The Barefoot Karate Killer - Part 1-8

[krtft]

The character in this story is loosely inspired by last year’s Russian Kyokushin board breaking champion, Maksim Shcherbina.

Sergey crouched at the edge of the rooftop, staring down at the seemingly abandoned warehouse below. A few armed men were milling about outside, illuminated by the sole light above the entrance and the dim shine of the moon. Clearly they were on guard duty. He watched them in delight. His balls pumped testosterone, his bare toes flexed on and off in excited anticipation, the concrete from the ledge cracked from the grip of those toes. With the gracefulness and silence of a cat, he jumped high and landed hard on the pavement, drawing the attention of the guards. But he himself paid them no attention. He rolled his already calf-height white gi pants to just under his knees. He then started calmly did his stretching routine in the typical Karate and Taekwondo style, causing some of the mercenaries to snicker at him.

They received intel they were about to be intercepted, maybe by a Russian special force, or maybe a rogue Ukrainian faction.

"Look at this pretty boy!" one of them jeered. "What’s he doing barefoot and dressed like that?" Maybe a stray martial arts competitor. The dork was too damaged by CTE probably, they amusedly speculated.

But Sergey was much more than that. For one, he was densely muscled, but his muscularity was hidden by his 7 ft tall stature, a lanky yet proportional build typical of a striking-dominant martial artist, the angular yet disarmingly youthful features of his face betrayed the mere 18 winters he’d passed which hid both his muscularity and imposing height.

One of the jeering men finally went up to him, intending to send him off, maybe intimidate him a little bit. Sergey stood tall and the man’s underestimating smile faded a bit, his weapon at ready. Before he could say anything, Sergey’s foot shot up in a blindingly fast outward crescent kick. The bare foot caught the man’s neck like a hook, flipping him along its movement and, adding more force by shifting his weight on his foot-blade, crushed the neck flat on the ground. Instant death.

The other watchmen’s mocking mood turned 180, now they were on alert. Sergey charged against them, zig-zagging erratically to avoid catching the bullets and confusing their aim. Some struck his gi, but it was enhanced with spider web silk, as makeshift Kevlar. Some struck his flesh, his superhumanly dense musculature and tough skin, enhanced even more by his years of brutal Kyokushin and Muay Thai training, reddened but not injured. His hand shielded only his eyes.

He crouched down and swung his leg, swept at the closest soldier, breaking his legs, and then grabbed him, using him as a living club. Knocking down all of them, he immediately battered them with his bare feet. A stomp broke past a man’s rib cage, stabbing his heart and lung. Another stomp caught a skull, flattening it, brain matter poured out. Another he soccer kicked, turning the neck so violently, it snapped. The man he used as a bat crawled away behind him with his arms. Sergey calmly approached him, casually flipped him on his back with his foot and hovered it above the man’s face. From down below, the last image that haunted his eyes was the wide foot cocked over him, as intimidating as an elephant’s stride. One downward motion, the end.

(To be continued)

[Ro20316]

This is a great start. His legs are powerfull

[krtft]

Part 2

The locks of the door to the warehouse busted open, revealing Sergey standing with one foot lifted and flexed in maegeri – front kick – form, all the bones from the balls of the foot stacked in alignment like a spear, toes flexed to expose the striking surface: the dusty balls of the foot, with its leathery callused skin, covering the fat padding behind it, covering yet again the powerful bones and muscles. Such a deadly yet beautiful weapon: toes callused from gripping and being used as arrow points from training his Uechi Ryu style tsumasaki geri – toe kicks; the soles elegantly contoured from trained muscles and tendons forming the hills of the balls, sword and heel rimming the arch and the calluses of those three hills forming a crescent of orange hued tough skin, the perfect weapon points. Almost always being barefoot had preserved the spread of his prehensile toes, unconstrained by shoes the balls immediately behind them had become wide, tapering down until meeting the hammer that was his heel. Part of the pleasure of training and flexing for him is to appreciate the beauty of his own body, his feet included.

He proceeded. The room was quiet. The only thing audible was his footsteps. He knew they were there, preparing for ambush after the chaos he caused outside. His piercing blue eyes scanning the surroundings. He saw all the leased weapons he’s itching to neutralize.

