroom,

"Is that a threat?" I didn't like threats, even when they were
from my boss.

He grinned, his tobacco-stained teeth making my stomach cringe.
"Of course not, Tolliver. It's an ultimatum. You *do* want
your name on a byline, don't you?"

Only slightly more than I wanted to fuck Harrison Ford. "Of
course I do," I replied.

"Give me this story, before the Sun runs it, and you've got
your byline."

"I could just kiss you," I said, not able to keep a smile off
my face. I could see my name in print already.

He grunted and gestured toward the door with the cigar. He
didn't have to tell me twice.

I stopped at my minuscule desk to get my purse.

"Where are you off to in a hurry?"

Shit! I'd hoped to escape without "it" noticing me. I turned
around, the biggest, most fake smile I could come up with on my
face. "What makes you think I'm going to tell you, Dirk?"

Dirk Drummand, my rival there at the Daily Press. He was the
one that got all the stories I wanted. If you asked him, he'd
tell you he was God's gift to women. If you asked me, I'd tell
you he was an A-1 asshole. If you didn't sleep with him, that
automatically made you a lesbian. He'd been trying for the past
three months to figure out which secretary I had my eye on.

"You ever ask out Shelia?" he questioned. If there was anything
faster than his hands, it was his ability to switch topics.

"Shelia's that new girl down in payroll, right? The brunette with the big rack?" Shelia wasn't my type. Now Eric, down in
the mailroom, *he* was definitely my type.

I shook off my adolescent daydreaming and noticed that Dirk was
practically drooling. "Yeah, Shelia, that's the one." I
wondered if she'd turned him down, too.

I shouldered my bag and looked him in the eye. "Bite me, Dirk."
I turned around and walked off without a backward glance.

"You're just frustrated because you want it, but it's not in
your nature," he shouted out after me. I held up a hand and
flipped him the bird.

"She needs to get some pussy," he muttered under his breath,
sitting back at his desk.

"I think it's a phase he's going through, dear," elderly Mrs.
Beermeir said, patting me on the hand as I passed by her.
"Venus is approaching its equinox and Mars is at its zenith, you
know." She had been cleaning the newspaper's offices for over
40 years. I think that's the only reason management tolerated
her eccentricity. I found her quirkiness refreshing.

"Either that, or he's got something stuck up his ass," she
added, an absent look on her face.

I bit back a laugh and walked out the door.


The Arena was packed even for the middle of the day, and
parking had been a bitch. I brushed a lock of shiny, blonde hair behind my ear and adjusted my bra. I'd changed clothes
before heading downtown. If I was going to be an honest to God
reporter, I figured I had to dress the part. To me that meant
wearing whatever I could that would ensure I got the story.
From the stares and catcalls I was getting from the construction
workers across the road, my choice of black denim mini-skirt,
red tank top and high-heels had been the right one.

I showed my Press credentials to a burly man at the side
entrance and he let me in. I guess it was up to me to find the

It didn't take me long to find them, after all.

I stood on the fringe of people crowded around the ring, and
looked for someone who could help me. A middle-aged, bald man with bulging biceps and horn-rimmed glasses started walking up
to me. "Can I help you?" he asked.

"I'm looking for the Dastardly Duo," I replied, batting my
eyelashes for good measure.

"That's them up there," he said, jabbing a finger at the two
guys in the ring. "They should be done in a few minutes, if you
want to wait for them."

"Thanks." I studied the men in the ring. I might be a blonde,
but I wasn't as ditzy as I let people believe. I'd stopped off
in research before leaving the newspaper.

The Dastardly Duo was actually Hank and Henry Smith, originally
from Cooperstown, Alabama. They were examples of the "small
town boys made good" story. young boys leave their hometown in
pursuit of their dreams, and overcome insurmountable odds to
make it rich and famous on the pro wrestling circuit. Both
weighed in at 230lbs and topped out at 6 foot even. Not bad
looking either, if you liked them tall, muscular and sweaty.

"Can I ask you a couple of things?" I said, turning to baldy.


"First of all, is it always this crowded before a show?"

He laughed. "This is nothing, you should see it on a holiday
weekend. Then, you can't even scratch your nose without bumping
into someone." He looked around. "This is your typical mix of
agents, trainers, go-to boys, groupies, lighting crew and
various other technical people. It'll clear out some before the
first match starts."

"Okay, now, about Hank and Henry up there. What in the hell
are they saying?" I'd been listening to them for over ten
minutes, but they might have well been speaking Greek for all I
could understand.

Baldy laughed again. "It's some kind of made-up language they
use to communicate in the ring. No one understands it but them.
They say it's to keep their opponents from anticipating their

"Ah, idioglossia."


