Grudge Match

Jax

I glanced at the directions on my phone, routing me to a club called Cram Session. All my wrestling teammates go there to engage in the Octagon of Sin and have some fun.

The sun sank into the horizon, but it was visible enough that I raised my hand to shield my eyes. It was getting darker by the minute.

I crossed the crosswalk and went onto Burne Avenue. People lined up at Pleasure Kiosks stationed on almost every corner. One woman got a ticket and spun around, trying to find the venue for her fight. They were a way to make money, either by resisting pleasure and winning, or by betting on the outcome.

Before arriving in the sovereign Temptora, the Sinful City, the Federal Service, and any worldwide news agency called those kiosks death machines. Machines that would kill anyone for approaching them. The fearmongering became more apparent the longer I stayed in Temptora. Everything I knew about this city was a lie, simply to make every other citizen in every country around the world fear it.

Temptora lacked a surprising amount of security and police. It was mind-blowing, considering Temptora was hailed as a sexual dystopia and a failed society by any authoritative body outside Temptora’s walls. That included the Federal Service.

I walked onto the next road and saw a man run up to a woman, saying she’d forgotten her purse.

“Thank you!” she called out.

Businessmen heading home from work hustled down the sidewalks, most of them dressed in nice suits. Some were going home to their families, others to the bar, and a few to the clubs following a tough workday to debrief and reduce stress.

The Octagon of Sin excelled in that.

Temptora’s intranet streamed every contest, regardless of location or hour, to all city televisions, computers, and smartphones. This became a new form of gambling, with citizens able to wager on specific matches. American odds flooded those screens, changing in real time as matches got underway.

Gambling was as easy as touching the screen, connecting a money source, and submitting payment. Common kinks allowed for predictable outcomes, leading to increased wagers. However, some underdog wins paid out.

I neared Cram Session and turned down the second-to-last street. Shops and vendors shouted sales at passing men and women, which I always ignored.

A man in glasses approached me. “Sir! Do you need the new gonorrhea vaccine? Eliminate it for good!”

I waved him away. “No, thanks!”

The man followed me as I continued down the sidewalk. “What about herpes? Syphilis?!”

“I’m vaccinated against all of them, so I’m safe. Thank you,” I said, and kept walking.

“Ah, I see.” The gentleman hurried toward a suited fellow, delivering the identical sales pitch.

Temptora eradicated sexually transmitted diseases, a new nanotechnology that was only available to those within Temptora’s walls. I was vaccinated against everything, despite never having fought inside the Octagon of Sin before.

I turned onto the last street and looked at my phone.

“Your destination is up ahead,” a robotic voice said. “Thank you for using Temptora’s Guided Directional System. Goodbye.”

The sign for Cram Session rose high into the air, shining in red neon lights, and purposely blinking every few seconds.

Cram Session sat in Temptora’s Pleasure District. The building was a black-glass box whose facade contained shifting LED screens, streaming live matches from inside the cube. A narrow-mirrored entry tunnel forced every arrival to face their own reflection before the entrance doors opened. I stared at mine before stepping into the building.

This club catered more to university students than any other demographic. Cram Session was where all the Temptora University students went to let loose. That was also how Cram Session got its name. Its popularity with fraternities and sororities was no surprise. They had lust on the brain, maybe love if they were lucky enough.

There were multiple bars, tables, rings and octagons, order stations, and a deliberate floor plan meant to keep bodies moving from one place to the next. Almost everything in Cram Session was submerged in near darkness.

Dim red lights glowed low along the walls, and a thin pink mist clung to the floor, warm against my ankles. A sharp, chemical sweetness, like perfume mixed with disinfectant, hung in the mist, tickling the throat.

Sound never rose above a murmur. Voices stayed hushed, punctuated by the dull thud of bodies hitting mats, alongside groans from men and moans from women. Chaotic, pulsing club music hummed in the background, unnoticeable unless specifically listening for it.