His reflex suddenly reacted, raising his arm to deflect a bullet. He then charged towards where the bullet came from and rammed through a crate. The culprit almost made it running away, but Sergey grabbed his neck and used him like a puppet. His other hand grabbed the weapon, superimposing his fingers over his victim’s and shot at his fleeing comrades.

When the bullets ran out, he used his now dead victim as a projectile, and, like a bowling ball, knocked over the survivors. He charged at them again like an enraged rhino, trampling down everything in his path: the barely living, the dead, and their weapons and protective gear alike. Even the glass shards of trampled goggles couldn’t pierce his feet! Sergey felt bones and metal shatter and bend beneath his toes, and he felt a surge of excitement course through his body. He was in control. He was powerful.

The desperate army brought out their armored vehicle, thinking that they could use it to run over Sergey under the powerful machine. But instead of running away, Sergey went straight to the accelerating vehicle. Sergey tackled it like a wrestler, pushing it backward and even picking up speed and hitting other men and weaponry, damaging them along the way. Sergey took over control, turning it which ever way he wanted. At one point the engine then died, emitting smoke, unable to withstand him.

After a while, Sergey stopped, letting the vehicle continue moving backwards on momentum. Chasing it again, he launched himself into a flying side kick. Recovering from the daze and concussion the driver was confronted with the image of Sergey flying toward him, the weaponized foot flexed to aim the outer edge of his foot – the foot sword – right at him. The windshield broke, the foot landed on the driver’s mouth. Teeth broke, muscles rip, and finally jaw bone broke. Sergey’s assault didn’t manage to kill him, only lodging his foot on his victim’s face. Injured but not dead. Besides the searing pain, the man was forced to taste Sergey’s bitter foot, the smell of his sweat, the rough texture of his sole which pressed down on his tongue. Sergey retracted his foot and then shot it again with more power, giving him a mercy kill.

Sergey dislodged himself from the neutralized vehicle and, readopting the catlike silence, went to the backroom. He knew the commander was there, handgun at the ready. He sensed the man with his back on the door. Sergey set his hand at the level of the neck and with lightning speed pierced through the door and grabbed the commander’s neck. He forced the door open and disarmed his last victim. He threw the handgun on the floor and stomped it flat. After the commander had been sufficiently weakened, he slammed him on the floor. Sergey was in no mood for mercy. He flexed his feet again, feeling the power surge through his body. He smothered the commander's face under his bare foot. The man screamed and writhed, but it was no use. Sergey's foot was too powerful. With slow buildup of pressure, he crushed the commander’s skull with a sickening crunch. The sound of the skull crunching was satisfying, and Sergey smiled as he felt the skull’s collapse beneath his foot, relishing the feeling of the man's brain matter spilling under his sole and gushing between his toes.

But he couldn't stay there for long. Before leaving, he took a couple of flash drives for his friend back home.

[Ro20316]

Sergey had a mission and he acomplished it.

[krtft]

Part 3

Nothing in the warehouse was spared. Not one man to tell the tale. Sergey took the least damaged military vehicle there. Crushing with his hands any electronics, lest they’d be used as a beacon to detect his movement. Feeling a bit churlish, he grabbed the last item with his foot, using his dexterous toes, and curling the foot to crush it. Now only the engine and the lights are left intact. Two barrels he tied onto the vehicle, one filled with fuel and one empty.

Before he loaded and tied the second one, he ripped open the empty barrel and filled it with a lone survivor – who, as told before, will never tell the tale – helplessly tied with bent steel rebar and pipes, mouth duct taped and added in a duffel bag he found. After crimping the torn lid shut again with his hand, he made breathing holes with his finger, and it was ready. This survivor will be his plaything; something to dominate, intimidate, emasculate; a prop piece to make a show for his wife. Swiftly destroying a unit with his body gives him a wonderful rush, but slowly torturing a man by robbing him of his masculine dignity with his own power gives him fireworks.

He sped away in the blanket of the night, eventually going off the road away from civilization, and crossed the border into his homeland. Once all the fuel was used, he got off the vehicle, loaded his prisoner off, and proceeded to stomp away at the now useless vehicle until it was flat with the ground, then ripped and fashioned it into a pair of loops. Sergey then attached them to the prisoner’s barrel carried it on his back like a backpack. He ran with the speed of an antelope, his bare feet thumped on the ground, leaving off clouds of dust and deep foot prints.

