The Softer Side
The Best of 2014
by Amanda Earl
By Amanda Earl
By Daina Blue
Because I Could
Fetish is a Six-Letter..
By felicia Mansur
By G. Russell
By Heln E. H. Madden
A Man in a Kilt
Girls Gone Wild
By J.Z. Sharpe
Girl on a Swing
By Mike Kimera
A Walk in the Park
Inside Mr. K
Other Bonds Than...
Back When We ...
My Brother's Wife
By Nikki Isaak
By Remittance Girl
The Dinner Party
By Robert Buckley
By William S. Dean
The Peanut Butter Shot
by C. Sanchez-Garcia © 2011
My trainer Case is oiling my skin, rubbing it down with a camphor salve that stinks to get the sensitivity down around my penis, the nipples, and behind my ears, erogenous zones where I’m sensitive. Doc Corman, the SFCC Certification medic is waiting beside Gerry, with his little black bag and witness forms for when Case gets done with me. Burned out Gerry, tore up from the floor up, she’s sitting on the locker room bench, eyes on the floor, probably thinking about sex with me or else just nothing. She gets a little more simple every day. Soon there won’t be much left. My own sweet fluffer girl. She’s my sexual punching bag. I work out on her. Its illegal, it’s evil, but hell, we all do it. Every fighter needs a sparring partner.
They used to wrap tape around your hands to keep you from busting your knuckles up against the bones of somebody's face. Me, it’s the opposite. I have to wear special gloves when I'm not in the ring. These gloves, they go for about $12,300, something like that, dermatologically custom made. The insurance pays for them, so like I give a shit, but that’s what they go for. I've got real warm soft hands. Women tell me they're softer than a baby's hands. My champion hands are insured by management for about $567,000. My tongue’s insured too, definitely, so I can't drink anything hot or cold or eat spicy, which sucks but it’s the job. My tongue and hands are my weapons.
I have to exercise my fingers like a rock climber, play fast glissandos on a piano and take special treatments to make them super sensitive to touch. Hell, I can speed read Braille. My fingertips can read someone's rising skin temperature. That's why I wear gloves. That’s why management insures my hands for half a million . I have to do tongue exercises to increase my tongues sensitivity and strength and length. I can stick my tongue a third of the way down a beer bottle neck. Or a pussy. I can write my stage name with my tongue on a paper the size of a coin so perfect you can read it - Mack Daddy. That's how fucking good I am. Just so you know. I can pick up and read the pounding of an opponent’s heartbeat pretty much anywhere on their body so you know when they're almost ready to pop and then keep them stuck tight on that knife edge of unbearable pleasure until they've got to come so bad they can’t stand it and they’ll do anything for you. Then you've got them. You can’t count on reading their irises dilation, because most people try to close their eyes when they’re on the edge of orgasm and they’re scared and they’re fighting it. They don’t know being scared just makes them want to come sooner and harder. I never let myself get scared because then you lose your grip on your nerves, and it’s a game of playing your opponents nerves. Never let the other guy get a hold of your nerves.
You read their breathing, because they can’t hide their breathing. You read the stuff an opponent in the ring can’t fake. You read the contractions along a female fighter’s vaginal walls. You don’t read that by putting your finger inside like amateurs think, no, because a trained female fighter can fake that. You learn how to feel it off the tiny jitter on the outside one eighth inch of their interior labials. The jitter never lies. Most people don’t know that. I know vaginas better than a gynecologist. I have to.
The old prize fighters would bust your nose or your ribs. A punch to the kidney that would make you piss blood for a couple days. We sex fighters, we bust your will to live. We take away your will to be free. People look naked to us. We see inside your mind. You just think you know what you want, bitch. I know what you really want, because that’s how I get you. That’s how I take you down. I look at you bitch - I know what you want way better than you do. I know it even before you know it. That’s because I see you. I see you like God sees you.
What I do takes as much training as an Olympic Karate champ. Most people don’t know this either, but when you’re talking to someone, most of what you’re saying is subliminal, without words. In one minute, think about it, in one minute you send 3000 signals to the person you’re talking to, 3000 non-verbal fucking signals. Think about that, that’s really amazing shit. You don’t even know what they are. But the real part of you that lives behind your brain, the part of you that dreams at night that part knows. The difference between you and me - I know I’m reading you. Fuck, I know your signals before you do. I look at you, and ignore your words and read your face, the way you blink, the way you stand, what makes your voice shake and I’ve got you nailed, taco belle, I got your carbon cunt print, I got your pussy nailed to my bed post. I’ll be stuffin’ your muffin’ ten minutes after you tell me your name and you won’t even know why you’re doing it, and before you get your little pink panties off, I already know just how to screw your motherfucking brains out. I know where your buttons are going to be and in what order to push them. I know what your secret kink is going to be. It ain’t bragging if its true, and this is true shit I’m telling you. That’s all it is.
