Endurance Training

Endurance Training

by Squeezable (amauiguy@gmail.com)

For a long time my daily routine included a morning run, but over the past couple of years I've become a slacker, finding one excuse after another to avoid it. Now, having started running again, I decide to try to find a running partner to help motivate me and force me to maintain a regular schedule.

An ad from a runner named Brent catches my eye. The fact that he lists wrestling as one of his other activities doesn't hurt, of course. I'm not an experience wrestler, but often fantasize about it.

Brent and I make arrangements to meet one morning in front of my condo to start our first run. I walk briskly down the driveway to the street and do some stretches to warm up while I wait. There are lots of people out and about, but most are senior citizens going for their morning walks. A couple of blocks away I spot a jogger approaching who seems to fit Brent's description. He's tall, has dark hair, and even from a distance I can tell he has a nice thick build beneath his black tank top and gray running shorts.

"Marcus?" he asks, as he jogs up.

"Hey, Brent, good to meet you," I answer.

I like his firm handshake.

Although I try to focus on the objective of our meeting, namely running, I'm quite distracted. Brent is a good looking guy, with friendly blue eyes, nice broad shoulders, and a killer smile.

"How does three miles sound for today? Think you're up for it?" Brent asks.

"Yeah, I can do three," I say, then add with a chuckle, "but I'm not sure how fast."

"Well, let's give it a shot and see what happens. Ready? You go first to set the pace," he instructs.

We start off and I try to maintain an even speed that will let me run the full three mile course. As we run, Brent and I exchange small talk about various things, but mostly we run. The route we follow is a big loop, so at the end were back at my driveway.

"What do you think?" I ask, panting heavily from our sprint at the end.

"It was a good run," he states, only a little winded, "and your pace is just a little slower than what I usually run. Same time tomorrow?" he asks.

"Works for me. See you then," I say.

I watch in amazement as he takes off at a run toward his house. I guess he still has some energy to burn off.

And so our daily routine was established. Each morning except Sunday, which we take as our recuperation day, Brent shows up at my house and we run. I can feel my endurance improving, and some days we even extend our run to five miles.

After a few weeks of this, one day while we're running, I finally get up the nerve to ask Brent something I've been wondering about ever since finding his ad.

"When I answered your ad, I noticed that you listed wrestling as one of your interests. What kind of wrestling did you mean?" I ask.

Brent laughs. "I used to wrestle in high school, and I liked that a lot. But I'm not really into formal wrestling matches these days."

"So what kind of wrestling are you into?" I ask curiously, "You're not planning to join the WWE, are you?"

He laughs again. "No, no, nothing like that," he says dismissively. "I won't deny that WWE is fun to watch sometimes, and some of those guys really are talented athletes, but I prefer real man to man contact that isn't choreographed," he explains.

I ponder this for a couple of minutes as we run up a long hill.

When we get to the top, I ask, "So you're not into things like heel/jobber matches, or squash matches?"

He glances over at me with a quizzical look on his face.

"Marcus," he states with surprise, "I had no idea you were interested in wrestling. Most guys I meet wouldn't know the difference between a body scissors and a bearhug," he says with a laugh.

"Well, I know the difference!" I declare.

"To answer your question," he continues, "usually private heel-jobber matches, and squash matches, too, for that matter, aren't choreographed. Those terms describe the roles of the wrestlers or the type of match."

He's quite serious about this, I realize.

"So what kind of wrestling are you into?" I ask again.

"Oh, I like a few different types. Sometimes I try to find guys who are close to my height and weight, so we have a balanced match. Those are fun because it's really a test of strength and technique. I've even got my own set of mats," he adds.

"Those sound like matches you'd see in the Olympics or in schools," I say.

"Similar, but without a referee they can be much more interesting," he says with a chuckle. Then looking over at me, he says, "But I don't think you and I could have one of those matches. I'm what, four or five inches taller than you? And I probably outweigh you by fifty pounds," he adds with smirk.

"Yes, that's true," I agree. "If we had a match it would end up being one of those lopsided mismatches, like a squash match."