At one point Sergey stopped at a place to rest, disassembled the metallic backpack and opened the lid that he crimped with his hand. He repurposed the mangled remains of the vehicle to tie his prisoner to a tree. He slapped his prisoner awake, as he wanted him to see.

The prisoner woke up to see Sergey facing away from him and stripped off his still blood, oil and dirt-covered gi. What he saw made him gulp. His blond locks hung over a cascade of thick stabilizing muscles that was his neck. Shoulders and back that was a veritable sculpture of angry muscles, forming almost a demon face, the only comparison he could make from his past dabbling with Japanese pop entertainment. A real-life Yujiro Hanma from the Baki manga. Looking further down he was met with a pair of protruding wrecking balls. The same ones that in concert with the quads drove his captor while traversing the forest, the same ones that enabled his captor’s legs to swing like axes or clubs that killed his comrades and defeated the leased weapons. Thighs flaring out wide, supported below his knees by calves – nay, bulls!

Sergey then bent down to fold his karate gi, revealing his testosterone powerhouses, each bigger than a man’s fist, and his thick hanging baton. The scene inspired a mix of obscenity, inadequacy and fear in him. A man who rendered him defenseless on a tree trunk, turned his brothers in arms into minced meat, wasted billion dollars of hardware, shamelessly flaunted his own bare weaponry of flesh. Even the most vulnerable part of a man, his crown jewels, seemed as durable as tungsten.

Sergey then went away. Tightly tied to a tree in masses of steel, the prisoner was for some time alone in the forest. The quiet gave him the calm to take it all in. Is this even real? Is it all a dream? His confines seems real, but maybe just a lucid sleep paralysis. If true, it’s an odd one at that. No sleep paralysis demon ever appears in broad daylight, and manifests as a hyper-alpha male emasculating a man’s man like himself.

The desperate grunt of an animal pierced the silence. It got closer and closer, and it turned out Sergey was dragging a reindeer by force, his arm in a headlock around the beast’s neck, its hooves tried vainly to gain traction and stop the advance. Once he got close enough, Sergey swept the forelegs of the reinder, slammed his heavy body on the animal, and in a smooth motion removed his locking arm and slipped his legs around the neck. Staring up at his prisoner face-to-face from the ground, forcing an eye contact, he contracted his mighty thigh. The captive man dared not to avert his eyes. Building power slowly, followed by release, build up again, release again, and then finally, after the animal’s will to survive had been entirely exhausted, the quads flared up in a split second jolt of power – snap! – and limp it went.

Sergey then built a bonfire, cooked the beast whole, singeing its fur on the flame like a primitive tribe’s barbecue. He made a barbaric primal feast for one. Managing to eat half the animal by himself, he gave some pieces to his prisoner and made him eat from his hand. A gesture of kindness of some sort; a gesture of dominance is more like it. Sergey then went behind the tree to the barrel and rummaged through the stolen duffel bag. He then came back within the prisoner’s vision holding a manual reverse osmosis device. Sergey then pissed into it and worked on it until it gave a perfectly distilled water and then made his prisoner drink it. The water has no taste, yet having seen where it came from was enough to sink a man’s dignity into the abyss. The sole surviving soldier – thus far! – driven by his prolonged thirst, abandoned USS Dignity and drank the literal water from his conqueror.

Sergey returned his karate gi to cover his killer body and stuffed his prisoner and the equipment in the barrel, then fashioned it into a metallic backpack again. He continued his journey full speed on his mighty bare feet.

[krtft]

Part 4

Leaving behind the rest of the meat for any passing wild animal, Sergey made his way through the wilderness. At night, he finally reached a Trans-Siberian train at a station. Exchanging nods with a staff – Sergey once saved the son of the company’s director, giving him privileges, no questions asked – he released his prisoner from the backpack, which refashioned sufficiently into a sheet, and brought the wretched one on top of the roof, far away from the passenger section. Sergey made him lie on his back and he laid himself on top of his prisoner, and then used the sheet of metal to cover both of them, disguising them. Not long after that, the train departed.

