A.J. Styles

Seated backward on a folding chair was A.J. Styles, his arms folded, wrist over wrist, with his signature gloves gripping the chairback. You couldn’t help be a little bit star-struck. You had idolized A.J. for years, as far as you were concerned, the “Phenomenal One” was one of the best all-around performers of his generation. “Hey, Son,” He drawled between scrawling a few quick autographs. “What can I do you for?”

The sexy business woman bent down to whisper in A.J.’s ear, giving you a good look down her blouse. Her cleavage cut a cleft between two, soft, round breasts even bigger than you had previously guessed. “Liv really needs to talk with you now.” She said.

Styles slapped the air an arm’s length from his head as if shooing away the woman’s demand. “You tell the little lady that if she wants another bite of this apple, she’s just going to have to wait a bit,” A.J. said as a small line of cameramen intruded, looking for autographs for their kids.

Did you hear right? Was A.J. fucking Liv Morgan? The thought of bratty alt girl getting her tight pussy pounded made you feel a bit light-headed. The woman spoke again. “Liv will not be ‘biting any more apples’ as you call it. She says the other night was a mistake.”

“A fun mistake!” Laughed Styles.

The woman scowled. “How can you be making a joke of this?” She asked, concern dripping from her every word. “This could ruin you both. Well, ruin HER anyway.” Trying not to eavesdrop or stare at the woman’s tits too much, you noticed a name badge hanging from a lanyard around her neck. In small, blocky type it said, “Regan.”

You knew Regan was right. Despite the advances in the standing of female wrestlers, if A.J. and Liv’s would-be affair went south, the 5’3” blonde would take the brunt of any possible political ramifications. “Hey, chill out sister.” Said Styles, palms forward in a calming gesture he had displayed in many a verbal showdown in the ring.

Regan began to shake in anger, her tits jiggling hypnotically. “I suggest, Mr. Styles, that you either go speak to Miss Morgan immediately or else never talk to her outside of business again.” If this woman was so upset about whatever happened between the two wrestlers, what state must Liv be in? You thought. A quick flash of you comforting Liv Morgan, her tight, tiny body in your big, strong arms flashed through your head. You felt a pang of guilt, were you betraying a top guy like Styles by automatically assuming things were his fault, not Liv’s? Or could the blame be more mutual?

You knew it was none of your damn business but maybe you ought to intervene somehow.