The Barefoot Karate Killer - Part 1-8

[krtft]

Added illustration.

[SMASHOR]

Having done 2 years Kyukyshin Karate in my 40s... love this story of a young superhuman kareteka who can seemingly kill anyone and smash using his body as a total weapon .

To him katas and breaking would be for those who were restricted and 10th Dans for the weak

 

[krtft]

Part 7

The winter snow coated the dark chilly night. Most people had retired to their apartments. A trail of bare foot prints made a bee line towards one of the apartment towers. A few knocks on the door and the woman opened it revealing the man with a youthful face greeting her. She introduced Sergey to her father.

The man, who has seen his fair share of rough and tumble in those turbulent 90s and early 00s, unconsciously took a sharp intake of breath. The man before him was not some sloppily clothed gopnik punk she foolishly dated, or a well-dressed young man with a formal attire that signaled a bright career in front of him she met in her studies. No. This was more visceral. His survival instinct flared up, but not in a normal way. The kind of danger that would send a siberian tiger hesitating and eventually running away with its tail between its legs. It took him all his will power not to exude weakness, and put on a face that befitted an authoritative dad, the protector of his dear princess.

Sergey caught those subtle signals. He did dress to impress, but not in the way most would think. He broke the first barrier, and the rest will be easy. He smirked in his mind. He chose a set of kyokushin gi, ripped at the arms and legs. His armpits and delts were visible. The veins and muscle crisscrossing his feet and ankles, the width and thickness of the feet, the almost monkey-like separation between the thick callused toes, and the heft and breadth of of his calves tapering towards his covered knee; they were also visible. The two ends of his gi shirt, one overlapping the other fastened with a black belt, created a v-shaped collar that uncovered his bloated chest muscles. He chose a size that he had outgrown, creating a v-shape of his torso, and emphasized the size of his legs and glutes. He looked like an action man from the movies, yet this was real and without androgen abuse. Imperceptibly, everyone in that apartment got a whiff of Sergey's biochemicals.

The two men shook hands. The extra firmness and rough calluses of Sergey's grip surprised the older man. They exchanged verbal pleasantries and the gifts that Sergey brought were received and set aside. Sergey detected the subtle signs of discomfort from the other man. Every move Sergey took was to emphasize his strength. The thuds from each fall his naked feet were a little louder than normal steps more like a softer version of stomps. He occasionally flexed his visible muscles. After he sat himself down, his spread legs and relaxed feet and toes subtly flexed revealing the contours of the underlying powerful muscles hidden by the skin and pants. It was as if he was subtly challenging the man, legs open wide assertively exposing the crotch area,  toes and feet like a predator's waiting to pounce his victim. He had a slight shine from his sweat droplets - sweat from his journey, despite the extreme cold of Russian winter - that dotted his body, accentuated by the fine blond hairs. The sweat, the armpits, the crotch and the feet; all conspired to exude his pheromones helped by those subtle flexes. Pheromones that excited the woman and intimidated her dad without him knowing logically why.

His face, with his blue eyes directed straight at the opposite man with the eagle-like stare of a warrior, looked youthful but without childishness. It was angular with sharp strong jaws and exudes vitality. The woman's father mentioned his youthful feature, and Sergey admitted he was her junior. But the conduct, the way he carried himself, was full of authority. The way he explained himself, his background and what he did carried weight in his already instinctually intimidated mind. Though this lad lived far from centers of civilization, with no prestigious title or occupation, whose existence is barely recorded by the state, he was convinced his daughter would be in secure hands, far more secure than under his own care, far less in danger than married to an oligarch with a legion of bodyguards.

Eventually the man approved her with him.

Her first night with Sergey, the first night she saw him in all his flesh, she was intoxicated by his pheromones. She left no square inch of his body without kisses, licks and bites. Even his highly trained pendulous family jewels, maniacally chewed by her due to the intensity of pheromones invading her nose,  only felt ticklish arousal. He spent hours plugging her tight and serving her. Leaving her a slimy wreck in the morning. The first thing she saw in the morning was his large body facing the sun, in a split stretch emphasizing the round glutes that served her the night before.

[krtft]

Part 8

Sergey's dream turning to memories of his wife made his glutes undulate like the calm waves at a beach resort to the discomfort of the man under him, emasculated under the weight of his captor, who had no choice but to be pressed by the force exerted. As an American man, in this nearly sleepless night, it triggered a fever dream of when he was in his school days being tackled and piled under three layers of aggressive football players; and dealing with Sergey's glutes - that's pretty much an apt comparison. The contrast was jarring: a man who was reminded he was an alpha athlete, triggered in real life by being effectively made a bitch by another man's unconscious nocturnal turns.

But time was merciful to the hapless American prisoner, as Sergey woke up and the destination had drawn near. Unhinging one of the sides of the car wreckage like unwrapping an aluminium baking sheet, Sergey then rolled himself to the other side, bringing both him and his prisoner tumbling down away from the still moving train, all wrapped in the sheeted wreckage like tobacco in a cigarette. Sergey burst out off the metallic cocoon in a blast explosive movement. His prisoner looked up at the tower of a man, his legs spread wide straddling him, arms spread out while his chest swelled from his tiger-like roar. Abandoning the now useless wreckage, Sergey walked down with his prisoner over his shoulders.

Entering the area of the homestead, the American prisoner saw in the enclosure's courtyard a wooden post from a tree trunk and it had deep impressions in the shape of feet as big as Sergey's, and another one that featured shallower, smaller imprints.

"This rosy-cheeked teen-faced monster has a kid!"

The thought of him reproducing terrified him.

A a pair of uniformed men approached Sergey. They were supposed to operate secretly as contacts from the MoD and FSB for Sergey's voluntary services. Not many knew Sergey even existed, not even people from the top. Some shadowy middle-ranking officer who was concerned with budget efficiency just happened to find him. Sergey wanted fun, he wanted to cut costs. They talked in Russian following Sergey's steps.

"Had fun?"

"I had a blast. I think you guys will have a good chance capturing some cities now. Maybe Avdeyevka... Bakhmut, perhaps? Anyways, here are some data you might find useful."

Sergey tossed the USB to one of the men.

"Wonderful. Oh, by the way, before we leave, we found some more 'toys' for you."

An unmarked van was opened. Upside down from behind Sergey's body, the prisoner took a peak. Two American mercenaries. In straitjackets. Blindfolded.

After Sergey had taken them on his shoulders, the van left. 

Soon Sergey found his wife waiting in front of the opened door. She smiled seeing he brought gifts for her viewing.

[fokka12]

amazing 

[SMASHOR]

Sergey is the secret weapon...no need to use anything from the nuclear arsenal