Sergey loved this position. The captive one had now become a literal prisoner of Sergey’s body. He was forced to hear up close the rhythm of his heartbeat, his own breathing was controlled by the larger man’s powerful chest and diaphragm, at the early hours before sunrise his stomach was painfully poked by a thick and long oaken morning wood. What on normal man is a love organ, his could be a deadly weapon in its own right. Only his wife had the privilege of its tender love and care. If Muay Thai is the art of 8 limbs, he added a ninth; 10 if you include his vice-like behind.

Sleeping soundly while his emasculated pet was smothered under the heavy hunk of meat that was his body, he began to dream. He dreamt a genetic memory, a memory seared into him from his grandpa onwards reinforced by family lore.

[krtft]

Part 5

In deep slumber, Sergey’s subconscious recreated a genetic and experiential memory in his dream. A memory that spanned three generations.

His grandfather was an early teen in 1971 when a group of Chinese men, fleeing the Cultural Revolution, crossed nearby his plot of land near the city of Khabarovsk, taking advantage of the border dispute following the Sino-Soviet ideological split. The Revolution sought to stamp out traditional culture, and these refugees thought the wilderness of the Russian side offered better protection until things calmed down. Grandpa was a curious lad, and so when he caught sight of them he followed them stealthily. They were practicing and training, their bodies seemed invincible, some broke off pieces from boulders just by repeatedly hitting them with their booted feet, some even dragged boulders with rope tied to something between their legs covered by tiger-patterned loincloth. In awe at their athletic prowess, one day he gathered the courage to approach them and revealed his intention to learn. So learned he the art of Qi Gong.

Little did he know training Qi Gong proved to be the key to unleash his hidden Herculean genetic potential. A mutation hitherto unknown to science that affected the male gonads, only surfacing under certain triggers. The practice of Iron Crotch stimulated his muscles and sinew to grow strong and defined, blew up his libido and aggression; traits which would genetically and epigenetically increase from generation to generation. His previously calm temperament turned into that of an enraged bull in heat, which was tempered down by extra self-control training – breathing and Tai Chi – as taught by these men.

Likewise, it affected his libido and fertility. It has a preference for male progenies and – like the other traits – the preference went stronger by the generation. He would later sire a son - Sergey’s dad - and a daughter, his son in turn would sire two sons, and Sergey himself would sire sons only. Sperm so vigorous and strong they easily passed through the obstacles offered by the female tract. These traits passed only to the male descendants – his aunt went on to live a normal life.

After 6 years of training, right before the Chinese Qi Gong practitioners felt safe enough to return to the other side of the border and bade their farewell, grandpa had grown to dislike wearing shoes – despite Kungfu being practiced shod – and he had advanced such that he could already do the splits, each foot gripping the side of adjacent trees, while a 400kg boulder hung by a rope behind his tiger-loincloth. This dislike of shoes would then also be inherited down the male generations. Not only did his bare feet connected him directly with the ground, harnessing its energy, the toughening of his soles into rough leathery pads, the strengthening of every little tendon and muscle of the feet, the increasing density of every bones down to the toes; all gave him a sense and reality of invincibility.

He went around town and found out that the art of karate was flourishing in the USSR. He was attracted to the underground version of karate. Not only did they practice barefoot, consonant with his new-found inclination, it had become a seriously brutal martial art, untamed by the general practice internationally, and pressured by the double crucible of the criminal world and law enforcement to create lethal moves and tactics. He loved it so much that he joined riots in Poland and was the initial karate fighter to bust through the police cordon. Government ban on civilian karate made him go away from the cities and then a year later sired Sergey’s father.

One day the Soviet Union dissolved. The rise of the mafia and oligarchs under the guidance of American consultants bearing the poison apple of neoliberalism and “shock therapy” privatization gave dad many opportunities to use his inherited genes and physical training. Pensions went unpaid, state assets sold to the highest bidder, and Western interests and capital ran amok. In the chaos and poverty, his dad did what he had to do and earned his living alongside grandad. He observed grandad guard the storage and transaction of goods for small businesses that couldn’t handle mafia extortion but could give them very lenient protection fees, favors and treats. Dad was a fast learner, and within a year, criminals who tried to mooch off nascent small legitimate businesses in their area had to endure the humiliation of being manhandled with judo moves and stomped by the then-13-year-old dad barefoot and wearing a karate gi to the smirking approval of the similarly clad grandpa supervising behind him. To finish them off, dad soccer kicked each of their faces into the Shadow Realm.

