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AJ has to take a moment in the doorway, first, to admire the picture Punk makes.
Of course, as soon as she steps close enough to come across his glazed, glassy sightline, she’ll rush to him, coo and pet his hair and sniffle over the state of his abused body. But she needs a second just to commit this to memory - she doesn’t think any of the girls took photos (something for next time; she makes a mental note), and she never wants to forget this. The image of Punk sprawled on his ass on the dirty locker room floor, slumped against the wall, stained with tears and sweat and blood (and what AJ thinks, by the sheer quantity of wetness and the smell in the room, might be piss), stripped of his boots and socks and everything that marks him out as a wrestler rather than a nameless fucktoy - his hairy calves, his bare feet half tucked behind him as if to hide himself - she wants to cherish this image.
But she does come closer, and he sees her, and his eyes go wide and grateful like a found pet as he takes her in. She’s well dressed, as always: white blouse and a blazer, sensible slacks to match. She feels a little thrill when she kneels down to tend to him, and the smeared spatter of his blood on the ugly grey tile begins to soak into the knees of her trousers.
“I’m sorry, baby,” she tells him, reaching out to touch his cheek - says it like she means it, too, like she’s just so very sad to see him cast aside like a broken doll. “I didn’t know they’d play so rough with you.”
It’s not entirely a lie. She hadn’t known for certain what the rest of the women’s locker room would do, when presented with a sacrificial offering in the form of CM Punk - bound and bared to their utter control, communal property for the night, see how benevolent your almighty General Manager is. She had thought, almost certainly, that they would demand more than he could give; he only has one body, after all, to share between all those women, all those insatiable athletes’ appetites. And she had hoped. Hoped that it might turn into something like this, something violent; she knows these women, just as vicious and thrill-seeking as anyone on the men’s roster with half the chance to show it. Sure, there’s the fact that more than a few of them are hungry to get back at Punk for some missed birthday or breakup text or any other social sin he’s committed in the course of slutting around the company like a rat. But even discounting the personal angle, Punk plays the martyr so well - the wailing and the grimacing, the way he kicks his feet and arches his legs apart on the mat, the way he makes pain look so pretty. It’s almost bewitching. The gamble she made was simply that some of the other girls are still as bewitched as she is.
And god, how well it worked - she tilts Punk’s face gently in one firm, proprietary hand, examining his black eye, the deep red blood still streaming sluggishly from his maybe-broken nose, the angry mark around his lip piercing where perhaps someone had taken it between her teeth. He’s even more ruined than she could have hoped for.
Punk frowns and shakes his head just slightly, exhaustedly, nudging up against her hand on his swollen cheek. “’S okay,” he mumbles. “I can take it.”
Fucking christ. AJ can’t help but hug Punk to her chest, pressing his disgusting sweat-blood-tear-filmed face into the soft haven of her breast, staining her crisp cotton blouse, nestled right above where her heart is beating at what must be a totally uncontrolled gallop. “My brave boy.” She presses the words into his hair, smelling the grease and blood in his scalp. “You took it so well.” She can feel the way he shudders with the praise, the little whimper that he buries in her bosom.
From the vantage point of the embrace, her gaze is drawn invitingly down Punk’s soft back, taking in the mess of scratches and bites and multicolored bruises that bloom across it. A few of them have even drawn blood, she notes with a sick sort of delight; she can’t help wondering who came before her, who dug her teeth into her favorite toy’s flesh hard enough to pierce the wellspring of sweet blood and lap at the wound. The worst bruises are so divinely deep purple that they’re almost black, marring the fake-tanned cellulite skin of his body that quivers all over now with the aftermath of such shock and pain. The blood must be pooling right underneath the surface - hot and aching and eager to be let out.
She pets a hand down this beautiful, broad canvas - feels the sick warm sweat that coats his skin, the softness and the wounded heat of blood beneath, admiring how small her hand looks and how quickly he relaxes under the touch - and rests it in the small of his back, right at the vulnerable curve of his spine where his skin is dimpled and just slightly hairy. She strokes at him with her thumb, the way you’d pet an animal or comfort a child, a sweet familiar touch. And she takes full stock of his body wrapped in hers - his slack, quivering shock, the way he burrows into her shirt as if to hide there, the ragged drag of his breath subsiding into calm - so she can see exactly how he reacts to what she has to say next.
“Let’s be honest, baby,” she says gently - squeezing him tight to her again, making him feel safe - “You did kind of deserve it.”