You have to feel what the opponent feels every second, even though they try to hide their feelings, fake out your ass, trick you. It’s the art of the soul fuck. It’s fucking voo-doo. At least till someone imprints you and puts you out of business for a while, or maybe for good. Or into re-hab. Imprintation varies a lot. Sometimes it’s a habit you have to shake off like having a crush. Sometimes it can be pretty bad. In the fighting ring, I've imprinted 25 women, 15 of them before I became SFCC Federation Champion, and also 7 men. Never been beat. Ten of those women became stalkers because they couldn’t break the addiction to me, after what I done to them in the ring, and had to be locked up. Three of them self snuffed, last time I checked. This game is high mortality shit. Just so you know. That's how fucking good I am. That’s right.
My sparring partner, Gerry, she’s about used up. Her eyes these days, they’re like bomb craters. She doesn’t shoot, doesn’t snort, doesn’t smoke, but she’s a drop down fuck junkie. I’m her dealer and I’m her bong. That’s what being imprinted means. I imprinted her ass. Twice at the same time. Bang. Bang.
She'd do anything for me. She wouldn’t be able to stop herself. She'd gouge her eyeballs out with a spoon if I asked her to. I never sleep with her. The one time I passed out in her bed, she tried to kill me in my sleep with a lamp cord, to get herself free of me. Crazy ass bitch. And she'll never forgive what I did to her. She's right. Hell, I'd kill me too.
Her eyes are like streetlights from all I’ve put her through. They switch from something that you wouldn’t call love exactly, but something like idolatry, or addiction. Sick love. And then hate. The hate is clean. The hate part I get. Her eyes look at me, and they just go from stop to go and back to stop. She's in a special private Hell, I know, I know, I understand that part too. She didn’t do anything to deserve it, she was just in the wrong place at the wrong time and got herself soul fucked out of her damn skull by a true expert. She keeps breaking down, and the next time she tries to throw herself out a window I might just let her. I can replace her – like that. I made her like she is. Got her down, and sweetly twisted her nerves just the right way with my hands and tongue, until her whole somatosensory nervous system over heated past the edge human beings were ever made for and dropped into the void of the High Pleasure. I kept her that way, screaming my name until she was screaming for help and then begging me to finish her, let her orgasm, because I always hold out until they beg. I fucking love it when they beg.
I sexually imprinted Gerry deep and then, just because I was an asshole that night, I imprinted her deep again twice, just to take her away from the guy she was with, just to piss him off. Just to make a point that I could put her out of business for anybody but me. By the time he broke the bedroom door down it was too late, I'd taken her mind and body down deep, really deep and fucking drowned her soul.
You’re not supposed to imprint people twice, because it brain damages them. It’s a crime against nature, they say, to do that to a human being. But like parasitic wasps - nature happens all the time baby.
Her blue eyes rolled back and did the fade. She was” gone” as we say in the game. Broke. The Sweet Damnation.
“Gone” is what psychologists call “sensory traumatic imprinting”, when you push a person past the sensual input limit the human nervous system can bear. They say God never gives you more pain than you can bear. Okay. Maybe God doesn’t, but sex fighters do. It’s what we get the big bucks in the ring and boner pill endorsements on the web to do. It can be pain or it can be pleasure or it can be too much of both, but the key is it has to be too much. When you do that to a female or a male and hold them down there deep, for long enough, something snaps inside. It’s like you drown them. It tears a hole in their ego-identity and that hole needs to be filled up with something fast.
The sweetest thing in all the world, the thing you just live to see, is your opponent on her back when she’s gone over, when he or she is vanquished in a way no one should ever be vanquished. Her eyelids open relaxed and her eyes roll up a little dead looking and - brother - the lights are out and there’s nobody home. Truly. It doesn’t last long. But that’s when I crawl through the unlocked window of her psyche and plant myself deep inside there. And what do I do with that person’s soul? Whatever I want. I own it, baby. I won it fair and square, didn’t I?
It’s a short window, just a few seconds before the brain fixes itself, but you can fill that window with who ever or whatever you want and there’s nothing the person can do about it. You can go through rehab if you get nailed just the once, and once is all the fight ring rules allow, but if someone imprints you twice, just bang-bang while you’re stuck in the zone, like say behind a locked bedroom door, Hello Gerry, well it can’t be fixed. Ever. It becomes who you are after that. You’ll even go through the hell of withdrawal if the person who double-dog nailed you doesn’t give you some regular loving. That’s a mighty fine thing, the addiction from a double imprinting. You can do a lot of stuff with that. And guys who know how, they pull in the long cream all kinds of nasty ways.
What I am, I owe a lot to Case. He’s gay, but it doesn’t influence him. He was a champ in the Pan European Regional, but dropped out after a bad night when he almost lost it. He never talks about it. He could have gone private, driving rich old fruit faggots out of their skulls in hotel rooms for more money then he’d get in the ring. But he won’t be anybody’s bitch. You can be his bitch. He won’t be your bitch. He trains me for the sex fighting, and the martial arts comes from another teacher. It’s complex shit.
“Okay, doc. Let’s get this going.” I’ll need all the time I can get to settle down before going out there. I hate this part. It hurts like hell.
“Ready for your Shot, Macko?” says the doctor. “Ready for some fun?”
“Bring it on, doc.” I try to sound cheerful. I’m not.
