The Unexpected Journey of a Martial Arts Dominator - Parts 1-8

[krtft]

Part 8

An apartment building, modest, a bit secluded around abandoned houses even for the standards of a small town, on the cheaper side certainly, very unassuming, stood only in contrast to its surroundings by the occasional people that entered and exited it. A witness it was to deindustrialization due to corporate greed that sought better profits abroad, global financial meltdowns caused by the casino-like proclivities of speculators, and a particularly hassle-inducing pandemic. A fun fact about a nation of great expanse coupled with the turmoils of modernity is that it creates pockets of oddities, ranging from benign to sinister. Sewer people unable to escape Las Vegas, the zombie fentanyl-addict street of Pennsylvania, various anarchist utopias, etc. 

A thudding sound reverberated from one of its walls. Inside, three men held a punching bag in place, the two tightly bracing against the person in front. On the opposite side was Jason bouncing on his bare feet like a fighter during a match. His side stance presented his body diagonally,  almost disguising his upside-down pear upper body. The top of his gi almost stretched sideways, revealing the bulge of his shoulders, his 3D chest exposed in the triangular gap in the center, not wearing any singlet under the gi. A black belt as worn-out as the rest of the gi secured his narrower waist. The pants hung like a gi for kata demonstration, partly out of multiple years of use, partly because it was deliberately chosen. The star of the show was his muscular feet and calves.

Despite three men having readied themselves securing the target, Jason's attack sent his foot on a side kick, reducing the diameter of the bag to a hairline, the excess momentum delivered the bag swinging and the three men flung against the wall behind them. They unceremoniously slumped down. Jason went towards them, the pitter patter of his barefeet deceptively calm. He jumped up and stomped down to a wide stance, flanking the three of them with his feet. The thud against the floor padding of the private dojo refocused their attention to the man who cast a shadow over them. He bent his knees slowly and deliberately into a horse-rider stance, lowering his groin nearer to them. The light above made his approaching blond hair glow like an eclipse's corona, and his smirking angular face like its umbra.

"You felt that power? It's getting better, isn't it?"

The three nodded mutely but enthusiastically.

"Ok, but before you go do your next chore, I have one more reward."

Jason set his body to a more mobile stance and with his foot dragged them flat against the floor. His toes digged into the middle man's stomach and dragged him down. The other two were dragged by the shoulders by the respective flanking foot, the toes grabbing them with a pinch. Then the reward came. Jason's sweaty feet wiped their faces. Their faces were pressed down by the hydraulic presses that were Jason's feet, sheer leg muscle power and the weight of muscles upon muscles. The hardness of the muscles and leather-tough skin; the friction of his leathery skin's conditioned roughness sliding against their soft eyelids, cheeks, noses and lips; the pungent but fresh smell of Jason's perpetually bare feet's sweat invading their olfactory organs. The strong dominating the weak. The weak paying tribute to the strong.

Jason dismissed them and they scurried towards the door, one of them tumbling along the way from the stains of Jason's copious slippery sweat generated over an hour. Jason couldn't believe his luck that the tumbling man who closed the door behind him was none other than his landlord. Not only had the pudgy, lonely landlord fallen victim against Jason's feet's charm, the rest of the apartment had been fully occupied by the twenty-percenters. He collected rent from them, but not Jason. Not only that, he shared 5% of the profit to Jason.

That was not the only oddity with this apartment's arrangement. The light domestic chores were collectively done by the twenty-percenters, but only the hard manly repairs were done by Jason, except when it was something to do with the toilets. Except for Jason's own bathroom, which he did himself, it was the only task relegated to an external contractor; itself merely because it would not be appropriate for Jason to be soiled by their waste. Jason was only to be stained by sweat, blood, grease, mud and dirt. Something that the defeated failed men could not imagine themselves getting into. Icky stuff that only a masculine man undeterred by a high falutin, effete middle and upper class inhibition would do. Their overactive sense of proper civilized behavior, overactive sense of cleanliness, perhaps internalized inferiority from failure to stand up to physical bullies, their latent cowardice, demanded an outing, a projection. Jason was precisely such a projection. Being manhandled by Jason exhilarated them. It sent sparks and cold shocks up and down their spine.

Wiping the sweat from his forehead, his workout high subsiding, Jason felt something was missing. Of course, there's a peculiar satisfaction having his everyday needs met by failed men, and dominating them with his body in exchange. But he missed sparring with a normal man, mano y mano. Someone who wouldn't go limp from the first strike. Someone who would block and retaliate when he would kick him on the head. Someone who would treat him as a bro after a fight instead of groveling.

Little did Jason know, trying to fill that hole in his heart would one day result in compound satisfaction due to revenge met.