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Cobra Clutch	By : handsomedevil Category: 1 through F > 1-800-MISSING Views: 1328 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own Cobra Kai, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Backroom
- 1
The following takes place at a point after the end of Season One.
Samantha was an emotionally clenched fist. She was raised to be forgiving and considerate. She was also taught to inflict pain and suffering. With those lessons, she learned to focus and control her emotions. But right now controlling emotions was torturing her. She was shaking with rage.
Rage is what that bastard at Cobra Kai taught. That bastard who ruined her dear Miguel, who taught him how to hurt without holding back.
Sam had to do something. She didn't have a plan. Speeding through the streets, thoughts raced through her head faster than she could focus. She decided to give in. Trust her training. Rely on her instincts.
The night air was unusually cold; biting cold. Music howled from the car speakers. It matched her mood. Furious and confused.
A deep breath in and exhale. Calm. Calm. She would confront Sensei Lawrence and demand Migeul come learn with her.
This was a bad part of town. Red and blue police lights flashed down side streets. What looked like a drug deal was happening in an alley. Loud music, far angrier than hers, aggressively pounded from car stereos. She felt small here. If things got bad she could trust her training to a point. But she knew there was no real defense against guns.
At a stoplight she looked to an abandoned house with light leaking between boarded up windows. She heard a woman scream, then cry. Sam wasn't sure if it was the sound of exctasy or pain or both. The confidence from her training began to wain. She wanted to run the redlight. What sort of person would come here to learn martial arts? This place was dangerous enough to drive through, but to learn to fight here?
Self doubt appeared. The woman continued to cry out, begging her assaliant to stop. Sam scanned the house for the source of the sound. She saw an open window. There was a woman, no, a girl maybe a little older than Sam. A large man stood behind her, crushing her against the wall. There were other large men in the room standing close, as if waiting their turn.
Sweat slid down Sam's neck, down her shoulders, across her soft young breasts.
Green light. Her tires squealed. Her instincts took over and slammed her foot on the gas.
More streets sped past. Her music was muted. Her focus was on reaching the school without incident. Her knuckles ached from gripping the steering wheel so tight. Her shoulders tense.
Then she saw it. The cobra on the sign, rearing to strike, was truly frightening now. But she ignored her fear. She had to trust her training. Despite her growing fear, she swalloed hard and pulled into the parking lot.
All the businesses around the school were dark. They felt turned off. Cobra Kai had a faint glow inside. A waiting glow. It was impossible to see any details behind the opaque shades drawn over the windows. Why would they hide the class inside? Why wouldn't they want potential students to see the class in session? Maybe that was it. Maybe potential students were meant to ask these questions. Maybe they were meant to be lured in by mystery.
Cutting her engine, Sam sat in the car for a moment longer, calming her breathing. Her sweat was cold now. Her breasts, shoulders, and back wet; her tiny nipples hard. She wiped her hand across her brow. If the school was open, she'd be reasonable but stand firm.
Sam took a deep breathe in and exhaled. She left her car and walked to the doors of the school, testing the doors. They weren't locked. Inside, it smelled of a typical dojo; stale with the musk of sweat and blood from physically strained bodies. Calm. Calm. She must stay calm. Focused.
"Sensei Lawrence?"
No response at first. Then she heard a loud slam in the backroom. The school vibrated from the thundrous shockwave. She began to sweat again. There was no way that force was generated from a person. It felt like the tremor of a quake. A second slam, followed by three more in quick succession, caused Sam to uninentionally gasp, raising her arms instinctually to protect her face. She felt ashamed. That wasn't the gesture of a trained fighter. That was the movement of a frightened girl.
Then silence. Whatever made that blast was quiet. Sam slipped her shoes off, bowed, and tiptoed onto the mat. The sound paused and, halfway through padding across the mat, she nearly stumbled realizing whatever made the sound halted to focus. To listen.
Her sweat began again. It dripped into her eye, across her lips.
The slam rocked the school again. Louder. Harder. Sam stumbled backwards. Was someone being hurt? She didn't hear a voice or groan. No. This was a display of power. And the source must have heard her. The source must have deemed she was not a threat.
Again and again. Faster. Harder. The walls trembled, mirrors rattled. This was the sound of violence like she had never before experienced.
"Sense Lawrence? Are you okay?"
Sam's voice trembled but she continued forward. Her barefeet allowed her to approach quietly. Fluidly, Samantha moved down the hall to the open door of the backroom. The only light in the dojo came from the hall. It was positioned toward the hall, allowing the person in the backroom to see anyone coming but blind those who approach. It was impossible for Sam to adjust her eyes and see into the complete darkness of the backroom. But the slamming was louder and harder than before.
Tangible power.
Sam stayed quiet for a few seconds more.
"Sensei?" she whimpered at the door. Her confidence was gone. Sam was a frightened, vulnerable, teenage girl.
Then her eyes adjusted to witness the horror unfolding in front of her. Instincts took over. A large man knelt atop an unmoving figure. The man was unloading with a series of movements: straight right punch, left elbow unfolding into a backfist, followed by a straight right punch, then left, then right elbow.
Her training took over. Without a sound, Samantha crossed the distance rapidly and lept at the large man, intending to kick him off of his victim. Her intention failed. The man didn't even pause his assalt on the downed figure. He countered her own attack with ease. She failed to notice his stance. He was crouched in a way to spring away quickly. He was waiting.
Another slam was heard, this time the door to the room. In a crash, there was absolute darkness.