Case brings over the phallus sheath. I’m not hard yet, but I’m about to be very very very hard. Gerry’s not allowed to handle my dick directly, not since she tried to bite it off. Case does this. The penis sheath is made from soft goat kid leather, so that I can barely feel it when it’s on. It’s black and has these happy little tassels on it. It’s a lot like what male strippers used to wear in clubs. Case slips my limp dick into it and pulls it up snug with a lot of empty space hanging below. It won’t be empty long. Without the Peanut Butter Shot I’m nothing special, just the standard six like most guys, though women say I’m pretty thick in the girth. With the Peanut Butter Shot I get a good seven inches of purple steel to ride. Not that it matters, that’s not what the Peanut Butter Shot is about. I have to wear the sheath because I’m medically certified not to have ejaculated in three days; that would get me fucking disqualified and most likely end up castrated in a dark ally if the mob has any money in this fight, and they always do. No, the sheath is there to protect my fighting weapon till I’m in the ring, but also to protect it from me. From trying to get myself off after the Shot hits. To keep from fucking everything in sight to make myself come or more likely trying to rape the living shit out of poor Gerry.
After my cock is settled in the sheath and buckled in the back behind my balls, Case takes my gloves off and folds them and put them in a wooden box and passes it to Gerry. I take my place on the bench. The bench has a hole cut in the middle like an outhouse seat, where I lay on my belly and my balls and my dick dangle down in space without touching anything. I stretch out my hands and Case secures them to the cast iron bench legs, nice and tight with these padded steel handcuffs. The kinky restraints are pure safety. They’re to keep me from trying to kill any sexually mature male in my territorial reach two minutes from now. Which would ruin my hands. Not to mention what horrors would happen to Gerry next. It’s some Shot, that Peanut Butter Shot.
“Bottoms up,” says Doc. What happens now is something people who don’t know shit about anything make jokes about. They think this is fun, and don’t they wish they could do this. Fuck. Even sex fighters hate what happens next, it’s the most fucking humiliating thing in the world. Though I have to admit, when you see a woman fighter get her Shot, well, there’s just something about being in the presence of a woman who’s restrained because she’s bitch ass screaming crazy in heat for the next few minutes, mister, it sticks in your imagination, I can tell you that. You can actually smell it in the air, the way a male dog does. When she gives you that look and sticks her ass way up, man, it makes you want to go over and sniff her butt.
Doc takes a short little syringe from the black case and uncaps the needle. He swabs my right ass cheek in the deep muscle part with alcohol on a cotton ball and sticks the needle in. That’s not the Peanut Butter Shot. That’s just to numb me up for the Peanut Butter Shot. He rubs it, smacks it. “Feel that?”
Now comes the shot.
They call it the Peanut Butter Shot, because its brown and pasty and goes in like thick goo, like something you’d put on your toast. It’s a cocktail of genetically engineered hormones and ketotestosterones in a concentrated synthetic androsteroid base and some kind of holy miracle shit, God knows what. The insane bastards who invented this hellacious gunk, they’re fucking geniuses. The material and formula have to be guarded like plutonium. Or the formula for Coca Cola. They have to keep it under control or you’d have kids brewing it up in their basements and ass raping their mothers.
I feel the pressure squeezing me as it goes in like someone jabbing my butt with a sharp pencil. He takes the fat syringe with the thick needle away and shows it to me so I know its all in. I’m starting to feel it. Now there’s a big goose egg on my ass, where the gunk is piled up. Doc Corman leans in on his palms, pressing the heels of his hands down on the lump to mash it in and work down to the where the blood is.
“I can do that!” Gerry hollers. She jumps out from behind Case and shoves, motherfucking shoves Doc Corman off of me.
“Hey hey!” yells Doc and Case at the same time. Then her hands are on me, pushing and squashing at the lump in my ass. And suddenly her hand is down below and she’s squeezing my limp dick like choking a dead bird.
“Let me do it!” She’s gonzo, junkie nuts, suddenly clawing at my dick with both hands trying to yank the sheath off. She bends down and bites me hard on the ass.
They grab her arms and she’s screaming her head off and I’m screaming my head off and we’re all screeching our heads off, it’s a fucking monkey house in here. Case is whispering shit to her and holding her arms behind her back in a judo lock. My ass feels like hell.
Aw fuck. Aw baby. Yeah. There it is.
Hey. Hey. Now it’s. . . I gotta . . . I just gotta . . .
One Mississippi . . . . Two Mississippi -
Bingo. Limp as lo mein to railroad spike in two seconds flat. Like getting zapped in the nuts with an electric cattle prod.
Leaping lizards.. . . I'm so fucked up.
Aw Jesus Christ, my balls, they’re on fire. "Gerry!" My eyes are burning, my face is twitching, I can’t think right. I can’t see right. Holy shit. I'm so fucking ready. I'm so motherfucking - oh god;
"Gerry! You whore! You’re getting your ass fucked. Gimme your fuck! Gimme it! Get over here and get your ass fucked! Do it! I command you! I order you! You fucking cunt - get your fuck over here – get your fucking fuck the fuck over here you fucking cunt - "
"Whoa whoa whoa!" Case is still holding down the only piece of ass in the room, a very dangerous place to be right now. Gerry’s fighting to get at me and get my dick in her and I'm yelling like a caveman and yanking the padded cuffs until they dig into my wrists. My hands are turning blue I'm pulling so hard but all I can think is I want to spear Gerry's asshole on my dick all the way in and out the other side of her navel. I want Gerry's cunt for my dinner fucking leaping lizards - "Gerry!" My skin is turning red like a nuclear sunburn. "Case! I'm gonna kill you and skull fuck you, you fag bastard!" Everything starts to turn gray for a minute and I can feel my cock almost ready to burst. Then the shot starts to settle down. My balls are still on fire but I'm a little less out of my skull by the second. The room is silent except for the sound of people breathing.
