Jag vs Sadistic Sid Shaw

Sadistic Sid Shaw sprawls on the WW office futon in red trunks and a sleeveless hoodie, muttering through a “therapy” monologue about never being properly touched—right up until his “therapist” storms in: Jag, pink shirt stretched across his chest, blue trunks and pads hugged tight. Credentials questioned, Jag supplies hands-on treatment—dragging Sid to the ring, peeling off his own shirt, and looping it around Sid’s throat. For 26 breathy minutes, Jag “touches” at will: a grinding camel clutch that pulls a wicked smile from Sid—“this is what I needed”—before the Sadistic one answers with a bite. A sharp back-elbow flips control; Jag crumples in the corner while Sid plants a boot on his manhood, then crowns it with a head-butt. The comeback is instant and nasty: Jag knots Sid into a single-leg Boston crab, cameras drinking in every flex and flare, then rains down good old-fashioned ab punching that leaves Shaw heaving.

Reversals become religion. Sid cinches a reverse seated bearhug from behind, flows into a seated abdominal stretch, and digs a claw into Jag’s ribs before serving his own brand of ab bashing. Jag stretches him long in a seated bow-and-arrow, then coils on a triangle choke that has Sid arching, legs wide for a shameless close-up. More bites from Sid. A punishing, teasing wedgie from Jag. A suffocating cobra clutch from Sid. A brazen banana split from Jag—while the wedgie stays put. Shaw hauls him into a stretch-muffler and grinds. Back and forth, body on body, they trade control and set traps for their signature finishes—until one of them finally lands it. This is touch therapy turned erotic warfare, and the only bill due is your breath.