The country eventually stabilized, the rough and chaotic 90's ended when the elites gave an unassuming KGB officer the presidency: instead of the oligarchs controlling him as they had intended, he controlled and tamed them. With the changing fortunes dad and grandad retreated to the wilderness, to the plot of land where grandad established his secluded homestead long ago, at the very same place where grandad had that fateful meeting with his tutors. Fourteen years had passed since the dissolution and he soon took a liking to a young woman, and from their union he bred Sergey.

By age 3 Sergey had started his training. Like Sage Northcutt, he developed his abs not two years into the process. Gradually he was introduced to the mixed brutal karate style, partly Kyokushin after re-legalization, partly the Soviet underground karate. A disciple of both dad and granddad.

Once he could read, he was given illustrated books about the Spartans. Their warrior ethos resonated with him, leading him to search more on his own. A society where future citizens took up the way of the warrior since an early age. The agoge, an institution to harness their lethal bodies and while barefoot as a token of toughness and resilience, to exercise their power against both nature and helots – the slave class. He also learned of the koryos, the ancient Aryan/Indo-European institution of a band of young males, sent out of the tribe to fend for themselves, to eat out of their bare hands, and pillage neighboring tribes, thus expanding their own. From his own grandfather, he found an example of a Roman republican gentleman, a classicus: neither slave nor idle aristocrat, unstifled by Soviet bureaucracy yet not soft and effete like the Westerners had now become, acting without dictates and constraints in the wilderness yet taking upon himself the burden of self-sustenance; true freedom.

He had come to appreciate the abilities of his body, especially his naked feet. He acquired a taste in other martial arts, taking Muay Thai for the weaponized knees, Taekwondo for the fast creative kicks, sambo for grappling like Oleg Taktarov. For extra fun, he dabbled in acrobatics like Dimitry Politov’s crazy ability to suspend his bodyweight with his toes – a useful skill to have for his antics that evokes the stealth and versatility of ninjas and Spiderman.

Eventually he started the Qi Gong, at the same age of his granddad before him, the practice that unwittingly unlocked their lineage’s extraordinary powers so long ago, just as he started that special milestone for a man. Barely a day after he started, the initial rush of testosterones kicked in and overwhelmed him. He felt like a silverback gorilla; the urge to beat his chests and thighs, to roar with wild abandon clouded his mind. His father let him out to the wintery wild to vent out the rush. He would kick and punch trees and even uproot some of them, carry boulders and then bearhug them until they crumbled. He felt no cold under his feet, nor thighs, arms or torso. Eventually he went back to the homestead, having calmed himself down. The felled trees and the crumbled pieces of rock he brought back home to be used to build a banya, a Russian sauna.

The dream went to a more recent chapter: Sergey met his wife on his winter jog around the city park. (To be continued)

[BigK]

Hi. Is there a way to reach you on the networks? skype, discord...

[krtft]

Part 6

A quiet night it was. A city park of wide expanse with nary a soul in it was lit by the street lights which just accentuated its desertedness. Trees dotted the place, rustling gently due to the chilly wind. That's the scenery of the memory that Sergey's dream brought him next. Hidden within the foliage, he was perched at one of the branches, strengthening his muscles with bodyweight exercises, toughening his skin by alternately gripping the rough bark with his callused hands and feet under his full weight, making slow methodical movements to increase the load on his muscles, enhance his endurance, and hide his presence, indistinguishable from the rhythm of the wind-swept branches and leaves. His excursions to the city usually ended late like this, an hours-long jog under the cover of night concluded with bodyweight exercises before returning to the deep forest homestead with a midnight run at the top speed of a cheetah. But this was no ordinary excursion, it was the night he met his love, his army incubator.

A distressed woman came into the vicinity. The pace of her walk was rather fast, having just realized there were some people following her. They closed the gap and began verbally harrassing her. Three good for nothing gopniks surrounded her, and backed her into Sergey's tree, intending to strip her of her valuable possessions - material and biological. Sergey's blood boiled at such a sight. He had to act.

Just as one of them unveiled a knife from his pocket. A blur of dense muscles landing on top of the knife wielding criminal. Sergey then stomped his face with the entire surface of his foot. The impact cracked the criminal's entire face bones and crushed his nose. He's out. Sergey then grabbed the other one under his arm pit and charged to the last one.