Matches went on all around me. I got the gist. Orgasm means defeat. Power Plays were to be avoided. Though I never took part, every rule lived in the back of my mind.

I found an empty table near the back corner and took a seat.

As I watched the matches, I reminisced about how long I’d been inside Temptora’s high city walls—over a year. Temptora had one of the best wrestling programs in the country, having ranked second in the most recent collegiate tournament. Riley went up against our wrestlers and defeated them by pin, not points.

Because of collegiate sporting rules, I was ineligible to wrestle in that tournament because I transferred to join Temptora University’s team this season. Despite Temptora declaring itself a sovereign city, it competed in national circuits.

The only reason Temptora didn’t get first place was because of Riley.

We were in the same weight class. In fact, we were the same weight. That didn’t mean she was fat, nor did that mean I was skinny. Weight and wrestling colluded together, like a common mystery between the mind and the body. Weight didn’t matter. Technique and skill mattered. And Riley possessed both.

I hated to admit it, but our wrestling abilities were equal. Even if that made me a pussy.

Riley wanted to wrestle me in front of Octagon of Sin scouts when they came and sought me out to join Temptora University. To prove she was better than me. Riley and I were university sophomores in the same wrestling program.

The Octagon of Sin sent two scouts, both wearing ties with a white, glazed-over eye on them. They wore face masks, like back when they were required during the pandemic. The face masks blurred their faces and the features underneath, rather than completely hiding them. Their entire faces were censored.

I didn’t hesitate to join them.

I’d have been a moron to turn down their offer. Temptora University didn’t charge students tuition. I didn’t pay for anything. Not my food, books, or supplies. I even started a savings account with the athletic stipend I received. For the first time in my life, money grew in my bank account.

The catch was that gaining admission to Temptora University was much harder.

Temptora was a utopia, not a dystopia, that everyone outside the high city walls led everyone to believe.

I smiled with glee, knowing that I was here, and Riley was out there, suffering from student loans, debt, hopefully a horrible roommate, and wrestling for no true purpose.

Something about Temptora University having a strong wrestling program didn’t surprise me. Thinking back on my upbringing and hanging around Riley—when we were close and didn’t hate each other—I remembered some boys were disqualified from wrestling with her.

Scholastic wrestling had strict rules. Boys and girls could wrestle, so long as no arousal occurred between either party. Such an action was an automatic disqualification.

Kinky individuals wrongly perceived a girl’s power as something else. I wrestled Riley over two hundred times, and I never got hard or disqualified.

Sitting at this table in Cram Session, the reason Temptora University’s wrestling program was strong and top-notch stared me right in the face.

I witnessed Octagon of Sin matches before, where each person tried to make the other orgasm by any means necessary.

It was in a cage.

It involved strength.

It involved cunning and deceit.

It involved finding and exploiting secrets.

Essentially, these matches were wrestling.

My phone buzzed, and I pulled it out of my pocket.

Riley tagged me, this time spelling my name right since she liked to taunt me with Jacks instead of Jax. She posted an old team photo and drew a red target ridicule around my head.

Funny how some people dodge real competition, the caption read. Guess Temptora likes cowards.

I refused to look at the comments. They were never nice to me, so I never read them. Blocking her across my social media would mean she won, so I let her tag me in whatever she wanted, and I got to decide how I responded later.

My wrestling teammates at Temptora University kept taunting me. All of them fought in the Octagon of Sin, except one. Me. Coach Semidi prohibited it for any wrestling athlete, though the team still participated behind his back.

It was a Temptora tradition. If someone hadn’t played a match, then they were shunned within society. I didn’t know what the match types were, and that made my teammates make fun of me.

I walked over to the wall of Pleasure Kiosks. There were five along the rear wall, and all but one were in use. Pink mist hovered around them, and each screen showed something different.

As I approached, the screen reacted to my presence. I read the message silently to myself.

Tap the screen to continue.