"That's for sure!" he says. "But to be honest," he admits, "those matches are actually my favorites. I really enjoy the feeling of power I get when I'm dominating a guy on the mats."

I'm not sure if he realizes how much he is turning me on talking about this, but I'm certainly enjoying it. I just hope my 'arousal' isn't visible to the passers-by through my running shorts.

"What kinds of holds do you like to use?" I ask with interest.

"For squash matches?" he asks.

"Yeah, when you're working over a smaller guy, what do you like to do?"

He thinks for a moment, "I guess you'd call them 'constrictive' holds. You know, the kinds where you wrap your arms or legs around some part of your opponent's body and squeeze until he submits."

"You mean like bearhugs?" I ask, trying to keep the excitement from my voice, because those are my favorite.

"Not only those," he elaborates with a grin, "but also holds like head scissors, and body scissors. In a balanced match, on the other hand, my objective is to pin the other guy before he pins me."

"So you don't pin your opponent in a squash match?" I ask.

"It doesn't work the same way when wrestling a guy who is a lot smaller. It would only take me a few seconds to pin him, and that wouldn't be any fun for either of us. I like to take my time and use those holds and my bigger size to give him a full body squash," he adds with a laugh.

As we run along, I glance over admiring his 'bigger size.'

"Careful, Marcus, you're gonna trip if you don't watch out," he says with wink after catching me scoping him out.

"Yes, you definitely are a big guy," I agree. "If we wrestled, it would be a squash. You've got a big wrestler's build, and I've got a small runner's build."

"Speaking of running," he says, taking off at a sprint, "race you to the driveway!"

I hadn't noticed that we had reached the place where we start our final sprint, so I take off after him as fast as I can. He's incredibly fast. His massive legs and tight butt are pumping furiously. Even running my fastest I can't catch up. He beats me easily, but I'm not too far behind.

"Your endurance is really improving," he acknowledges.

"Thanks," I say breathlessly, "I feel like it's getting better."

"Seems like it might be good enough for a wrestling match," he declares.

I look up to see if he's kidding, but his expression is quite serious.

"I can tell by our conversation that you like the idea of a squash match, Marcus, admit it."

I nod. "I haven't had much experience," I say, recalling a brief encounter I had recently with a giant bully at Costco. "But I really like the thought of struggling against a bigger stronger guy. I'm not sure how long I'll last, but I'm willing to give it a try."

"Tomorrow is Saturday. Let's substitute a match in place of our run" he says. "You don't have anything else planned for the morning, do you? When I'm squashing a guy, I like to take my time," he says with a leering grin. "Why don't you come to my place in the morning, and I'll demonstrate some holds on you!"

"Ok, Brent, that sounds like fun. Is normal running gear ok?"

"Sure, that'll work to start with," he says. Then to clarify, "but I can't guarantee that's what you'll be wearing when we finish! See you tomorrow, Marcus!" he says with a wave as he heads home.

As I walk up the driveway to my condo, I'm practically bouncing with excitement.

===

Saturday morning arrives. I get cleaned up, dressed, and walk over to Brent's house. Even trying not to walk too fast I arrive at his house several minutes early, so I wait impatiently pacing back and forth on the sidewalk.

A few minutes later, Brent opens the door and calls out, "Ready for your squashing, Marcus?"

I look up at him with a smile, and walk to the door. "Sure thing, big guy, but don't think I won't try to put up a fight!" I warn.

"Good," he says, placing a hand firmly on my back and guiding me into his house. "I like it when my opponents are feisty! Leave your running shoes here, we'll wrestle barefoot. The mats are set up in the back room, follow me!" he commands.

As Brent leads me down the hall, I notice how his tight shorts cling to his powerful legs and butt like another layer of skin.

"Here's the play room," he says, opening the door at the end of the hall.

I'm impressed to see not only a regulation 10 by 10 foot mat, complete with a circle marked on it, taking up most of the room, but also tall mirrors all around.

"Nice set up," I say admiringly.

"You'll be getting a very close look today," he says evilly.