With one gopnik's head trapped in a headlock, whose ear was forced against the heat of Sergei's bare side, vigorous blood audible through the ribcage, Sergei swept the only standing gopnik's leg, and then raised his other leg over him in a crescent trajectory and axe-kicked his back, adding more momentum into the fall. Sergey himself dove down along with the trapped gopnik to the ground with that axe-kick. Once on the ground Sergey told the head-locked one to pay careful attention what he's doing to his partner, forcefully turning his head towards Sergey's bare feet.

His feet each grabbed the upper and lower lips of the gopnik, pried it open a bit, his toes took time playing with his tongue, the neck muscles of the panicking gopnik tense from trying to escape the mighty feet, hands frantically trying to dislodge the big muscular feet and legs but to no avail. Tug after tug, the power increased after each instance, then with full force... *crack* the jaw snapped and some of the bones broke. The gopnik then stopped flailing, he shut down from the overload of pain. Reminiscent of King Kong vs V-Rex, the foot that was gripping the lower jaw played with it, opening and closing the now slack jaw due to ruptured muscles, bones and tendons. The headlocked one almost threw up, but didn't dare. Sergey then rose up, one foot standing on the now out-cold victim in a show of dominance, and then flexed all of his muscles. The other gopnik, a witness to it all while pitted between Sergey's biceps and side, was squished under the bout of victorious flexing, the muscles dig into his throat repeatedly, weakening him with every pulse.

Sergey grabbed him by the hair, forcing him to kneel before him. The woman looked on petrified. Sergey's wide back blocked her sight. She saw that he loosened his karate blackbelt and lowered his gi pants. The top of the 3D mounds of his glutes became visible, meeting at slight dimple under his spine. But otherwise, she could not see the humiliation ritual underway.

"Kiss it! Kiss my cock! You're weak and worthless and can do nothing against my weapon".

The weapon, erect from the thrill of fighting and the vehemence of anger, battered several times through the weaker man's lips, demolishing the front teeth and giving its overpowering taste to the tip of the tongue. It was then retracted and used as a club against both his cheeks and face. The humiliation ended when Sergey cleaned his weapon on the gopnik's hair. The hair that became a wipe from his own saliva and a small smattering of the clear transparent thick fluid which, in a different context, lubricate his weapon before creating an army.

He told the lone conscious, but humiliated, survivor to gather his two other friends and drag them away out of the park. Sergey refastened his pants and belt. Having calmed down from the storm, he took notice again that he was with company.

"Sorry you had to see that, ma'am. But a man's man has to assert his dominance, SOME HOW."

That sent her out of the trance-like state that petrified her in place, that made her witness to the awesome feat of Sergey's muscles. She asked for his number, wondering maybe she could get on a date with him.

"I'm not interested in frivolous dating, ma'am. I won't give my contacts to you. I am a serious man for actual conquest. These *grabs crotch and shakes it lewdly* are for only one thing. Unless you're up for a rigorous life out there away from civilization under my body, building my army, you'd be better off with someone else."

The stern words hesitated her for a bit, a mental equivalent of curling up under the blanket, flinching against the sting. She had been accustomed to be the one to deny, to frustrate. Many a man have been reduced to kneeling on the ground from devastation. But this blond youth, a blond youth with the muscle size of a hairless silverback gorilla, who dispatched three men with his bare flesh, demanded life-long loyalty and subservience to his manhood. This was not an aimless hormonal Romeo, although in fact less than a handful of months short of the Shakespearian couple. His blue eyes pierced her with serious intent, no playing around, no emptiness. His features betrayed insane muscle, hormone and bone development though with barely visible facial hair. Wisdom and discipline were evident. Two years of the life of the average Joe, in both mental and physical development, crammed in every year since he could walk. She sensed this was no ordinary lad, her life and well-being would be far more assured by his side than even being the trophy wife/paramour of a billionaire.

The lack of response prompted Sergey to give a slight bow, turn his back on her and leave for the homestead. Not a few steps later, her arms hugged his hips, her face pressed on his bulging spine erector muscle and licked his bare skin. "Yes, I want to be with you."

"Then you'd better get to know me."

[fokka12]

Magnificent looking forward to the continuation, and eager to see the result of sleeping with a God like that and surviving a super powerful nocturnal erection.