Then he was behind her. His muscular arms took control of her. A big, heavy hand shot to her throat, so large it engulfed her like a giant snake. But it didn't hold her in the air. She kicked forward, feeling a hard body before she was spun upside down. Her whole body was whipped up then in an arc, finally slammed on the ground, on the back of her neck. The move wasn't lethal, however. She knew this master could have broken her neck. Instead, he controlled her like a doll, stunned her. He wanted her alive. One massive hand on her neck, another gripped her inner thigh.
He was much bigger than any opponent she faced. The power and speed, she never felt anything like this before. She launched a kick up at him, expecting him to dodge but knowing she could hook her ankle and maybe ... He didn't dodge. The kick crashed into his chin. It hurt her. He must have tensed.
This must be what was meant by constant offense. This master chose to defend with an attack.
He spat blood down on her. In one fluid move, he yanked her body up by her outstretched leg then twisted and slammed her back down again in a new position. His knee firm against her head securing her there. One of his powerful arms controlled her leg in the air while the other was free to strike her. She was tangled, her body twisted, muscles working against her.
"Please. No!"
She waited for the strike. He flexed his control over her by not striking. Then, she realized why. Her skirt had fallen down, exposing her pretty, pink panties.
The hand that was previously pounding down on, what she now saw was a stuffed combat dummy, slid down her tender, inner thigh. She was simultaneously shocked at this sensation and terrified.
"No! Stop!"
Her voice was frail. His hand did not stop. It was large enough to almost completely wrap around her thigh. It squeezed. His hand was bruised, his knuckles course, wrinkled and gritty.
"Sensei Lawrence, stop!"
"I'm not Sensei Lawrence, little girl."
His voice was deep, his breathe smelled of cigars. His hand slowly crept down further. Closer to her hairless slit.
Samantha was in a daze. The pain of his slam was settling in. Blood rushed to her head. But the fear of what was to happen and crash of emotions overwhelmed her.
"no" she half whispered. She did not want this.
His large hand moved over her panties, his thumb pressing up and down her tight, virgin pussy lips. The feeling of this caused her to moan against her will. He spat. From the smell, she knew it was blood. The blood became lubricant he massaged against her clit. Over and over she pleaded but he was in charge. He was focused.
Her pussy became soaked as his fat thumb slowly grinded at her hardening clit. He could smell her. He feel how wet she became. This was an invitation to him to grow more bold.
He lifted her again, then slammed her down, almost knocking her unconscious. In this new, settled stance he could press his hips against her leg, allowing her to feel his frighteningly long and thick cock with a pronounced fist of a mushroom head. Then he slipped a finger tip inside her. Sam herself rarely touched herself. It always felt wrong to her. This, what this master cobra was doing, felt awful. Wretched. And made her teenage body ache. His finger tip slipped in and out slowly as his thumb applied circular pressure on the nub of her clit.
Samantha gasped. This was all he needed. He dug in.
This much older man, capable of terrifying power, now demonstrated his careful, sensual expertise. Samantha's whole body trembled, shivered. Her pale skin glistened with sweat, with goosebumps. He pulled his fingers away, replacing it with two. They were too wide to fit in sideways, so he pushed them in on top of each other. He slowly pushed, pushed, pushed down. It tore her. Hot, sharp. She bit her scream. She didn't want to cry but the pain and pleasure made her body shake. And his two fingers were not even to his knuckle. He pulled them up and out, then back in, flexing those two fingers, as his thumb continued kneading her clit.
She was breathing heavy, possibly about to pass out, when she noticed he had paused. Why? Why did he wait? Her senses came back to her, allowing her one word, one word she forgot the meaning of. One word that at first was a plea for him to stop but now meant continue.
"please"
She felt his body flex, preparing to deliver thunder.
He rapidly shoved his two meaty fingers in, sideways, stretching her wide. They were curled, in a hook shape, and rammed up against a ticklish and aching spot he found. The feeling of being too full hurt wonderfully. He growled then spat blood down on her again, massaging it rough into her swollen clit. Her orgasm began to rise. It was building. She announced this with a sweet moan. He was relentless. Angry. His bicep pulsed as he focused his sexual violence. He would force her to cum. She didn't want this. She wanted to keep this for Miguel. She didn't want this man to take it. But he was power. His hands, those weapons, hate fucked her until she...
The dark room bloomed into white. The fear, build up tension and this foreign, unwanted sensation overwhelmed her. Her orgasm, the first driven by a man, crashed over her. She didn't hear herself screaming or feel her tears as she cried. She didn't know she arched her back as whole body spasmed. She had no sense of time or how he milked her orgasm, extended it, turned one into another, had her squirting. She only knew her body was warm and alive and the flood that poured out of her, that he pulled out of her, dripped down her inverted body, across her belly, soaking her small breasts. He continued to batter her virgin hole. His two fingers sinking in and swirling around as his thumb circled, turning his hand into a feeding cobra biting and suckling her young juices.
She felt herself climb into the air. She was in his arms. In the darkness she couldn't see him moving his mouth toward her abused pussy. But she could feel the stubble on his face, the warmth of his breath, and his trunk of a neck. She purred.
He kissed her pussy and said, "This is mine."
Embarrassed, humiliated, and exhausted, she gave in. He owned her young hole. Her whole body.
Then, he lowered her to the bag he was previously punching. It was larger than her, making a firm bed. The door opened and he began to leave. He turned back to look at her. She was a beautiful; tears streaked make up down her face, hair wild, and a mess of blood and cum soaking her pussy, red from abuse.
"Come back tomorrow night."
She couldn't clearly see his face. The haze of her euphoria allowed her to glimpse his silhouette. She wanted to curl up and cry, realizing what he had taken from her. But she also felt shame knowing she wanted more. She knew this was just his first technique. He had more to give her. She craved it.
- 1
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Cobra Clutch