(AI Generated a different style of prose this time...not sure what I think of it)
TITLE: Submission Barn – Chapter One: The First Lock-Up
There’s no sign on the barn. No lights on the gravel road, no welcome banner. Just a squat, shadowed structure with wide double doors and a rusted wind vane creaking in the wind. It’s been abandoned for years to anyone who doesn’t know what goes on inside. But for the small, selective online community who call themselves "The Submission Circle", it’s a secret sanctuary — a place for married couples in their fifties to settle scores, scratch primal itches, and fight for bragging rights.
The rules are simple.
Two couples. One ring. No biting, no eye-gouging, no face punches. Everything else? Fair game.
Submission earns one point. Orgasm earns two. First team to five wins. No referee. No audience. No mercy.
________________________________________
They met online two months ago.
Two screen names: SteelSpouses and TwinInfernos.
In the Circle's private forum, they exchanged just enough info to size each other up. Height. Weight. Boundaries. Interest level. The usual warm-up dance. Then, after a few tense back-and-forths, came the agreement:
They’d meet in the barn.
Saturday night. No safe words. No apologies. Just sweat, struggle, and pride on the line.
________________________________________
The Fighters
Mark and Dana – SteelSpouses
Mark was 54, 5’10”, 195 lbs, thick through the chest and stomach, with calloused hands and a mechanic’s tan. His hair was graying and short, his eyes calm but coiled. A man who moved with that slow, deliberate confidence built over a life of getting his way with muscle, not words.
Dana was 52, 5’7”, 165 lbs, curvy but powerful. Thighs like pistons, a sharp jawline, and dark brown hair that barely brushed her shoulders. Her skin glistened with olive tones and her voice, even online, always had a bite to it. She liked to dominate. She’d told the forum that more than once. She was the aggressor in the bedroom and the ring.
They wore black — matching two-piece gear. Mark in tight black trunks that clung to his thick thighs. Dana in a minimal sports top and boy-cut bottoms that hugged every curve. They came ready to fight, to take.
Dean and Lara – TwinInfernos
Dean was 56, 5’11”, 200 lbs, a barrel-chested ex-plumber with a bit of a belly but thick arms and a bullish attitude. His hair was thinning, but he still had that cocky edge, the kind that didn’t care about finesse. He came to overpower. Break you down and grind you out.
Lara, 50, 5’6”, 160 lbs, short blond hair, full hips, and a fierce look that didn’t blink. She carried herself like a woman who knew her body could be a weapon. Broad-shouldered, flexible, and fast. Her mouth was known in the forums — taunting, teasing, never backing down.
They wore red. Dean in red speedos that left nothing to the imagination. Lara in a crimson bra top and thong-cut bottoms. She didn’t mind showing skin — she knew how to use it to distract, to tempt, to conquer.
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The Barn
The old ring in the center was still solid — steel posts, worn turnbuckles, faded ropes. The mat was stained from decades of dust, sweat, and maybe more. Light spilled in from a single bulb hanging overhead. The smell of hay, oil, and bodies was thick.
They entered from opposite doors, no greetings, just eyes locked and bodies ready.
Dana cracked her neck. Lara stretched her arms overhead, slow and deliberate.
Mark rolled his shoulders. Dean spit to the side and stepped forward.
“Ladies first,” Dean said, smirking.
Lara and Dana stepped into the ring, barefoot, their thighs flexing with every movement. No referee. No coin toss. Just a mutual understanding — the women would start, the men would watch.
The bell never rang. The fight just started.
The First Fall
Lara moved fast — aggressive, low stance, circling. Dana mirrored her, eyes on Lara’s hips. When they locked up, it was chest to chest, arms laced around shoulders, then into a test of strength. Gritted teeth. Bodies twisting. Breasts pressing. Thighs colliding.
Dana twisted, yanked Lara’s arm into a hammerlock, and drove her forward into the ropes. The steel cable dug into Lara’s stomach. Dana leaned in close, whispering something that made Lara growl, then yanked her back and dropped her in a snapmare to the mat.