"You coming down, Mack?" says Case. His cock is pretty up there in his gym shorts too. You can make out its standing at attention. This does stuff to him too. He's had the shot a dozen times in his fighting days. None of this is new to him. Once you taste the shot you never forget how it feels.
I flop down on the bench and let out a groan. "Fuckin' A."
"Take a minute, Mack" says Doc. "We got time. Be a good boy now."
I lay there with my eyes closed, feeling my hot meat aching down below. Feeling the jazz and the jizz and the fizz and the tingle and the jive and the jingle just under my skin. I wish these guys would get the fuck out all but Gerry. I want Gerry under my belly right now. I’m ready to fuck the moon.
“You going to behave?” says Doc.
“You watch me behave,” I growl. He lets Case decide when to let me up. Case is reading me like a pro, and he’ll know when I’m out of the danger zone.
We all hang around a few minutes, then Case lets go of Gerry, and watches her a second. She’s out of it and she’s got the shakes. I swear to God I can smell her cunt from over here. He comes up to me, and puts his hand on my neck, feeling my pulse and counting. “Let me hear you breathe.”
I take a deep breath and let it out slow. He takes his hand off my neck and unlocks the cuffs. “Almost time to go,” he says.
I get on my feet, watery in the knees, breathing deep. Case is holding a loose fighting stance, watching me. I can smell Gerry. I can literally smell her. My penis sheath is standing up and it doesn’t even bob around it’s so damn hard. I could drive it through a brick wall and that’s just what I feel like doing.
Gerry is tallish and thin, with the jumpy eyes of a junkie. Wasted. Both wrists have shiny horizontal scars going across them. She was a hot piece with nice tits and a sweet round ass when I met her the first time. Now she’s this.
She shakes her head wildly. She’s mad as hell. Mad at me. Mad at the world. Most of all, mad at herself.
She's standing her ground, but everything coming off her is going right off the bugshit meter. There’s only one window in the locker room and Case quietly steps around to get between the window and her and waits.
“No,” she shakes her head again. “You can’t make me.”
I pitch my voice a very particular way, one that took me years to learn. It has a way of slipping inside somebody’s will if you do it just right. “C o m e h e r e.”
Like a bird in a snake-trance she hobbles a step forward and stops. “No.”
“Come here bitch.” I pump my hips a little and the penis sheath bobs stiffly. “Look what I got for you. Nice piece of candy. Come here.”
Her eyes are wide and getting that empty look guys get when they’re watching a good stripper. She’s holding her hands up defensively in front of her, grabbing her T shirt and clenching it and probably doesn’t even know she’s doing it.
Feet stanced slightly apart. Breathing hard. Nostrils dilating. Ears shifted slightly upward. Her clit is going to be swelling and I can see the nubs of her nips against the T shirt. Her anger, her self hate is driving her crazy, desire and pride. She knows what she wants; she just hates herself for wanting it so very bad. I’ll have to help her.
I move towards her and she looks up at me with a kind of pitiful, pleading hope. “Baby.” She croaks. “I want a baby.”
I hold out my hand, palm up. Her hands come away from her T shirt. Her eyes close dreamily. She steps forward and puts my palm under her limp breast. I step close and caress her breast, like a consoling a beloved worn out old pet. She lifts her T shirt, showing me her chest and I caress her bare breast gently, pinching the tip of the nipple and her mouth falls open.
I feel the urge in me to be cruel to her. To do something unnecessary to her. That’s the feeling I want. I need that feeling, but I need it for the ring.
“Did you ever love me?” She whispers.
“Don’t be stank, skank.” I take my hand away and leave her there. She sags against a locker and we all watch the steam go out of her as she sinks to the floor in a heap. “Fucker . . . ,” she whispers. “I hate you, you fucker.”
I grin all around. Nobody grins back. “I’d say I’m ready now.”
The doctor gets his stuff packed. Case has his kit and ice bucket. As we head for the door, Gerry whams her fist against a steel locker door. We all turn. Those bomb crater eyes are fixed on my dick. “What, Gerry? What now? I got work.”
“When you get back, can we - ? Even just a little while?”
“Fuck off, Ger.” I turn to go.
“I need it!”
“I said fuck off.”
“I hope she breaks you!” she screams. “I hope she breaks you out there, so you know what it’s like! You fucker! You sick fuck!” She wrenches the locker open and throws the first thing she grabs, a bar of soap. It bounces off the ceiling. “I hope that woman fucking kills you!”
I blow her a kiss. “Even if she does, that won’t help you, baby.” We move out into the hall, the door hissing shut behind us.
