The man that I crave is a boxer. Powerful and brooding, he spends his nights in the sweat-soaked air of the downtown gym surrounded by other muscular, half-naked men. When I arrive, he is in a dank corner, his powerful fists savagely beating the soft sides of a heavy, well-worn bag, its commercial logo worn away by countless blows, hanging from the ceiling by a rusty, squeaking chain. No air-conditioned health club could ever hold this man; he prefers the rundown cement walls and pungent air of a real boxing hall, where gnarled old men stand and smoke cigars while they search for the next great brawler. One of them, a short, barrel-chested veteran, his nose and jaw misshapen from past bouts, is standing near my boxer, shouting out gruff comments in a thick Eastern European accent, peppered by biting obscenities.
I stand hidden in the doorway and watch him dance lightly around the swaying bag, pummeling it with vicious grace. His big hands are wrapped tightly with tape that twist around his wrists and form a ribbon of white across the deep tan of his forearms. His bare skin is a dark burnished copper that contrasts sharply with his simple white shorts. He is a big man, well over six feet tall and the lines of his body, the heavy muscles taut in his arms, have been wrought and hardened by years of training and self-sacrifice. He is clearly a man of discipline, retaining that inherent elegance about his every motion, no matter how bloodthirstily violent they might seem, an air that draws me to him and makes me stare without even realizing it.
The Irish in him shows. Sandy red hair, that ruddy complexion…He’s been working out for quite some time, and his muscled body, naked save for those white trunks, is dripping with sweat. His thick hair would fall over his eyes were it not for the sweatband, stained with grime and smoke. Beads of perspiration spill over ruggedly chiseled features, glistening droplets clinging to high cheekbones, lips made full and puffy from enduring punches, and a wide, square jaw smudged with reddish brown stubble. The tiny streams turn to rivulets over his broad, bare chest, his nipples, dark and firm, standing out from the bulky, rough pectorals, trickling over the ridges of his stomach before ending in the light trail of tiny curls leading downwards.
Watching him work out makes me want him more than anyone I’ve ever known. I have yearned for him for a very long time, but have been too timid to even speak to him, intimidated by his raw, potent masculinity.
In my red satin dress, I am hard to miss, but I know how to not distract him from what is about to happen...
Tonight is “Gym Fights”. Representatives from two competing gyms will face off in the ring. Fighters of different colors and backgrounds will come together, each with their supporters, each with a mission. Men from both sides of town will meet, here to decide an ancient question. Who is the CHAMPION? There will be no decisions tonight. These fights will be decided in the ring, not by a judge but by the combatants. I can’t wait.
I find myself in a familiar position, lingering behind the door left slightly ajar, allowing me to peer in at my beautiful brawler but being obscured from those inside. He spends two minutes practicing his jabs, the swift exertion bringing up a fresh coat of sweat over muscles, now rippling with caged energy. After finishing with the bag, leaving it lumpy, misshapen, he does a quick series of pushups on the dirty gym floor. Each repetition is a flowing, controlled motion, the heavy thews of his biceps bunching and releasing as he presses himself up and down. He switches to single, centralized pushes, the thick tendon constricting and releasing before he bounces to the other arm, his entire body a long, sensuous line, a bundle of raw strength in precise, seemingly effortless control.
His gnarled trainer comes over when he is finished, sitting my boxer on a small wooden stool. The wizened old man speaks in his heavily accented growl, spitting out advice laced with affectionate vulgarities for his favored pupil as he laces a pair of well-worn gloves over the younger man’s hands. Then the trainer places a mouth guard between my fighter’s lips, pulls off that sweat soaked headband, slapping him on the cheeks to accentuate his last bits of instruction before sending him into the ring to await the man he will spar with.
A large black man in gaudy silk trunks appears in the opposite corner, his entourage carrying a boombox blaring out bass-heavy rap. His woman, bleached blonde, with the look of confidence in her lover’s ability, both in bed and in the ring, flows behind and glides into her ringside seat…. I look across at her with disdain and even some envy.
The bulky ebony heavyweight is larger in size, but I note the telltale pockets of soft flesh in his hips, the mark of a man who relies too much on his God-given physique and not on the endless, thankless hours needed to truly succeed in boxing...
With all the attention drawn to the new fighter, I make my move, quietly to ringside... to where the action can’t be missed...
The two combatants knock their gloves together to signal the start of the match and then begin to circle one another. Grinning now, I see that action unfold....The black man dances about the ring with an arrogant swagger while my man is more wary, focusing all his attention on assessing his opponent’s strengths and weaknesses. The black man throws a series of lightning-quick jabs, followed by a sweeping uppercut, but my boxer easily dodges them, leaving the other man’s fist to poke at empty air. My champion is more wary, his head down and his fists at the ready, waiting for a moment of weakness in his rival’s guard. He stalks with catlike grace and he is beautiful to behold, deadly to oppose.
With his experience and dedication, my sparring stud plans his method of attack. His adversary clearly has the better of him in speed, throwing his meaty fists with an astonishing rapidity for such a large man, and he is equally light on his feet, bobbing and weaving as if moving to the heavy urban rhythms of his music. But he is also showy, impatient, and while he does show a lot of punches, they often are a poor selection. Perhaps it is a calculated move because of his clear disadvantage in stamina, hoping for the glamorous roundhouse to bring about a swift end. That is what his blonde lover wants. She wants a show, I want a FIGHT.