Lara rolled fast, came up on her knees, and launched forward — spearing Dana in the waist and driving her onto her back. She straddled her hips, pinning her with her weight, grinding. Dana bucked hard, hips thrashing, and they rolled — legs locking, tangling, hands clawing for leverage.
Mark watched, arms folded, jaw clenched.
Dean grinned.
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Ground War
They tangled on the mat — slow, grinding holds. Lara got Dana in a headlock, her armpit cinched tight against Dana’s face, thighs wrapped around her midsection. Dana groaned, twisted, bit her own lip to stay silent. She wouldn't give her that satisfaction.
Dana slipped a hand between Lara’s legs — not to be sexual, but to shift her balance. It worked. She rolled, reversed, and mounted Lara’s chest, pinning her arms down.
Dana leaned forward, hair falling in Lara’s face.
“You’re going to moan for me before this night’s over,” Dana said.
“Not before your husband does,” Lara spat.
They struggled again, sweat already starting to glisten across their backs.
Lara got her legs up, hooked Dana’s armpits, and flipped her — now she was on top again, pressing, smothering, her chest grinding against Dana’s.
The sound of skin on skin, the soft groans and sharp exhales, echoed in the barn.
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Tag
Dana, locked in Lara’s full-body press, reached out and slapped Mark’s hand.
Mark climbed in fast.
Dean stepped in a second later.
Now it was bulls in the ring.
The two men didn’t circle. They collided.
Chest to chest. Shoulder to shoulder. Gripping behind each other’s necks like street brawlers. Grunts filled the space as they shoved, grappled, sweat flying from their arms.
Dean got a bearhug first — crushing Mark’s ribs with his thick arms.
Mark grimaced, lifted his foot, stomped Dean’s knee. Dean staggered. Mark caught him in a side headlock and twisted down to the mat, grinding Dean’s face into his side, ribs pressing into his back.
Dean fought up, slid behind, and locked in a waist hold. His belly pressed to Mark’s back, arms locked. He lifted — slammed Mark down onto his side.
Mark grunted.
Dean didn’t let go. He stayed behind him, wrapped a thick arm around Mark’s neck, and began to squeeze.
Mark clawed at the forearm, flexing, turning red.
Dana shouted from the corner, “Don’t give him shit!”
Mark shifted his hips — managed to twist and slip free. He lunged, wrapped Dean’s leg, and took him down again. This time, he mounted.
Chest to chest. Groins grinding.
Dean shoved, bucked.
Mark rode him.
The line between fight and friction blurred.
________________________________________
First Point
Dean managed to trap Mark’s arm between their bodies and slide his other arm under Mark’s leg, lifting it into a crude, brutal cradle.
Mark groaned, caught in an awkward twist, unable to break free.
Dean ground down, forehead against Mark’s shoulder, sweat dripping.
Mark couldn’t breathe right. His ribs were tight. His leg was bent too far.
He tapped.
1–0. TwinInfernos.
Mark rolled away, cursing under his breath.
Dean stood, chest heaving.
“Didn’t think it’d be you first,” Dana muttered.
Mark didn’t answer.
________________________________________
Second Round: Women Again
Lara slid in fast, grinning now.
Dana met her with more force — charged her, locked her in a tight waist cinch, and drove her back into the corner post. The ring shook.
Dana pressed in — her body crushing Lara’s against the turnbuckle, thighs sliding between hers.
Then she climbed one rope for leverage — and dropped back, flinging Lara in a belly-to-belly suplex.
Lara landed hard.
Dana pounced.
She slid behind her, wrapped an arm across Lara’s chest, one leg over her hip, and began to pull back — a modified body scissors and breast lock. The pressure was cruel and calculated.
Lara gasped.
Dana leaned in, her breath hot on Lara’s neck. Her free hand slid under Lara’s arm, found a nipple, and teased it through the fabric.