* * *
The walk down the hall is always a hard time for me. It’s a mine field, a mind fuck. It’s the flight of the Valkyries. It’s the most serious shit there is because you have too much time to think and thinking gets you fucked up. In a little while me and this other person, we’re going to come back down this hall again, but only one of us is going to be the same. The other one is going to be seriously different. One of us is going to get totally mind-raped by the one who gets to go on being normal a little while longer. One of us is going to come out the other’s bitch. When you think about that metaphysical shit, sweet Jesus. You have to respect that shit.
Three fucking years. That’s right, three fucking years, two of them as champ. Nobody goes three years and the game only ends one way. It ends up with you as somebody’s bitch. Soon the numbers just start to scare me. Women scare shit out of me sometimes, the thought of being some bitche’s boner pony. Fuck that shit. Falling in love is a business, its hustle and the companies who make a million off me pushing boner pills, they know how to hustle. But this. Fuck. I mean like – fuck.
This fight, its not a fight. This fuck, it’s not a fuck. The tough ain’t even about tough. This is not a natural act, what we do, no. Males fighting over a female is a natural act. Conquering the female and cooling your dick off inside her, that’s a natural act. A woman being taken down by a man is the most natural thing there is. That’s just evolution and shit. But this thing we do, mind fucking them. That’s not a natural thing. That’s the weirdest shit there is, and that’s why people can’t get enough and the sports biz people have to keep finding ways to push it up a notch every time. Fuck, even throwing people to lions in the Coliseum was a natural act compared to this. Lions like to eat people.
I think the walk, it’s like death, and I ain’t talking shit. It’s like death because its like being nowhere and between everything. It’s not the locker. It’s not the ring. It’s concrete walls passing by. It’s the world telling me, this is who you are for right this moment. You been around 30 years and change and this is what you got to show. Like my life passing in front of me. But then my dick is calling my name a good seven inches ahead of me. The dick knows what it wants. Trust the dick. And then there’s this light at the end of the tunnel.
And where the light is – glory.
The hall empties into the arena entrance and I walk down the bull-run into a blaze of noise and light and total ape-shitness. Case slaps me on the ass. It’s like I’ve just been born proper.
The bull run that leads from the hall to the center fighting ring of the Boston Brigham Arena is lined with riot barriers to hold back the crowd from tearing pieces off me. People are holding up signs, condoms, underwear, any shit to get my attention. People waving cell phone cameras at me. The women, they get me zinged. They’re waving their panties at me. Their bras. Their bare tits. My natural tribute. They’re looking at my dong in the black sheath as it goes by and I step a little flat footed to make my weapon wave to the crowd, hello ladies. Do you love me? These are all the cheap seat mooks, crowding the barriers, trying to get in some touch. Trying to cop a feel of the glory. The air is fucking rank with pussy. Jesus Christ. Fucking pheromones. A girl’s locker room, a women’s fuckatorium. Women screaming, shaking their tits at me. The cult of the masculine. And I am the god of the Bullshit, the great Dionysian God of Pure Stiff Dick Bullshit – Bananarama.
I snatch a weentsy pair of pink silk thongs with tiny Betty Boops all over them, held out from the end of some hot bitch’s fingers and press them to my face. Sweet Jesus. Pure wet cunt. Nothing smells finer. Nothing smells like it, fucking period, amen brother. I breathe them. I kiss them. Hold them to my face and taste them. A long curly hair stuck on the end of my tongue. I suck on it. I inhale the green seaweed smell and it makes me dizzy to fuck somebody right down on the floor right now, I don’t care who. Even Gerry would look good to me right now. I hang the pink Betty Boop thongs on the end of my leather shielded dong and it waves in front of me like a little battle flag as the cheap seat mooks go out of their mother grabbing skulls for me.
I know this shit house. It’s funny how the fighting arenas all look the same after awhile, only the dressing rooms are different. This is where I did this butch Russian dyke once right here back in the Juniors, before I hit the big time. Red hair, cunt hair, big tits. It was hard going, until I started punching her in the tits and it turned out she loved it. Crazy fucking bulldagger. When I finally had her pinned and I was doing her good, she had this fine little mustache that would curl up at the ends whenever she’d orgasm and do that monkey grin. I made her come three times and got a TKO off her, but I never zoned her ass out. Never did. Those real iron ass diesel dykes, you’ll never break them if you’re a guy unless you’ve been trained for Extreme Dominant, maybe Third Degree Black Domino at the least. Even those guys almost can’t ever do it. Fuck that shit. I never had any business being in the ring with her and me still in the Juniors, Christ, what a rat fuck, but I had bad management then.
Case leads me to our corner of the ring and peels the wet thong off my cock. Now there’s a little wet stain on the leather from the wet silk, you can see it shine in the flood lights. I hope the cameras can pick that up. I can make the cover of Adult Sports Illustrated with that shot.
I raise my arms high over head and step my legs apart. I am the God of Prick, Bananarama. Where’s my virgin sacrifice?
Case reaches under and unbuckles the phallus sheath and steps aside so the cameras can get a good frame. He lifts the sheath, with a faggy flourish like a matador’s cape. My righteous cock. My bazooka of justice. High and hard.
My high holy penis and I, we climb under the ropes and I take a seat on the wooden stool, a kind of tradition from the past. On the other side of the ring there’s a huge swell of cheers and applause. Chanting in a foreign yik-yak language. That side of the arena, it’s mostly chinks. They’re here to see the cream cake I came to bake. She’s a chink chick. Chink chick chink chick chink chick.