"Idioglossia. That's the term for their made-up language."

"You a teacher or lawyer?" he asked, suspiciously.

It was my turn to laugh. "No, I'm just a fan, hoping to get an
autograph, or something."


The action in the ring stopped and I watched as Hank and Henry
edged through the ropes and hopped down to the concrete floor.
People immediately surrounded them. I decided my original plan
wouldn't work. Finding a young boy setting up folding chairs in
a row, I slipped him twenty dollars and hiked my skirt up a bit.
In no time, I was heading down another hallway, on my way to the
Dastardly Duo's dressing room.

I was ready when they came in. Lucky for me, they were alone.
I was sitting in a corner of the dilapidated couch, legs crossed
and skirt hiked up once again. I'd also freshened my red lipstick and knew that with my long blonde hair and baby blue
eyes, I made quite a picture.

"Hey, Hank, lookit what we got here," the brother with red-
highlights in his hair said. He must be Henry, the older of the
brothers by 2 years. His face was a bit battered, attesting to
the violent nature of their chosen profession, but, in my
opinion, it only added to his character.

Hank had been busy inching out of his tank top, but turned our
way when he'd tossed it aside. The glint in his eyes let me
know that my chosen method of introduction had been right on the

"What are you doing here, little miss?" Henry asked, taking off
his tank top now.

"Why, I just wanted to meet y'all up close," I said. I laid on
the southern charm only when it suited me, like now. "I've been
a fan of y'all ever since y'all started wrestling." I stood up
and adjusted my bra strap, even though it was perfectly fine. I
could practically feel the testosterone level in the room rising.

"Isn't that sweet," Hank finally spoke up. "A fan, come to
show her admiration." I knew from my research that he was the
only one of the two to have taken some college classes.

"What can we do for you, Miss?" Hank continued.

"Trudy. Trudy Tolliver." I stuck out my hand and Hank took it
and planted a kiss on the back of it. I giggled.

"A nice name for a nice lady," Henry said, not wanting his
brother to get all the attention.

"Why, thank you." I twirled my hair. "I was just hopin' I
could get an autograph... or somethin'."

"We have time set aside to sign autographs after our match,"
Henry supplied.

"But, I guess I'd do just about anything to get an autograph.
It's for my collection." I formed my lips into a small pout.

"What did you have in mind?"

"I dunno," I said with a small shrug that caused my tank top to
fall off one shoulder. By the way Hank's tight wrestling trunks
had become tighter, I could tell he was interested.

"I think we can come to some kind of arrangement," Henry said,
carefully. He wasn't as slow as I'd thought he was.

"Oh goody! Can we have a drink or something? My throat is a
little dry." I only hoped they had something that didn't taste
like piss-water. A good southern girl does have her standards,
you know.

"I think I have a bottle of '96 Château Fourcas Loubaney in the
fridge," Hank said.

I almost fell back onto the couch. I quickly composed myself.
"Well, it's not a '98 Domaine de Pouy, but I guess it'll do," I
said, nonchalantly.

"Nice, but my absolute favorite is Château Grinou," Hank shot
back, heading for the fridge to get the wine.

Damn! I'd never pictured him for an oenophile. I wondered just
what kind of college classes he'd taken.

I turned to Henry, hoping he didn't feel left out during our
talk of wines. He was thumbing through a CD collection.
"Henry, you wouldn't happen to have some aspirin would you?"

"I dunno. We might have some Tylenol or something like that."

"Ibuprofen? I just need some type of analgesic, pretty please."

"Uh, sure, I think we've got some of that."

Thankfully he didn't ask why I needed it, just ambled off into
another room to get it. I'd learned in college, the hard way,
that if I downed three or four aspirin before I drank wine, it
caused me to do things I'd probably not normally do. At least
that's what I'd gathered from the story the lacrosse team had
told me.


An hour later the bottle of wine was gone, our clothes had
mysteriously melted away, and so had my inhibitions. I found
myself on the receiving end of some serious foreplay. Any woman
who's not had two men eating her out at the same time, doesn't
know what she's missing out on. The second time I came, I
thought I was going to pass out.

After the Duo had gotten me nice and wet, Hank sat down on the
couch and lowered me onto his extremely hard cock. I was facing
away from him, my feet dangling toward the floor and my ass
resting against his hairy crotch. He wrapped his callused hands
around my waist and started moving me up and down, slowly but

Henry had been stroking himself, but now moved in front of me
and stuck his dick in my face. I opened my mouth and sucked it
in, using my hands to guide it. It wasn't that long, but it was
thick and my lips hugged it tightly.

I matched my own cock-sucking rhythm to the rhythm Hank had
established. In out. In out. My right hand reached down to
finger my clit while my left hand played with Henry's balls.