AJ feels the hot breath against her chest snag and pause, hiccuping into sudden uncertainty. “For leading on all the girls in the back like that,” she goes on. “Showing off in your cute little panties, flirting like a ring rat who can’t resist a woman with muscles.” She lets her fingertips just brush at the back of Punk’s sweaty waistband, where his trunks have been pulled up over his ruined ass with sloppy haste - no compression underneath now, it’s been lost somewhere in the melee, and his cute little dick and fat ballsack bulge out obscenely, sluttishly, through the piss-wet fabric. “For being so promiscuous.”
Punk shudders in her embrace and whimpers, pathetic, sniffling through his broken nose full of snot and blood. AJ has always harbored a secret fascination with how smug and frightened-strict Punk is about his straightedge creed - she’s thought for awhile now that she’d like to hold up a mirror to him, show him what he really is, the way Raven did when he tied him to the ropes and anointed him in booze, the way Mysterio did when he shaved his head and took his purity away. She’s waited more than long enough for her turn to add a wound to the sacred body she cradles in her arms, even if she has to do it indirectly.
“Now you’re forgiven.” She splays her hand across his lower back, steadying, as he begins to sob. “You’re absolved. Doesn’t it feel so much better, sweetheart?”
See what I did for you, her voice says. You should be grateful. And it’s working - he’s not pulling away, just clinging harder to her as he lets himself unspool into hoarse, ugly tears. When she cups his face and brings it up so she can see him, he looks destroyed, mouth crumpled and still bleeding from the ring in his lip, eyes nearly glued shut with shining tears. He truly is at his most beautiful like this, when he’s been put through so much that he’s reduced to a raw and quivering thing, placed entirely in her hands.
She kisses him on the cheek, right beside the livid bruise that splashes across his crooked bloody nose to swell his left eye up all tender, right against the tears that still slide wet and hot down his flushed skin. Then on the forehead, where an old cut has been dug into viciously with someone’s long manicured nails until it opened back up, pressing her mouth to the blood that trickles down from hairline to eyebrow. Then on the lips, licking at the snot and spit and tacky drying blood there, tongue worming over his crooked teeth when he gasps open to let her in.
His mouth is filthy, full of everything the locker room has deemed him fit to receive - sweat and cum and piss, sour and cloying, clinging to the tender mucous insides of his mouth. It’s delicious to imagine what they must have done to him, but it makes a part of her brain twitch with animal jealousy. She grips his chin with one small, strong hand, and tips his face up so she can drool onto his tongue, enough that he has to gulp to swallow it down. He moans in what must be relief, mouth wide like a nestling to accept her gift, recognizing the gesture for what it is - putting the taste of herself back into his mouth, washing down all the rest.
Gently, she touches his sweaty flank, small hand resting right underneath where his nipples are so bruised and chapped and swollen from the groping, twisting hands of the other women that they perk out from his chest like puffy little teats. “Will you show me where they hurt you, baby?”
He understands what she’s asking, and he obeys without complaint. Pulls away, draws up his knees and peels off his trunks, the last little scrap of modesty he has. He splays back against the wall of the locker room, legs apart, bare ass on the cold tile floor, to let her see his wounded body. (She has to bite down on the urge to rub herself through her pants - it never gets old, he’ll do anything she asks him to.)
AJ forced herself to go slowly as she trails her eyes down Punk’s bared body. From this close in, she can see the sloppy field of stubble that forces its way up through the skin on his inflamed chest and belly. She can see the sweat that glimmers, sour and clammy, on the soft folds of his belly, where he’s bruised so wide and deep that it looks like someone kicked him in the stomach more than once - or perhaps they just stood on him, ground their bootsoles down into that tender fleshy pouch of his gut that no quantity of sit-ups can quite banish. AJ likes to touch it, because she finds it deliriously attractive on its own merit, but also because it makes him so obviously uncomfortable to have attention lavished on it. She takes the liberty of touching him there now, stroking the fatty, brutalized flesh like she’s petting a sedated cat. He whimpers, twitching, as her fingers press into the purple-black bloom of his awful bruise. (She’s going to have fun with this one, palpating his belly all week to see whether he has any lasting pain around his organs.)
As she prods at Punk’s lower belly, AJ notices that his prick is twitching between his legs, stirring like a blind animal from the pain. He’s so very tolerant, her pretty little doll, so eager to drape himself across the pyre so he can be told how well he’s burning. He’ll endure anything for her, and part of him - the part that’s making his dick hard now, exhausted and abused as it is - always seems to enjoy it.
