The Mirror and the Tulip

The Mirror and The Tulip

Chapter One: Rules and Reflections

His large hands, on each side of my head, laced up the back of my mask with gentle expertise.

In the mirror, my fair frame contrasted the muscular wall of cool umber that towered behind me. I was naked, the clothes of the real world cast in a heap on the floor like freed shackles. The dim bulbs around the ceiling drizzled their light on the black duffle-bag on the sink, from which my new face had been fished from.

He pulled the string-lace through the last loop of the tongue of the mask and secured it tight along the back of my neck. My eyes were obscured by stretched black fabric, pulled so thin that it allowed me to see through. The mask warped around my face, pink and silver spirals of glittery vinyl hid any hint of who I was--with the exception of my small mouth. I pursed my lips in the mirror, then frowned. I could still tell it was me.

"One step at a time," he squeezed my shoulder with reassurance. He must've noticed. The expression of his full, grinning mask seemed to notice everything.

Though I knew the broad concept of my character, I did not know the contents of the duffle-bag. Frankly, I knew very little of what I was getting myself into, other than what Amani and I had discussed over text messages.

***

I've had a life-long fascination with wrestling that my small size didn't allow me to follow up on. My discovery was in stages-- teenage years of wandering thoughts during televised matches made me realize that I was definitely turned on by two men grappling with each other, but I thought that was just... you know, being gay. It seemed like a basic explanation with no deeper meaning for myself or my place in it. Once an errant set of porn surfing led me to erotic wrestling videos and, eventually, personals, did I understand that perhaps the concept of wrestling was a little more special to me than I realized.

But how does one start wrestling? my past self thought, pants near his ankles, below-average dick in hand. I clicked through personals of huge men, life long gym rats, fountains of testosterone, beards, brawn. They were nothing like me. They looked like they lived this life forever. I don't have a place here, I thought.

***

Amani went to the duffle bag and for the first time I got a view of his wide, bare back. His black skin, dark and smooth, hoarded the light as it stretched across his footballer frame. He was over a foot taller than me, his perfect globes squeezed into black tights with reflective silver trim that matched the mask he wore.

While I knew his name, and I loved his name, and wouldn't mind screaming 'Amani' all throughout the night if he wanted me to, part of the deal was that, once we started, I'd call him 'The Mirror' throughout the entirety of the session. This was the name of his "heel" character, and as I saw the fine details of my pink mask reflected in the back of his mask's fabric, I thought I understood why. I thought.

He turned back around, a tube of pink lipstick in his hand. The zipper of his mask always smiled.

***

Amani's profile was the first profile that made me pause for reasons other than to stare and jerk off at pictures. His words went beyond the screen.

Jobber? Heel? Pro? Fantasy? There's a lot to wrestling and it can sometimes be tough to nail down what you really want. I am "The Mirror," I have over a decade of in ring experience of all kinds, and I like to help men new to wrestling find themselves. Safe and sane, I respect limits. Message me. Let's have fun finding your role in the ring together.

The Mirror grinned in his photo, his zipper teeth and devil-stylized mask-eyes oozed the sort of confidence that made sense with a muscle-gut physique he had carved. The real power he had, I soon learned, couldn't be caught in a photo.

***

With one arm wrapped around me to secure the back of my head, The Mirror drew the lipstick across my mouth multiple times, and guided me to pucker and purse my lips when he needed me to. He side-stepped so that I could see myself in the actual bathroom mirror. My lips, so full and light with glossy pink and prominent in ways I had never seen before, made me completely unrecognizable from the shy guy I was before. My eyes trailed down my flat body and noticed that my dick had sprung up almost immediately.

"Did The Mirror do a good job on your makeup?" he cooed.

I nodded like a bobble-head even though I've never worn makeup in my life. I felt like I could have melted into a puddle just from the close proximity of my body to his massive pecs and thick frame, and almost wished he'd just forgo the rest of the ceremony just to take me right then and there.

"Good. We're nowhere near done, though. Pace yourself, little guy," his black boots squeaked on the bathroom tile as he turned back to the bag.

***

Amani had more positive recommendations than anyone else, and such overwhelming praise for him on his bio finally pushed me over the edge. My initial message to him was brief. I rarely dated and had definitely never messaged someone on such a fetish-centered website before, and I assumed that a small guy like me would get lost in the shuffle. I was wrong.