Then without warning, he lunges toward me, grabbing me around the legs with one arm while aiming a shoulder at my waist, and easily picks me up onto his shoulder.

He strolls casually around the room for a few minutes as if he doesn't even notice my weight.

"How much do you weigh, anyway, 150?" he asks.

"155," I mutter, into the middle of his back. Turning my head to the side, I get an upside down view in the mirror of my red-faced self hanging over his shoulder.

"Nice," he says, "that weight will give me a good work out this morning. Gonna ease you down, now. Put your hands toward the floor, and tuck your head like you're going to do a somersault," he instructs.

He squats down and releases my legs, giving them a little push over his shoulder. I land in a sitting position on the floor with him behind me. Quickly I spin and get back to my feet, facing him.

"That doesn't count as a part of the match," he says with a smile. "I'm just warming up."

We circle around a bit, as I try to evade his long reach, but eventually he manages to get me too close to a side of the room, and then I'm stuck.

He grabs each of my hands in one of his and extends them out to the sides. Since his arms are longer, I'm getting stretched and have no leverage to move them. He forces me back against the mirrored wall and presses against me with his chest, pinning me there for a little while, as I struggle to push him away.

"C'mon, Marcus. You can do better than that," he taunts.

I continue struggling, but to no avail. Slowly Brent releases the pressure and takes a step back. He begins forcing our outstretched hands down between us. When I realize what he's doing, I try to pull my hands away, but before I know it, he's got both of my hands clasped firmly in one of his. Then he twists me around and with his other arm between my legs, lifts me across his shoulders in a backbreaker.

"Don't worry, Marcus," he says. "I'm just finishing my warm-ups. We'll get to wrestling in a few minutes."

Brent carries me to the middle of the room, and starts doing squats, using me rather than a barbell. With each squat, he counts. Suspended helplessly across his back, I wonder how many reps he's planning to do. I look over into the mirrors, watching his legs flex and lift, flex and lift.

"I like doing squats. They really give my quads a good pump," he says. "Just wait until you feel these monsters wrapped around you, you'll see!"

I really start wondering how many he's going to do when he starts his third set.

"6, 7, and done!" he finally says, as he squats one final time releasing me and letting me roll to the mats.

"Look at these babies," he says proudly as he points to his pumped up legs.

"C'mere, Marcus," he says, "I know you want to feel them."

He's right, of course. I scoot toward him on my knees, then reach out to run my hands over his very nicely-shaped pumped up quads. Even pressing my fingers hard against them, they're unyielding.

"Brent, these are amazing," I say with awe.

"I think you should take a closer look," he says with a sinister tone.

Before I realize what he's doing, his strong hands are on the sides of my head, pulling it between his waiting thighs. I try feebly, but unsuccessfully to pull away.

"Now the squashing starts," he announces as my head is swallowed between his monstrous thighs.

After a few seconds I cease attempting to escape. I know I'm trapped until Brent decides to release me, so relax to enjoy the sensations. It feels amazing, having a large slab of muscle on each side of my head. I run my hands up and down his legs, caressing his powerful muscles. He seems to like it, too, because for a long time he just stands there, holding me immobile.

My hands wander lower. In response, Brent gently lifts himself up and down on tiptoe, flexing to show off his calves. Locked between his legs, my head moves up and down, too, but I don't care. His legs feel great.

Gradually I slide my rubbing and caressing back up to his quads. Then, remembering him sprinting in front of me, I move my hands up to finally touch his well-proportioned butt. As I do, I feel a gentle squeeze of his legs against my head. I slowly slip my hands inside the legs of his shorts, and that brings a stronger squeeze, but I'm not going to stop now. I move my fingers up, against his skin and rub my hands in circles over his solid glutes. Each rub brings another squeeze, but it doesn't hurt too much.

Finally, feeling bold, I maneuver my fingers around and start wiggling them in between the very tops of his thighs. Suddenly the pressure increases a lot. Brent grabs my wrists and pulls my hands from their target. As he squeezes and releases, harder and harder, I hear a rushing sound in my ears, and it feels like my head is going to burst. Unexpectedly, the pain stops, and I topple face first to the mat as he releases me.