Henry let out a moan that started in the back of his throat,
and quickly turned into more of the odd sounds I'd heard him
speaking earlier in the ring. Hank answered him. I hoped they
weren't critiquing me or anything like that. I closed my eyes
and imagined they were praising my perfect figure and impeccable
sex skills. Hey, a girl can dream.

Finally, Henry started talking in a language I could
understand. "Harder," he instructed. I wasn't sure if he wanted
me to suck harder or squeeze harder, so I did both.

"Ah..." Suddenly, Henry grasped the back of my head and
stilled my motions. "Now bite it."

I scrunched up my face and looked up at him questioningly.


Did he want me to just take it in my mouth and give it a mighty
chomp, or was I supposed to give it small little bites all along
the shaft? Once again, I was left to wing it so I did both.

"Oh yeah, baby, that's good," he moaned. "Harder, honey,

I was lost in my own wave of sensation, and did as he
instructed; I bit harder. Not enough to draw blood, mind you,
but hard enough to let him know I was using my teeth. I also
started to squeeze his balls again. *Really* squeeze them.

I guess I must have done something right, because with a loud
grunt and a shove of his hips, Henry shot a torrent of cum into
my mouth. I started sucking it in, trying not to choke. His
hand was still tangled in my hair, and he held me in place until
he was spent and starting to go limp. He pulled out of my mouth
and collapsed on the floor. I could have sworn I heard him

Hank increased his motions, slamming me down onto his cock, and
my own fingers sped up their tempo on my swollen clit. I could
feel the pressure increasing and knew I was approaching my own
orgasm. I stiffened my legs and let out a small scream as wave
after wave of pleasure rushed through me. Hank gave one final
slam and I felt his hot juice stream into me.

Lightheaded and suddenly sleepy, I crawled off of Hank and lay
down on the empty section of couch. He flopped over, using my
hip as a pillow.

"Hank," I murmured, remembering that I'd been sent there to do
a job. "Do you know anyone named Delta Murphy?"

"That bitch? Henry used to be married to her sister. Why do
you ask?"

Things were beginning to click in my wine-and-sex soaked brain.
"No reason." I curled into the couch cushion as sleep overtook


"Great work, Tolliver. I knew you could do it." Mr. Peterson
slapped me on the back and I almost swallowed my gum. Bullshit.
He'd probably started an office pool on how long before I came
back with my tail tucked between my legs and no story.

I looked down at the freshly printed newspaper in his hand.
There was my name, just under the title, as promised. "Dastardly
Duo falsely accused by jealous ex-sister-in-law" the cumbersome
copy read. I'd chosen a much nicer title, but Mr. Peterson had
said something "grittier" was needed to attract attention.

"Okay, Tolliver, tell me again how you busted the case wide
open." He pulled out a fresh cigar and set about mangling it.

"It's all there in black and white..." I started to say, but
gave in. "After, uh, interviewing the Duo, I did some digging
on Delta Murphy. It seems that her sister, Camille, had been
married to Henry, but divorced him before him and Hank became
rich and famous. She was pissed that she couldn't touch any of
that money, to say the least, so she cooked up this scheme with
her dim-witted sister. Camille knew about Henry's weird
masochistic tendencies in the bedroom, so she coached Delta in
what to say. They faked the rough stuff themselves, got the
story straight, and then Camille sat back and mentally counted
the money they'd get, while Delta sobbed her story to the
police. She was going to say that they'd all been high on pot
the night it happened, which would supposedly account for Hank
and Henry not remembering a damn thing."

"But the police never arrested them, because you got to Delta
Murphy first, and she ended up recanting the whole thing."
Peterson laughed. "I love it. Fucking-A, love it!"

"Yeah," I said, chuckling along with him. "I just flashed Miss
Murphy a phony badge and told her I had some more questions. It
wasn't long before she was sobbing and spilling her guts.
Evidently Camille, who is still denying the whole thing, got all
the balls in the family."

"Well, Tolliver, like I said, that was some damn fine work.
Why don't you take the rest of the day off, you've earned it."

"I'll say I have," I muttered. "Thanks, boss," I said. I was
going to go home, change into my pyjamas and veg out in front of
the television for the rest of the day.

"By the way, Tolliver, I know interviewing those crude
wrestlers must have been a royal bitch. Anything I can get or
do for you?"

I thought for a couple of seconds. "If you're serious, why
don't you rustle up a bottle of aspirin and a good bottle of
wine and get Eric from the mail room to run them over to me?"


Copyright 2000, by Souvie Permission is granted to repost,
given that my name and copyright information is left intact.
Direct all comments or questions to: More of
my stories can be found at:


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