His genitals look as pitiful as the rest of his body - chafed red and tender, somehow swollen up and shrunken in at the same time. His prick nestles, soft and wet and small, in the little fatty pillow of his groin; beneath it his ballsack looks bruised and engorged, almost infected. She imagines one of her colleagues tugging on it in a merciless hand, threatening to rip it off - fists, knees, boots crushing down onto his little package - the laughter of the locker room, first for how eager and unwieldy his tool is when it’s hard, then milking him until he can’t come anymore and mocking him for his soft, useless cocklet - god, she’s really got to task someone with taking some video footage for her next time.
She pets his prick with one finger, gently, teasing at the inflamed rosette of his foreskin and the sensitive, still-oozing slit. “You learned your lesson, right? No more sticking this in where it doesn’t belong.” Held in her small, manicured hand, his genitals feel so soft and tender and malleable - fever-hot, peeking out in little slices of dark pink flesh from between her fingers. She pushes in with her palm, making the package as small as possible, a little lump to squeeze between his legs. “Isn’t it simpler to get your little clitty played with instead of worrying about where you’re going to put your big dumb cock? Isn’t it a relief?”
Punk’s lashes flutter, wet with blood and tears. He doesn’t respond except with a choked whine, a vague shudder into or away from AJ’s hand on his crotch. She crooks her fingers up and back, searching - did anyone - yes, he’s wet behind his balls too, sticky leftover lube and churned-up mucus slicking down the dark hair that surrounds his asshole. Her fingernails slide and drag along the tender, puffy opening of his hole; it can’t quite manage to close itself, keeps clenching and relaxing and every time it pops back open in a little pinhole gape against her fingertips. It must hurt terribly - for all the training she’s given him, length and girth and depth, she can’t imagine the girls were nearly as nice about it as she generally is. Usually it takes her long hours of hard work and dedication to get his hole this ruined. Many hands make light work, she thinks, and bites back a sick little laugh.
“Show me,” she says again, tugging upwards at his rim to demonstrate - and he does, he slides his bare ass further down on the dirty tile floor and hikes his legs up higher (hairy calves and big unmanicured feet dangling awkwardly in the air, freed of their socks and kickpads like a lady without her underwear on). Leaves a greasy pink-brown stain on the tile as he goes, repulsive snail-trail evidence of the most intimate agony he has to offer her.
In the creases of Punk’s thighs, blooming ugly and mottled red-purple-green, someone has bitten him hard enough to nearly take a chunk of flesh away. They did it more than once, or else more than one of them tried to devour him - the thought is thrilling, hot and queasy in the wet center between AJ’s gut and her clit. But she also feels relieved, in a way, that nobody managed to actually tear a chunk loose; if anyone should be allowed to strip Punk’s flesh from his body and take it for themselves, it should be her.
She slides her filthy, unhygienic-wet fingertips away from Punk’s magnificent gaping wound of an asshole - bleeding still from little fissures in the swollen rim, hairy, beautifully chafed lipstick-red, and so desperately open - to the other wound, the thick flap of flesh connected only by the gaps that had fallen between someone’s teeth, the yellow-pink skin and fat sliced open amidst the ooze of crimson blood and dried spittle. It’s mesmerizing, hot and soft inside as she digs her fingertips in, sliding them along the ragged slit of his wound in almost the same way she’d stroke her own pussy.
And then, and then. She can’t help it, she leans in close - craning to set her face right in the thick fog of sweat and musk and blood and piss that clings in Punk’s groin, teasing her lips against the hairy tender skin with its gruesome wound - and kisses the bite mark.
Tender, at first, like a generous lover, soft spit and lipstick mouth leaving her mark over all these other women who’ve broken in her pet for her. Then more audaciously, lapping at the wound, flicking her tongue up and down it, dipping in to taste the dull saltiness of his raw flesh and feel the gristly contours of his insides. Above her, Punk moans and whimpers; his sore, spent cock is twitching when she pulls back, oozing down into the thick, sickly-sweating tangle of his pubic hair. She stares him in the face once more - wide, helpless eyes, a man nearly a foot taller than she is and twice as broad, reduced to supplicating at her feet - and kisses his forehead, gently, benevolently. His blood smears across her chin.
“You did so well,” she tells him again. “My perfect boy. You gave your body so beautifully.” She’s setting up for the killing wound now, the one that’ll keep him wrapped around her little finger as long as they both shall live. She clasps his damp stubbled cheeks in both her hands; she places her own face above his and looks down at him with all the love of the sun, uncontrollably vast and terrible. “I’m so proud of you.”