"See, Marcus," he brags, "I told you my legs got a good pump from those squats."

"You've got wonderful legs, Brent," I admit, after my head stops throbbing. "I've been admiring them ever since the first day we ran together. I can't believe how solid they are."

"In addition to running, I bicycle often, so that helps keep them in great shape," he explains. "If you want to go bicycling with me sometime, let me know. Take your shirt off, Marcus," he orders, as he pulls off his own. I prefer wrestling shirtless."

I gaze for the first time at his naked chest. In all the times we've been running, he has never taken his shirt off before. I'm pleasantly surprised to see a light dusting of hair glistening with droplets of sweat, across his wide pecs. I had assumed that he would keep his chest shaved. The hair on his pecs follows a trail down across his well-defined six-pack, and into his shorts.

"Your shirt, Marcus?" he reminds me, breaking me out of my reverie.

I pull my damp shirt off, and toss it into a corner, then start to climb to my feet.

He extends a hand to help, and asks, "Doing ok so far?"

"Yes," I declare. "This is great!"

I reach for his hand, and before I know it, he has yanked me to my feet, pulled me tight against him, and wrapped his arms around my back!

He stands slightly hunched over, holding me very firmly, my chest against his, skin against skin. His chin rests on my shoulder.

"Glad you like it," he whispers softly in my ear, as he starts to squeeze a little tighter, "because now it's time for a little hug," he adds ominously.

I grab as deep a breath as possible before I can't. His arms slowly pull me tighter and tighter. I press ineffectually at his flexing upper arms and shoulders. He's patient, I can tell. He gradually and almost imperceptibly squeezes a little bit harder, then a little bit more. As the minutes wear on, I must breathe. I let out a little used up air, and drawn in a bit of fresh, but the pressure of his arms lets me only suck in a fraction of what was exhaled.

"Just like a python, suffocating its prey, Marcus," he whispers. "I'm going to squeeze you tighter and tighter."

It's a fantastic feeling to be encased in his strong muscular embrace, and I know I have no chance of escape. But I'm determined not to give up, at least not until I have to.

I try to shift my position from side to side, hoping for a moment's respite to grab a fresh breath of air, but that doesn't work.

"Yes, that's it," he whispers blissfully. "Try to fight me. I like it when you squirm."

My head is starting to swim, I can feel my strength fading, and I'm getting frantic. I wiggle around trying to use my legs to help me pivot. Finally, after repeated failures, I succeed and grab a deep breath of sweet clean air.

"Now Marcus," he says, his lips still near my ear, "all that squirming you did was fun, but you shouldn't have taken that breath! There's only one thing we can do about that now," he says matter-of-factly.

He stands up straight, lifting me with him. My feet dangle helplessly off the floor giving me no leverage at all. His arms hug me even tighter as he tries to force the breath from my lungs.

We're both perspiring heavily. The place where our chests meet is slick with sweat. Feeling renewed by that fresh breath of air, once more I start pressing against his unyielding shoulders, trying to find a means of escape.

I'm actually astonished that he's able to maintain this hold for so long. But knowing how competitive he is, I doubt I'm going to be able to outlast him.

"Your face is getting red, Marcus," he observes. "Is everything ok?"

Of course I don't answer him. He is trying to get me to talk so he can squeeze the breath out of me. In one of the mirrors I watch him holding me. It's true, my face is very red. Also, until now, I hadn't really realized how much bigger he is than me. I continue struggling, hoping perhaps I'll catch him in a moment of weakness.

"I think it's time for the heart treatment," he says confidently.

I have no clue what he's talking about, but I'm sure I'll soon find out, so I squirm even more.

His arms unexpectedly give two short squeezes, then after a few seconds, two more.

"Bum, bum," he says in time to the compressions. "Bum, bum."

Now I understand. It doesn't feel so bad, at first. In fact, it's almost soothing, until I realize that the space between the pairs of 'heart beats' is gradually decreasing. That's when panic sets in. I resume my struggles more frantically, as the 'treatment' continues.