I did my homework proper like I always do, I tried to find out about this little ol’ chink chick I’m here to fight, but fuck, there’s nothing on her. Nothing, not a mother fucking thing. I saw the youtubes of her fights, but I still don’t know what kind of sugar and spice she’s made of inside. Nobody’s ever pinned her down long enough to fuck her, so nobody’s figured out how to break her. She showed up out of nowhere in Indonesia, blew through the Juniors and welterweights, half a dozen men fucking blew their brains out over her after she imprinted their fag asses in just the first round, but nobody can say where the fuck she comes from. Women are scared shitless of her, Case says she can’t even get a booking with a woman anymore. Maybe she should fight a Russian bulldyker, see her rat fuck that shit.
I’m still worked up. Sitting on the stool in the ring corner, I feel this sore little lump in my ass where the shot went in, not to mention where Gerry bit me. I shift and try not to sit on it. I’m jittery and hot as a stud bull in the stall.
The Boston Brigham arena is packed to the walls, enough for a small town. The press pit is filled with reporters with gadgets stuck in their ears and eyeballs and probably up their asses. This is the big time, the real time, the old days, the truth days, the righteous days. The days of crazy pussy. Zing zoom zam pow bam Fuck!
Case yells in my ear over the crowd noise. “Don’t slouch. Don’t hold your breath in. Breathe out.” I close my eyes, exhale and sit up straight. I put a finger to the right side of my nose, hold it and inhale into my belly slow and deep. I feel calmer. I focus my awareness on a spot just under my navel and hold it there. Lot of cigar smoke tonight. I move the finger to the other side, exhale, switch sides and inhale deep again, counting the rhythm of my heart. Better. Five beats in. Hold. Five beats out. Woof. Move finger. Inhale. Five beats. Better.
Behind my eyelids I can hear her feet shuffle-step onto the thick 90 foot square futon mat just in front of me. The world’s biggest bed. The crowd falls weirdly silent. I open my eyes and she’s just a few feet away, looking right at me, trying to get in my psychological space. My territory. Trying to spook me. Go ahead, little tit bitch.
The small, nude, Asian woman dances light as a sparrow without an ounce of fat on her anywhere. About 18,000 men all go apeshit, you can hear them yelling to put their dick up all her tight dark places. I can’t even guess this chink girl’s age, but from her stats she’d be about 27 years. If I met her on the street I'd think maybe eighteen or finger lickin’ sixteen; she looks like a kid but she has the wizened eyes of a woman. Dark skin, no tan lines, no body hair, head hair chopped short as a nun on top so there’s nothing to grab onto, and clean muscle lines that pop out smoothly when she moves. Six pack belly, with just the perfect layer of padding. Sweet faced as a Buddha, with a small nose and almond eyes that look calm and alert. She radiates confidence. She radiates sex. Every man in the arena is sitting with his mouth open like a dog. I look at her bald little pussy and I'm imagining what it’s going to feel like when I slip it in there nice and slow, after I've softened her up proper.
I’ve seen her fight clips, she’s a helluva kicker, has to be because she’s short. She’s too damn short by the looks for most of the standing penetration positions, that’s okay. I’ll pin her down on her belly where she can’t get at me with her feet and slip in from behind until I’ve got her pacified and seeing things my way.
She’s moving her feet, hovering them over the mat in a perfect sweeping circle like a music box dancer; and she has beautiful feet this girl, and moving her long graceful hands in some kind of gesture. I’ve seen this little show of hers somewhere before. Old Chinese folks in the park in the morning. Tai Chi, and something else different, something with sudden precise moves. Calm and violence together. So that’s her shit, Tai Chi. I can defend that shit. The foot sweeps forward and up, held aloft perfectly vertical and still as a ballerina. Not a shiver. She’s got a couple moves, all right.
Man, won’t she look sweet on her knees licking my meat in my hotel room tonight. Pass the soy sauce, boys, we’re having Chinese. I might even break her twice to make sure she doesn’t ever go anywhere. I’ll need a new work out bitch to bang, because Gerry doesn’t look like she’ll be around much longer.
She does the pantomime thing like holding a ball in front of her, then her hands turning her mental ball upside down. Let her have her fun. I look down and my cock is so fucking solid I could hammer it through a wall. I could hammer it through her.
She hops into the air with a nice little spin kick, drops like a snow flake with her little flat chink tits swaying, tiny brown nipple nubs pointing up at the lights, and makes her invisible ball again and sways back soft as shit on her heels, arching her back like a sleek cat with far away eyes and perfect balance, everything in place. Sweet kid.
The microphone drops down to the arena, just like in the old boxing matches. This is the only place you ever see an old fashioned microphone anymore. The three legged stool. The drop mike. All tradition. The religion of the masculine. The temple of the fuck. The Killing Floor where souls die. The girl stops what she’s doing and walks to her corner slowly, arrogant as a bull fighter. I watch her wiggle that narrow little chink ba dink-a-dink as she goes. The referee in black dress pants and a red and white zebra stripe shirt comes out of nowhere while I’m staring at the kid’s ass, some old fuck I’ve seen in matches somewhere. He yanks the dangling mike out of the air.