He responded, gave me a number to text, and we communicated with some regularity over the course of a month. Amani's words were coated with the sort of worldly awareness that only comes with age and kindness. I was smitten with him somewhat instantly, but he was very good at turning any of my flirting back towards me. No matter what I said, he was focused on figuring out "where I belong in the ring." His expertise was in creating a character for the user to flourish in, and his questions probed my history with wrestling.

I've got none, I admitted with some embarrassment in text. My exercise has been pretty limited to cardio my whole life.

Now how did you find me, I could feel his smirk through the phone, if that were true?

He eventually coaxed out of me that I loved the holds and, more precisely, the pace. I didn't think I could articulate my love of wrestling well until he got me to pinpoint exact wrestlers and moments in matches I had seen that I loved. He underlined my penchant for jobbers in long held holds.

When I told him that I always sort of loved the theatrics of Goldust, he mused:

I'm thinking you're a sissy, his text said with certainty. I think we should develop a character for you that's a wrestling-loving sissy that's horribly out-matched by his heel superiors and loves every second of losing. That's all you can do anyways, right?

In any other context I might have been offended. I thought for a second I was. My thumb orbited the bottom of my phone before another text appeared.

I have a lot of ideas for this type of jobber, it said. How does that sound? Want to explore this with me? I can put together a nice outfit for you.

My toes curled.

Yes, please, I'd love that, my fingers responded faster than my mind could process.

***

He pulled the pink thong-briefs high up into my ass-crack and let the strap smack against me like a whip. I jerked, and my dick flopped around. His huge mitt combed down my front and secured my member, then slowly stuffed it into the fabric. My tent made the flower-pattern of the thong deform.

"You can't pop yet, little thing," The Mirror brought his masked face to my ear and hissed. I could hear the zipper's "You gotta earn it."

The Mirror leaned back and brought one of his gloved hands to his masked chin, the zipper-pull at the end of his smile glinting in the low light. I shifted under his scrutiny.

"Almost," he nodded. "You wanted to be more covered though, little flower. And I think you should be... at first."

***

Tulips, his message said. You're gonna be a Tulip. In fact, that'll be your name. Pink and reds and whites. Tulips like to be on display, and you like to be on display in all the holds your heels put you in.

I exhaled so hard on the phone screen that I felt my own breath push past my face.

Yes, I typed. I like that a lot.

Sir, he sent back.

I like that a lot, Sir, I corrected my mistake. I'm Tulip now.

***

He stood behind me and pulled the pink crop-top over my arms and head. It was soft pink, and emblazoned with a 50's diner-style logo that read "TULIP~☆"

My eyes scanned across the lettering over and over again. I shuddered. He pulled the fabric down, tight, and the shadows of my nipples showed through the taught fabric.

"It fits?" The Mirror asked.

I nodded. "Yes, Sir."

He scooped me up suddenly and sat me on the sink. The cool marble counter against my bare ass-cheeks sent chills down my spine. He wrapped up my legs in pink knee-pads and and boots. He rubbed and worshiped my legs, shaved by his request, as he dressed me. I looked down at the giant man and wondered what had happened--I was certain that he deserved this sort of muscle worship from me, not the other way around.

"It fits?" The Mirror climbed backup to his feet and pushed his masked-face against mine.

"Yes Sir," I whimpered. My thong had not lost its tent for a while.

"Good," I could feel the warmth of his breath escape from his mask and fill my own. "Let's arrange some flowers."

***

The Mirror scooped me up in his arms and carried me through his house, darkened hallways of quiet taste. Down a staircase, he nudged a cracked door to reveal a well lit room dedicated purely to his gym mats. The walls of the room were mirrored, with a small whiteboard hung on the door. It was blank, and dry erase markers sat in its holsters, eager for instructions.

He cradled me.

"Your safe words are 'No More,'" he whispered into my face. His breath, even through the layers of both of our masks, was hot, and it carried with it a sort of hypnotism. I wanted to lean into it. "The goal is growth. We will go as far as you can. As a jobber, you will be expected to take a lot. Your safe words are used to end a session, not a hold. To submit to a hold, you will use the following phrase: 'I'm a Jobber-Fag.'"

I clutched my thin arms around his thick neck.

His zipper-lined smile turned down to me and demanded, "Say it now."

"I'm a Jobber-Fag," I whispered.

He nodded and set me down to my feet. My boots plopped into the firm mat.

