Respond in turn

The bell still hasn’t rung. Thirty seconds feel like thirty minutes.

You decide you’re not going to just stand there and let her toy with you. Not without giving her something back.

You step forward half a pace—enough to draw every eye in the room.

Slowly, deliberately, you drop your right hand to your waist. Your left stays up, casual, like this is nothing. Then your right hand slides down the front of your tight wrestling speedo.

You palm yourself through the thin, stretchy fabric. Firm. Obvious. Your cock is already thick and heavy from watching her, and now you give it a slow, deliberate squeeze—letting the outline swell visibly against the material. The head pushes forward, straining the lycra, the ridge clear even from across the ring. You give it one long, lazy stroke from base to tip, thumb circling the crown once before letting go. The whole motion is shameless, possessive—like you’re reminding her exactly what she’s about to tangle with.

At the same time you roll your shoulders back and flex. Hard.

Your biceps peak sharply under the lights, veins standing out along your forearms as you bring both arms up into a casual double-bicep pose. Chest flares wide, pecs jumping with the tension. Your abs tighten into deep, carved ridges that disappear into the low-cut waistband of the speedo. Every muscle in your torso and arms pops—years of lifting, sparring, and raw hunger etched into every line. You’re not just big; you’re carved, thick where it counts, and right now every inch of you is screaming power.

You hold the flex for three long seconds, letting her drink it in. Then you drop your arms slowly, but keep that same hand resting low—fingers splayed over the obscene bulge you just accentuated. You tilt your head slightly, eyes locked on hers, and let the corner of your mouth lift in a slow, predatory smirk.

Your lips move, silent but unmistakable across the distance:

"I know you like it"

Her smirk flickers—just for a heartbeat—something hotter flashing in her eyes. Her thighs press together almost imperceptibly. That big, round ass shifts as she adjusts her stance, like the sight of you gripping yourself through the speedo sent a fresh pulse straight between her legs. Her nipples are visibly stiff now, poking hard against the strained black bikini top. She bites her lower lip for half a second before catching herself, then tosses her dark waves back and lifts her chin—still defiant, still playing.

But you can see it: the tiniest hitch in her breathing. The way her gloved hands flex against the ropes like she’s imagining them on you instead.