"Good evening from the Boston Brigham Sports Arena." The crowd bites the cheese. Cheering, fuck time. "The title match of the evening. In the north corner, the challenger, and light weight South East Asian Full Contact Division World Champion, and All Asian Dim Mak Union leader, undefeated - Tiger Lee! Tiger Lee!"
The crowd goes nuts. The air stinks with the hot chow mein breath of thousands and thousands of chink men who are baying for sex, every man gay or straight in this place wants that little woman hot and heavy on the futon mat right now. They’d sell their mothers to do her.
"In the south corner, the Sexual Federation Combat Consolidated middle weight and Western Regional Union champion, for three years undefeated, undisputed champion of the world - Mack Daddy! Mack Daddy!"
I stand up, wave my arms for the crowd and they go effing mother krunk over me, sweet fuckin’ A, full time mother. Those are my people out there. The women, giving me the look, the way the men were checking on Tiger Lee. The Boston Brigham Sports Arena sits 22,000 plus the broadcasting, and every woman in the place wants her feet up in the air and my rock hard dong banging them bad right at this moment. Talk about glory? Baseball? Football? Fuck that. The fucking president can’t touch nothing like what I got. There ain't nothing can touch this. Nothing. This is male glory. This is dick glory. This is the ultimate warrior glory. Every man wants to be me right now. And they're right to want that. I am the god. I am the stud.
There’s none of this touch gloves shake hands shit when the ref brings us within striking distance in the center of the mat, still talking his referee smack at us. Tiger Lee is looking into my eyes, trying to bore a hole into me and I’m doing the same thing, looking right at her. The ref is talking but nobody’s listening because the real battle is being fought right now.
“Chink chick,” I whisper at her. “Chink chick. Fucking little chink chick.” I make smoochy lips at her.
She’s scowling at me. Think you can out scowl me bitch? I’m reading you. I’m not thinking about you. I’m just playing notes on your keys, blowing notes on your holes, listening to see how you’re tuned, what will make you sing me an opera when I’ve got you on your back, bitch. I got your number. You’re going down on me chink yellow bitch smooth as green tea ice cream, and I’m gonna make you love it sweet thing, when I take you home tonight on a dog chain to suck my dong all night till I tell you to stop. Fuck! You little chink bitch! Fuck you little girl!
She’s suspending her breath, big mistake, drives up blood pressure. That means her heartbeat will be accelerating right now, sending hot blood to the clitoral bulb and descending clitoral yoke. Is she a fucking amateur? Is she stupid? These are kid stuff, Junior League mistakes. Sinuses congesting. Slight flush around her aureoles. Capillary dilation. Rise in basal temp. Any second now.
Her eyes jink away, a fraction of a second. There it is.
That’s it. Nailed you. Busted your cherry. Right then. Bingo bango. It’s over. Wham bam Thank you ma’am. I’ve got you, bitch. I’ve got your tits in my lips. I’ve got your ass in my hands. I got your cunt nailed to my bedpost. I own you, bitch. I own you right now. Just spread ‘em and get this over so we go back to my crib and get it right. Don’t waste my time.
I glance at her corner. Her corner lady, some old chink, looks like she didn’t see it. This match is fucking over. All but the fucking part, it’s over. I won. Stud wins every time.
Referee steps away. Bell rings. Ref waves his arms.
She stands her ground, but holds her shoulders in an uncertain way. Is she shook? Or playing games? I can’t figure her out. I can’t see how she got this far in the game by being so dumb, so out of control. She just stands there making me guess. No defense stance, no fist or posing. She stands like she’s waiting for a damn bus. Or the fucking Chinese national anthem.
I’m so full of jizz and jazz, I’m so pumped I can’t stay in one spot. I feel like fucking anything that walks, or crawls, or stands at attention. Staying out of kicking range, a sharp eye on her hips and feet, I’m circling all around her, owning her personal space, winding her up like a clock spring. I love that cute little chink chick ass. The arena and the crowd and the cameras go away. It’s not about the money. It's me and her. It’s intimate. No lover, no spouse, nobody gets more intimate than this woman and I are at this moment, because one of us is going break the other. We are close like a fox and a rabbit are close, and I’m the fucking fox. We are the only living beings in the universe as I circle behind and she acts like I’m not here, not even turning her head, just waiting quietly. I make a sudden move, jabbing the air with my fist. Nothing doing. Is she high? Is she scared? Do I just throw her down on her back and go to work on her? This can’t be it.
I circle around her and she goes on standing with her hands at her side. I make little jabs,hit and run little slaps at her skin to get a feel, a read off her. She’s calm. Empty. Skin feels empty. Fuck. Is she insulting me with this shit?
Slow, so slow, never turning to look at me, she lifts her hips just slightly, steps out just slightly. Lifts up her ass a fraction, just so. Passive. So, passive. So willing. Arches her back just slightly, lifting that ass. I can’t take my eyes off her ass. I can’t. It’s like . . . it’s like its just . . . so there.
God. Damn. She’s got a spooky ass on her. I . . . It’s like I never saw an ass before in my whole life. Like I never seen an ass until now. Oh sweet Jesus. That ass. I just. . . I just gotta have that ass . . .
