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CM Punk was a fucking saint. Sure he's been facetiously calling himself one for over a decade, but there was no shortage of evidence that he could be one charitable motherfucker in his private life.
Exhibit A: the way he was ever so gingerly scrubbing the double digit loads from one John Cena's red, puffy, used and abused asshole. Punk doesn't exactly know why on every third Raw of the month, for whatever reason, John hunkers down in the communal showers of whatever arena they're in that week, pops out that terribly large plug he wears for the occasion, and invites the whole locker room to run a train on him. Punk had no room to talk honestly, because he found himself doing something similar back in his 20s when everything looked like a good idea to his young hungry hole, but at least he only got fucked in dirty locker rooms because he had no option. John was getting put up in the nicest suite that money could buy at the local nicer-ish hotel and he could invite over as many guy as he wanted to do horrible things to his body in private, but no. The only explanation had to be some combination of a previously unsatisfied exhibition kink and an egregious lack of regard for others. Granted, he did wait for the show to be over and those who weren't planning on taking John up on his offer had cleared out, not Punk of course. He had no interest whatsoever in fucking anyone, but John had absolutely nobody in his corner once the deed was done. So by the shower entrance he sat, waiting for the slapping and moaning and grunting to end so he could assess the damage. A fucking saint, he was.
Punk had to admit, John put a fucking work in when the time came around. It was kind of beautiful to watch. Seeing John completely naked was always going to be weird to him, since he consistently wore more clothes than any wrestler in the ring. He was all bulging muscles and fat throbbing veins, tan lines on his ass straight out of a bad porno and by all accounts extremely unsexy features. He had big hands and big feet and a big dumb head on a too thick neck. He looked like an action figure for children, not a sex doll for grown men. And still they treated him like one, pulling him from one cock to the next and he took it all gladly. One in his mouth and down his throat, one up his ass, at least one in either of his huge ham hands, all while humming and moaning away, happy as a pig in shit, blinking away tears from his big blue eyes as he begged for more.
Punk doesn't know when the whole ritual began, probably before he got to this company, but he'd noticed a progression in his time spent observing from afar. For the new guys it was a shock, a welcome surprise, like huh, who knew that John Cena was the company bicycle. They always assume it's Punk, but they figure out quickly why that isn't the case. When the novelty of a shower gangbang is fresh on the rookie stud's mind, they have fun with it. They have a big head even if they don't have a very big dick and John doesn't do much to deflate their egos when he gags extra loud on their cock and throw his head back in ecstasy when they slip into his well-used hole for the first time. Nah kid, you're not that good, John is just a hoe.
The old friends and vets though, they have him figured out. Maybe even better than themselves. Punk has picked up on their mannerisms, the way they fuck and how they like John.
Randy is dirty, as one would expect. He loves to spit on his cock and watch it smear around John's hole as he fucks it in and out, always taking the time to stroke his puffy lips, spanking them when he's feeling a little mean which is basically all the time.
Edge is the king of sloppy seconds, he waits until the very end when John is drooling 20 different guys' loads to get down on his knees and stab his freakishly long tongue into his hole to lave against his used up walls, spitting out mouthfuls of cum as he goes. His dick isn't very big so he always ends up poking John's cheek for a quick blowie, snickering about how he's too loose to fuck.
Bryan takes his time, for the life of Punk he can't seem to figure out why. The way he tortures John with his sadistic little fingers until he's in the throes of exquisite agony and blowing loads all over his abs is like throwing pearls to swine. He bangs John like he's his newlywed bride and they have all night to enjoy each other, not like there's literally a line of dudes out the door getting soft in the cold air of their shared temporary space. Punk doesn't let him bring his “tool kit” in the showers anymore, shit takes too long.
Dolph tried to fuck him once but he couldn't get it up so he ended up calling AJ for a pity peg, exactly how it goes every single time. What a fucking waste. Sissy.
Sheamus was all about beating that ass up, quite literally. Open hand, belt, that wooden cane he rolled out for special occasions, he loved to mark up John's pretty pink hide and ghostly white ass. Punk thinks John stopped tanning armpit to asshole because Sheamus fucked him harder when he had his little pale patches.
Out of all the guys though, if he had to guess, John's favorite was Cesaro, just because he was the biggest and therefor did the most for John at this point. These sessions had started going fewer and farther between just because John was so used up he was getting bored, and loose. Not like that was an issue, John just preferred some bite when he got stretched out. Punk thought he was weird. That wasn't a problem with Cesaro though, it never was. Punk himself had a run in with that particular dick back when it had a different name and came from a different place but he could recall it like it was yesterday. That is exactly why when that mountain of a man pounds away at John's ass and he's moaning like it's his first time all over again, he doesn't roll his eyes like the rest of the guys. It truly was like nothing else.
With each run under the warm water, Punk imagined he could tell the guys apart in the nondescript flood of cum swirling around and drown the drain. He worked hard to be gentle, tonight was rough on John's body both in the ring and on this cold tile floor. How nice of him it was to find one of those squat plastic stools.
“You know, I still don't get why you insist on doing this like this.” Punk chided, absentmindedly but John picked it up despite the head full of cotton he had hours after a good ten or twenty fucks.
“Huh?” Oh well, maybe he didn't pick it up that well.
“Always in these shitty venue locker room showers, I know you have a nice place to sleep tonight, you worried the paparazzi will catch the starting lineup going in your hotel room all at once?” Punk chuckled softly to himself and John followed.
“Nah, the cleaning bill is just insane.” John mused, he didn't sound like he believe himself, and neither did Punk.
“Ah bullshit John, come on, why exactly do you like pimping yourself out right in the open where the brass upstairs could catch you. Like you're some crackwhore trying to make rent in the bathroom of a public park.”
John hummed, trying to find the words in his fluffy brain.
“Nostalgia?”
“Nostalgia.” Punk didn't know if he bought that either.
“Yeah you know, nostalgia. Like when you remember something and-”
“I know what nostalgia means John. I mean, what, you get gangbanged a lot in the OVW showers? Because if so then I am so sorry, I've been there.”
“No, no this reminds me of college.” Punk went to scrub away some dry cum in one of John's dimples and he leaned into the touch, evidently reminiscing.
“Ahhh, so you did get something out of your college experience. I bet they loved you.”
“Mmm, they did. It was a great bonding exercise, I really felt like part of the team.” Ah, Punk was starting to get it now.
“And now, now it makes me feel young again. Plus, it's a fantastic quad workout, especially when Bryan does that one thing, you know the one.” Yeah, Punk knew the one.
Punk finished up his work in silence, John only letting out a cute squeak or moan when he brushed a sensitive spot. John may not have known but he did that on purpose, those noises were kind of adorable.
“You ready?” Punk stood from his squat and turned off the faucet. He had to change clothes too, he was soaking wet from the shower head crossfire. John jumped a good foot in the air and let out a shrill little yelp.
“Ah dammit Punk, warn a guy first! You know the water gets cold when you turn it off.” Punk snorted.
“Yeah John, I know.”