Lara arched, shivered — then moaned.
Dana didn’t let up.
The sound built — gasps, shudders, defiance eroding into submission.
Then it happened.
Lara’s body trembled. Her mouth opened. She groaned deep, long, helplessly.
2 points.
SteelSpouses: 2. TwinInfernos: 1.
________________________________________
Next Up: Men Again
Dean looked shaken. Mark looked pissed.
They charged each other.
The next minutes were slower, heavier.
Sweat dripped. Holds lingered. Mark focused on Dean’s back, dragging him into camel clutches, Boston crabs, even locking in a full nelson while riding his back.
Dean fought back with power — shoulder tackles, slams, even a crude attempt at a double leg takedown that nearly snapped the bottom rope.
But it was Mark who ground him down.
Eventually, Dean was on his belly, arms stretched above his head, Mark sitting on his lower back, pulling.
Dean grunted, strained…
Then slapped the mat.
Submission.
3–1.
The mat was hot now. Not temperature hot — body heat. Sweat soaked the canvas. Every slam, every slide, left streaks of salt and skin. The barn air was thick with adrenaline, musk, and something rawer — the scent of two couples who were fighting with more than just muscle. This was personal now.
The score was 3–1.
But nobody was relaxing.
________________________________________
Round Five: Mixed Chaos
Dana stayed in.
Dean stepped in to face her.
They didn’t hesitate.
She charged first — a blur of hips and thighs. Dean went low, expecting the usual grapple. Instead, Dana jumped — her thighs wrapped his head mid-run, twisting his neck in a flying headscissors. His momentum flipped with hers — and he hit the mat hard.
She rolled off and came up grinning. “Try me, big man.”
Dean got up, more surprised than hurt. He charged this time, arms wide. Dana ducked under and twisted behind him — wrapping her arms around his waist. He tried to shake her off, but she jumped and climbed his back like a jungle cat, locking in a rear choke, her legs locking around his middle.
Dean staggered backward, hands grabbing for her thighs, trying to shake her loose. Her body was pressed tight — her chest against his back, breath in his ear. The move was tight. Sexy. Suffocating.
He slammed backward, crushing her into the corner post — but she didn’t let go.
“Get her off!” Dean barked to Lara.
Tag team rules were loose. Nobody cared about tags if it was a 2-on-1 opportunity.
Lara slid into the ring, low and quick. She dove, spearing Dana’s legs, breaking the hold and sending all three of them into a heap.
Now Dana was on her back.
Dean stood over her, panting.
Lara straddled her hips.
Mark watched, fists clenched at the corner.
Dana bucked wildly, but the double team was on.
Dean grabbed Dana’s arms and yanked them above her head while Lara slid up and sat on her stomach, pinning her legs. The pressure was real. Dana’s toned stomach flexed, her chest heaved. She fought like hell, but the weight of two bodies kept her down.
Then Lara leaned in — pressing her chest into Dana’s — and began slowly grinding.
Not hard. Just enough.
Dana’s face twisted. Not pain — frustration. Her body betrayed her — hips twitching, breath catching. The friction was deliberate now.
Dean leaned over, one hand still holding her wrists. His other hand slid down Dana’s side, just above the edge of her bottoms.
“No points for double-teamed orgasms,” Mark barked. “Let her up, or I make it even.”
Dean just smiled.
“You want in? Then come in.”
Mark did.
He sprinted across the ring and tackled Dean off of her, the two men crashing into the ropes. The entire ring shook.
Lara rolled off Dana too late.
Dana grabbed her by the hair and yanked her backward — twisting her into a tight body scissors.
Now everything flipped.
________________________________________
Turnabout
Lara’s back arched, her mouth open, thighs caught in Dana’s unrelenting grip. Dana locked her ankles and flexed — her thighs bulging, cutting off Lara’s breath. Then Dana reached forward and grabbed Lara’s wrists, stretching her arms forward in a cruel hold.
“Let’s see how long you last.”