After a few minutes, the beats have gotten very close together. I can almost feel my own heart beating in sympathy to the powerful squeezes. The double 'bum bum' turns into string of single pulsing constrictions. My lungs can't resist any longer--the rhythmic pressure forces tiny breaths from me with each subsequent beat.

My head is spinning, and then everything goes dark.

When I finally wake up, I'm sprawled out on my back in the middle of the mat, in a puddle of our sweat. Brent is standing a few steps away looking down at me.

"Back from your nap, Marcus?" he asks

"Yes, I think so," I mutter, as I sit up and shake my head trying to clear the cobwebs.

"You lasted a long time in that bearhug. I really didn't think you would," he declares. "And I must admit that I enjoyed your struggling, feeble as it was," he says with a chuckle.

He walks over and sits down on the mat next to me, looking into my eyes.

"Are you ok?" he asks with genuine concern.

I nod, smiling at him. "That was a great bearhug, Brent."

"Good," he says, placing a hand on my knee. "I'm glad you liked it. Let me know when you're ready to continue."

"I think I'm ready now," I say tentatively. "What's next?"

"Well," Brent ponders, his index finger to his chin. "We're almost done, but we haven't worked the abs yet."

Not realizing what he has in mind, I ask, "What, are you going to do, sit-ups?"

He laughs and gives my knee another squeeze. "No, Marcus, you misunderstand," he explains.

Before I have time to react, his gigantic thighs are wrapped around my waist.

"I meant that it's time for your abs workout, not mine," he says.

Unlike being in his head scissors, in his body scissors I can see perfectly well. His quads really are massive. Sitting there surrounded by his huge legs, it's almost like being in another bearhug. At least I can breathe more easily, since the hold is around my middle rather than my chest.

I tense my abs to fend off his attack as I try to pry his legs apart. He's not squeezing very hard yet, so I find myself getting distracted watching his muscles move as he flexes his magnificent legs around me. Because of our exertions, they're shiny with sweat.

"You've got great legs, Brent," I say admiringly.

"Thanks, Marcus. They're getting a great workout today with you!" he declares. "I'm having fun squashing you."

As if to emphasize that, he gives me another good squeeze. I can't quite get my legs under me to shift position because I'm anchored down by the weight of his gripping legs.

"Gee," he says, apologetically. "I completely forgot something."

I look at him questioningly.

"My ankles," he says, as if expecting I have any idea what he's talking about.

I turn and look at his ankles, and suddenly understanding what he means.

"Nooo!" I yelp, as he crosses his ankles and uses the new point of leverage to me a giant squeeze. Even using both my hands, I'm unable to budge his thick leg.

"I'm getting tired of this position, hope you don't mind," he says.

Suddenly I'm flipped onto my back as he turns to his side. He casually leans an elbow on the mat and props his head in one hand as he watches me continue to struggle. It already feels like he's flattening me. Just the mass of those big legs, even without the muscular force, would probably finish me off in no time.

"Nah, this side isn't comfortable either, let's try the other side," he says.

Now I'm flipped over onto my stomach. I look over and find Brent looking at me with a big smile.

"Still doing ok?" he asks.

"Yes," I mumble, still trying to pry loose his legs.

The compressive pressure suddenly increases.

"How about now?" he asks.

I can barely emit a grunt, but I nod 'yes.' I imagine this must be what a tube of toothpaste feels like.

The pressure increases again, and I can't take it anymore. My poor abs are totally exhausted, so I quickly tap out.

Brent immediately releases the crushing pressure and checks to make sure I'm ok.

I just lay there for a few minutes, catching my breath. Then I sit up and smile at him.

"I was right, Marcus, your endurance is pretty good," he says. "You've lasted longer than a lot of guys I've squashed before."

"Thanks, Brent. All that running we've been doing has helped a lot."

"I have an idea. How would you like to change our Saturday run to wrestling instead?" he suggests.

"Mmmm. I think I'd like that," I answer sincerely.

So most days Brent and I still run together, but on Saturdays, it's wrestling time!