"You will be required to cum twice before your session ends," The Mirror started to pace around the room, his black-gloved hands held behind his back. "When and how is irrelevant. During the session you will be placed in at least five wrestling holds. I will expect you to stay in the hold for a certain amount of time, and I will let you know when that time has expired. You may submit to a hold prior to my expectations, but you will be punished with slaps to the face, chest, and ass for not making your heel-daddy happy. The amount of slaps is up to me. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Sir," I nodded.

"What are you?"

"I'm Tulip," I said. I suddenly stiffened my posture in realization of my mistake. "I-I'm a Jobber-Fag, Sir."

He laughed. "Good. Good save."

He secured my wrists, his huge palms completely covering my hands, and brought me to the innermost mirror in the room. He brought me to his front and rubbed my face against my chest, guided me from one nipple to the other. The sudden grip of his hand on the back of my head caught me off-guard, and I had no time to second-guess myself. I kissed the dark saucers of his nipples, and sucked to their tip. He pulled me off by the back of my mask, and my lips popped.

"We're gonna start with something simple," he said. "Something that you've made very clear that you're a big fan of."

He leaned down, his mask near mine, and wrapped his tree-trunk arms under my thin jobber limbs. I felt his gloved hands trail down the small of my back, and knead my waist.

"Coincidentally," he whispered, "so am I."

My feet lifted off the ground. Gravity betrayed me, as did the air in my lungs. They left my ownership immediately upon one swift jerk of his forearms around the small of my back. He grunted with the squeeze, and I did with the release. I could feel my breath bounce off his chest and rebound past my face. He squeezed again. My body tightened in his grasp.

"Oh my god!" I cried out in surprise. I quickly learned that seeing a bearhug, and having your body crushed like coal in a wall of muscle, are two different experiences.

"Hold on," The Mirror encouraged me. Despite the growls of his exertion, his messages were soft, simple. I held my arms around his own as they crushed me, and looked into the reflective mask with pained trust.

Then, he started to bounce.

His heels lifted up and down, and as he did so, I felt my lower spine grind between the pressure of his arms and his muscle gut. This pain built, but I could tell he did not use his full strength, and pain was not the only sensation he crafted. From the ministrations of his bounce, I felt my thong-trapped member smear into his stomach. His squeeze forced my hips into a rhythm, and I began to realize that there was a non-zero chance that this hold could, in fact, get me off. That right here, this man could rack my body with pain, and still find a way to ruin this new thong with an orgasm at the same time.

So I did as I was told.

I held on, and matched his pace. It hurt to do so, and the world blurred a bit as air began harder to obtain, but I let my legs secure around his thighs, and I hooked my arms around his neck. He widened his stance and squatted; his bounces became a bit heavier, and his hold became a bit tighter, and my humping his stomach began a bit more frantic and desperate.

"What a natural little jobber you are," he grunted as he jerked my body up and down. "You were made for this."

A minute passed in his hug of pain and pleasure. Maybe minutes. I'm not sure. All that mattered was that we were in sync, heel and victim, dom and sub, and it felt like home. And just as I began to feel that way, he loosened and repositioned his grip from my waist to the upper part of my back. He slammed his interlocked hands into me and compressed me chest to chest. The last of my lung's air blasted out of my throat, along with a cry that was both moaning and scream. He bounced again, but I was limp and senseless, a ragdoll in his arms.

"Time has passed," he whispered, but did not let go.

My eyes rattled in my head. I drooled. He blasted my back again with another squeeze, and I cried out at the top of my lungs,

"AHH! I'M A JOBBER FAG!"

He let go. I crumpled against his front, and he held me, stroking the back of my pink-masked head. His bearhug had emptied me of any embarrassment I could've had from the fact that I was there, a small little bitch in a pink flower thong and crop top, surrounded by mirrors in a stranger's home. My brain did not register the fact that I had almost cum from my first bearhug, nor the fact that my body craved more squeezing than it could take. The glimpses I saw of my flower-decorated frame crumpled into his dark, harnessed body gear didn't register as anything other than the way things were, and should be. There were no thoughts at all. Just hunger, and panting, and sweating.

His other arm kept me upright, a more gentle embrace than the one that crushed me moments before.

"That's right," he rocked me slowly and cooed, "you are."

We stayed that way for what felt like too brief of a moment. When I entered his home, I suspect this was the sort of embrace I wanted from him. But now that I had been emptied out by a brute's bearhug, I needed more. The vibration of pain along my body, the lack of air in my lungs, and the degradation of the dress and place of a jobber was now the hug, the only home I wanted.

"If you're ready," he whispered, "then let's move on to your next lesson."

I gave a bobble-headed nod. I was ready for more.

Much

more.