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The Unexpected Journey of a Martial Arts Dominator - Parts 1-9


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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.


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  • 4 months later...

Part 9 

Jason bounced on his feet on the canvas. Before him was his opponent. He crouched down, bouncing on his bottom, springing his thighs and hips for his kicking-dominant style. A well-adjusted man against his own peer. The bell rung, and he advanced like an aggressive buck. Front kicks made his opponent stumble back a few times. His barefoot swung at the head, none landed yet, his pesky hand blocked it. The battle went on, until one moment his front kick tilted up and - BAM! - finally found its target. His monkey-like spread toes covered and distorted his opponent's face, the rough calloused bottom of his foot slid from the mouth to the nose, transferring the great energy generated by his glutes down to the spear-pointed ankle - all with hefty muscles and thin fat like a bodybuilder yet the flexibility that befitted a martial artist. A KO win. Jason celebrated with a few spins and summersaults, one of which ended up with his foot sliding past the ring rope, he felt it impacting a face albeit with significantly gentler power. He looked back to see whether there's damage, he smiled internally. Coming to the side of his opponent, he checked whether he's ok and let the winner announcement routine go on. 

Leaving the locker room, still barefoot in a shirt, and still in his MMA compression shorts, Jason went to the practically empty parking lot. The thrill of the win was not the only cause for elation. When he looked back to check who had his foot grazed during his athletic celebration, he thought he saw his rival from his distant past. The rival that had gained his ex-girlfriend by his side. What use such a person has for an underground spectacle of man against man? No matter, that suspicion of encountering a familiar face who might just have tasted his victorious foot was enough to satisfy. 

"My car!"

Jason's attention was refocused. A silhouette of a man in the darkness of the night cried for his car desperately chasing it; the scene lit only by the street lights and the roaring car's headlights departing the scene. Jason let his virile instincts on, and without any further thought, ran to the escaping car head on like a charging bull. Just under 3 meters from the speeding car, he launched into a flying side kick. His tough bare foot smashed the windshield unharmed and sunk into the face of the man stealing it.  After killing the engine, Jason squatted on the hood, grabbed the man's shirt, puled him out and threw him beside the car. He jumped down and proceeded to launch a spinning back kick, cracking the man's ribs and caved in the car's door.

The victim came to his side, clearly glad and awed at the same time. Now Jason got a good look of him and it was, as his luck would have it, the man he had accidentally grazed with his celebrating foot, and indeed, his childhood rival. The grateful man only knew him as an underground fighter; the Jason of his normal martial arts years, let alone the present Jason, escaped his familiarity detection. As it is often said of bullies, they don't notice those whom they have scarred. Perceiving in their mind's eye an object of harmless teasing. Seeing an opportunity, Jason made his move. He offered to pay for the repairs - money he had gained from his legion of failed men "neighbors". The victim, elated with compounding gratitude, offered a stay at his house for the night. After depositing the man at the hospital emergency room and reported the event to police, there they went. 




Jason cleaned his feet enough on the mat to enter his host's house and relaxed himself in the living room. 

"Can I get you anything? Something to drink?"

"I already had some. Thanks for the offer." "Nice house you have here."

"Ah, it's not too shabby. I just bought it 2 years ago."

"Cool. Not too easy for many people these days; homeownership."

"Oh well, I just got lucky with my job with the bank."

"A pencil pusher, huh. Laptop-job. Not the typical audience I'd imagine for an underground fight club."

"Yeah well, I need something raw now and again. To be honest, I felt like a scowering mouse back then."

"Soft-spoken, mild-mannered..." "Rowdy crowd, loud rap, testosterone wafting in the air..."

"Yeah, what a contrast, I know. Your performance was amazing, by the way."

"Yeah, the other guy was good too. Took my time to play with him. Wanted to get that predatory thrill going. Get that pump."

Jason got up and flexed some muscles. Double biceps and most muscular, followed by a side kick, stopping a mere half an inch from his host's face. His crotch exposed from the angle of his dangerously threatening leg.

"No need to flinch. I have complete control of my body. But I guess I just got too excited back then and slipped. In fact, you've had a taste of my foot."

Jason gently bent the angle of his foot, bumping firmly but briefly the sword-edge of his uplifted foot on his host's lips.

"I saw that look in your eye. The way you reacted to a big sweaty man who just won a fight sticking his foot on your mouth. I know it quite well. Unmistakable. You like that don't you. Like a scowering mouse in a den of lions. Shoulders hunched like a prey, wanting to vicariously feel what you yourself can't and won't. And then, whoosh, you got a raw taste of that power your own biology denied to you. Not only that, you got rescued by that very same man and his feet. Now you are under the lion's paw. This is more than just watching something raw. There's something... else."

Jason could palpably feel the man's nervousness. His brain is sounding alarms. And yet, he felt the small tip of his tongue subtly licking the part of the foot that clamped on his kisser. 

"Come on. Don't be shy. Let it go. Let it all go. You know you want to."

The man finally let his lips open and let his tongue take longer swipes at Jason's broad foot. His nose now pressed against the foot proudly wielded like a weapon, inhaling all the hormones that he could get.

"Yeah, that's it. Know why I was barefoot at the parking lot? I never wear shoes or sandals to begin with. You wanted to see brutality. I live it. I know people like you. You hide your inadequacies behind high-paying jobs, money and property. You hide behind the strong shield of civilization to look respectable, powerful. Something you cultivated all your life since very young. And yet, I am the one feeling a million dollars here, like a conquering king while you with your suit-and-tie job got easily persuaded to lick a strong and grimy foot."

Jason then rubbed his foot all over the man's face and hair. His toes occasionally tugged at the hair with the strength and dexterity of a hand. 

"So soft. So delicate. So easily crushed. I have my plans for you, whether you like it or not."

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