His break comes when the black man feints with his left then drives with a powerful straight strike that not only misses badly but leaves his upper body unprotected. My sandy haired bruiser lands a viciously quick right to the other’s chest with a dull thud, a brutal heart punch, the sickening impact sending his adversary reeling back in several unsure steps. The gasp from his lover is audible from across the ring. She is not used to seeing her man hurt, even damaged. The black man pauses for a moment, shaking his head to bring focus back to his bleary eyes. He is angry and he rushes the man I am lusting for like a bull, leaving him vulnerable for a solid left cross that sent a spray of crimson droplets spewing from a split lip. “Oh my GOD”... I think as the sound of leather tears at flesh...Ignoring the wound, the two came together, their fists landing only glancing blows one another’s torso and abdomen before the ref pulls the entwined pair apart with a sharp curse. I watch them in that momentary embrace, both breathing hard, and think about holding him that way…
They fight for several more rounds, the black man’s agility allowing him a few solid punches that must bruise my man’s ribs while it was the opponent’s sheer bulk and proud tenacity that allowed him to endure the relentless attack that made his face puffy and opened a jagged cut over his left eye. It is becoming brutal now.. the punches landing to not score points but to damage, inflict pain on a man of the opposite race...They are both clearly exhausted, the sweat pouring off their battered bodies, every punch that connects sending a shower of wetness across the ring. My dream lover’s trunks are drenched in perspiration, draped about his thick, muscular thighs, clinging to the curves and planes of his delectably firm buns. I can see the outline of his cock and I want to pull those soaked shorts off his bulky legs and lick his naked male flesh, to taste the mixture of salty sweat and sweet wetness.
The battle ends with all the savagery that has marked its length. The bulkier man, blood spilling into his eye, has been growing steadily weaker, far less aggressive than he had been at first. It turns out to be a desperate ploy because as my man reaches in for a nice jab, his wily challenger suddenly raises for a final combination. But he swiftly becomes a victim of my fighter’s instincts which cause him to suddenly draw back, allowing the uppercut to whistle by cleanly before landing a devastating strike to the black man’s face.
Suddenly now, like in film, everything goes into slow motion. The once beautiful black face becomes distorted at the brutal impact of a gloved leather fist... I leap up, my breasts heaving with excitement, my heart racing as the sound is unmistakable... the black showoff is hurt...bad. I grab the bottom rope. Squeezing it like it is a fighter’s cock... My hand gliding along it, feeling it and pulling it closer to my nipples... my back arching now, my clit rubbing against the side of the ring apron... Now my nipples rock hard against the satin of my dress...”yea, baby... fuck him up”... a wicked combination of damaging punches all land with maximum effect... both fighters can hear ME now... The black fighter is a dead man, being held up by my man as the damage is taking its inevitable toll... Now my man, shoves the whipped boy up, gloves at his side...”FINISH HIM!” a shill voice echoes thru the gym... Now the uppercut lands, the sound of a jaw being broken and the black fighter is lifted off his feet...I gasp as he goes down hard, his head bouncing on the canvas...a small trickle of blood dribbling out of the gaping cut on the bridge of his broad nose. ONE... TWO... THREE... the count starts.. Slowly the black fighter tries to regain the use of his facilities...I catch myself grinning at him; he is on the canvas, nearly at eye level form me. I look across and see his lover, her hands to her mouth, almost in shock. I am soaked with juices wanting to see this final victory...FOUR... FIVE ... SIX... the beaten fighter still struggles to return to the fight... I want him to rise up and fight, and I want him to fall at the same time... SEVEN... is it over? Is it the knockout I wanted to see?... EIGHT... NINE.. The once proud black man falls.. Now face down on the canvas...yes, champ, yes.... TEN KNOCKOUT! My victorious boxer raises his hands triumphantly as he is lead back to his corner. Grinning his success, he holds his arms out for the beaming trainer to unlace his gloves while the medical people announce that he is relatively none the worse for wear and his only wounds will be washed away by a nice hot shower. As he is examined, I slip back out the way I entered, looking over my bare shoulder at the black fighter, still on the canvas being helped by his corner man and his shocked woman... I grin to myself...
Now, waiting inside the darkened locker room, watching him thread his way through the other crowding around the ring in excited expectation for the main event between a rival gym’s welterweight and our own. My interest is solely in the stud approaching me. The fight has left him battered and bruised, his cheeks and lips puffy from the blows he took, but he glows with the excitement of victory. My heart beats faster and faster inside my chest as he nears. Several times I have doubts and think of running away, but my desire for him is too strong and I won’t go back. When he looks at me, I begin to tremble.
I hold my breath, waiting to see what he will do but before I can think it has begun, just as it does in my dreams. With a mysterious look on his face, he reaches still in his gloved fists. His skin is warm, as though he has just come out of the sun. The smell of sweat and blood is unmistakable without a word, his gloves come up until he is rubbing my breasts, massaging. I give him a look like I am on to him and he returns it with the most intensely lustful stare, telling me that I am his, a prize for winning this fight. Suddenly he reaches in close and scrapes his teeth across my earlobe. My breath hisses through my teeth in pure pleasure. His hand, with that blood red glove, reaches around me, pulling me into his half-naked embrace. As I slip into his strong arms, I feel his flesh come together with mine, the muscles of his torso rasping along my satin dress. I am pinned to him, the potent weight of his body heavy and delicious. I want him to never let go.
Caught up in our passionate clinch, he brushes my lips with his own. We kiss once, light, tentative, then a bit harder, a little deeper. His tongue presses insistently against my teeth and I open my mouth to allow its snaking length to invade me. Locked in a deep soul kiss, I sink deeper into the protective hug of this champion I’ve been lusting after for so long. His hands reach up to cradle the back of my head, stroking my hair as our kisses last for endless moments. My hard nipples, hard since before the fight rub against his sweaty chest. I am achingly aware of his penis throbbing against me, separated only by the thin, shining fabric of his shorts.
...to be continued!
You write a nice story to bad none of it true. When will you and your man fight again?????????????
Reply Deletehe sent you a challenge and our pictures... I am going to love seeing him take you apart.
Reply Delete