Mark, meanwhile, had Dean in the corner — hammering him with shoulder drives to the gut. One. Two. Three.
Then he lifted him onto the second rope.
Dean was dazed. Slumped.
Mark climbed up.
And suplexed him off the ropes — the ring exploded in sound when they hit. Dust rained from the rafters.
Dean lay spread out, groaning.
Mark crawled over — mounted his chest, gripped both wrists, and let his hips drop against Dean’s groin, slow and punishing.
Dean’s eyes fluttered. His body was reacting.
Mark smirked.
“Give me the point.”
Dean tried to roll away — but Mark kept the pressure, using weight and slow, torturous friction to dominate. One hand slid behind Dean’s head, cradling it possessively. Intimate. Controlled.
Dean groaned — then shuddered.
2 points.
SteelSpouses: 5.
TwinInfernos: 1.
Match over? Not yet.
Lara hadn’t submitted.
And Dana hadn’t let go.
The match was technically over.
SteelSpouses had reached five points.
But Dana hadn’t let go.
And Lara hadn’t submitted.
Not yet.
________________________________________
Lara was still trapped — legs scissored at the waist, her torso slick with sweat, pinned flat to the mat. Her arms flailed at first, then slowed. Dana’s thighs flexed rhythmically, squeezing and releasing like a heartbeat.
Dana had moved up Lara’s body now, not fast, not greedy — just methodical.
She pinned Lara’s wrists above her head, interlacing fingers, holding her there — firm but not rough. Her hips slid forward over Lara’s, then up over her stomach, until she straddled her chest.
Their eyes locked.
Dana’s face was calm — not smiling, not angry. Just in control.
“You’re going to give this to me,” she said, barely above a whisper.
Lara shook her head. But her body betrayed her.
She shifted under Dana, hips pressing upward against nothing, thighs twitching from the earlier hold. Her lips parted. Breathing shallow.
Dana released one wrist, and with that hand, she began to work — not urgently, not crudely, but with precision.
Fingertips traced lightly down Lara’s stomach, pausing just at the waistband of her skimpy red bottoms.
Lara jerked her hips.
Dana didn’t dive in.
She circled. Teased. Her hand skimmed across the fabric, palm flat, then dragged slowly — almost lazily — from hip to hip. Pressure. Release. Pressure again.
Lara arched.
Her arms didn’t fight anymore.
Dana leaned in, her chest pressing softly into Lara’s, and whispered into her ear.
“Don’t make me pull it from you. Give it.”
She found a rhythm — her hips grinding down, her fingers stroking shallow circles, and her body blanketing Lara’s. The friction wasn’t hard. It didn’t need to be. It was psychological. I own this. I control the pace. You’re going to fall.
Lara’s moans started as faint exhales, but they built — staggered, rising — and her hips began meeting Dana’s pressure. Her legs widened instinctively, the fight long gone.
Dana shifted slightly, angling her hips, pressing right above Lara’s center — creating a slow drag of skin and sweat and fabric.
Lara’s fingers clutched the mat.
Her eyes fluttered.
She made a sound halfway between a gasp and a sob.
Dana slid her hand under the band now, just barely inside — fingertips firm, knuckles grazing skin.
Lara’s head tilted back.
“Right there,” Dana whispered.
Then Lara cried out — high, breathless, desperate.
Her whole body seized under Dana’s.
A shiver ran up her spine, her thighs clamped, and her back arched in one long, involuntary surrender.
She gave it.
Dana didn’t move for a long moment.
She just stayed on top, her hand still, her body still pressing down, letting Lara feel who had just taken her apart.
Only when Lara collapsed fully, limp and silent and glowing with defeat, did Dana slowly rise.
She stood over her, chest heaving, muscles slick and shining in the barn light, and looked down with quiet, merciless pride.
“Now,” Dana said, turning to Mark, “we’re done.”
________________________________________
Final Score: 7–1.
SteelSpouses didn’t just win.
They claimed every inch of it.