I pounce without thinking it through, trying to grab her around and pin her arms so I can ram my dick up her ass till it bleeds and – she just drops like there’s eyes in the back of her head. Dips straight out of my arms like she’s greased and jumps behind me.
I spin on my toes – no one there. What the blue fuck – how?
I feel the breeze, the pressure wave before I feel the edge of the foot whack my temple just in front of my right ear with perfect violence. The arena spins and the mat hits my face. Jesus. I love this girl. Sincerely. I’m in love.
I somersault to my feet and already she’s on the move, a hop, a flying round house spin to nail with me with her other foot, shut me down just enough so she can pin me and go to work on my pleasure zones. I get my arm up just in time and the heel hits my elbow and for a few seconds my right arm goes numb. Her leg snaps back into a fighting stance, looks like Shoto Kan to me, and I make a loose little sideways jig just out of range, keeping my eyes on her eyes. You don’t watch the hands or feet. You watch the zone of the eyes. That’s where the action is. I keep my mind still, calm alert, my boner true, consulting with the jizz and the fizz, listening to my Inner Dick. No time to think how she got to me just now. This is one spooky bitch. The side of my head stings and my eye feels a little puffy but I’m okay. Not a big deal. It’s not like other kinds of fighting. You knock your opponent out, you completely defeat yourself. You want to take good care of them. You want him or her wide awake so they feel every horribly sweet thing you do to them right down to the bone.
She feints with a knee, but I never look away from her eyes. I don’t let myself think, just stay in the zone. Her right knee dips, which telegraphs a right fist coming at my chest; side stepping I grab it behind the knuckles, my fingers digging into her palm, bending her fist back against her wrist, a simple Aikido bone lock – tenkai kotegeshi – twist the wrist, spin her around like a waltz, my hip in her belly – kube nagi –down with the arm and over my head she goes in a sweet ass over elbow, bam on her incredible ass.
I drop my right knee into the small of her back and yank her shoulders down, breaking her balance. I snake my right arm around in a flash, jamming the hollow of my inner elbow against her throat centered exactly between her pert little chin and her clavicle forming a triangle with my bicep and forearm around her neck. Clasping my hands together behind her shoulder, I squeeze the sides of her throat with my arm, very hard.
Her feet are kicking, panicking, trying to stand. That’s good, I want her to stand, set her up for what’s coming next. I rise from my knees, pulling her up with me, clenching my arm muscles tight around her neck, stopping the flow in her jugular and carotid artery. No blood is getting up to her brain anymore. Now she’s standing, trying to hook a foot behind mine and take me down but I just keep my knee in her back, easing her backwards, leaning her so her spine’s resting against my knee, never letting her get her balance.
Her arms are flopping, trying to get at me, but she’s slowing down.
That's it little girl. You’re getting very sleepy. Relax. Go to sleep now. Don’t make a fuss. That’s a good girl. When you wake up with my dick inside you, you're going to feel so much better. You're going to be real fine sucking me off every night for the next ten years.
Her face is turning purple and her eyes are swelling closed. Her cheeks are puffing out like a Roland Kirk solo. All the fight's drained out of her so its safe now to keep my right arm tight around her throat and reach around with my left hand, staying under her left arm to keep her from sucker punching me in the kidney, as I scoot my left hand around her left tit. This isn’t to cop a feel, I want to check her heart beat. She's beating about 138 per minute. Dropping. She's sincerely going to sleep. She looks so sweet. 128 per minute. 110 beats a minute and her arms are hanging down and the wet little tip of her pink tongue is sticking out touching her lower lip in the cutest way. Looking over the top of her head I glance at her corner lady, just to make sure I'm not being faked. The old bat is waving her fist, yelling in Chinese or something to the referee to pull me off. She tells me all I need to know.
I see the glass eye of a TV camera aimed at us, the boom dropping down to eye level to get a good zoom of the unconscious girl's face. I smile for my fans. I look great guns right now. Who's the stud? I'm the stud. I let go of her neck and spin her limply around and then hoist her upside down, her face touching my knees, pussy almost level with my nose, knees flopping limply around my neck. Where's all your fancy dancing around now, little bitch?
I give her a hefty jog upward like a bag of dog feed to get my arms securely around her ribs, my hands clasped tight around the small of her back. I lean back to shift her weight on my chest, my feet stanced wide apart as I get ready to start my final clit work once I’ve got her labial lips lined up just right. Now that I have her in position, I can feel her start to move, with the blood going back down into her head, but it’s too late. Her ass is grass. I squeeze my arms hard, bear hugging all the air out of her chest, the way a boa constrictor would, squeezing tighter each time she tries to pull a breath. I have to control her asphyxiation. I want to deprive her, not kill her. Keeping the air away from her brain keeps her from fighting me and when I finally bring her to orgasm it'll be devastating, and get that chain orgasm going, bang bang bang like a string of firecrackers until her brains melt down. Guys used to hang themselves by accident trying to get that asphyxiated orgasm I'm going to break her with. Broke seven of my women in the ring doing this. If I ever have a son, I’ll teach him the secret of how to do this to a woman. Or a man.
I hear a low moan from down below, and her hip jerks. Her legs open and close like butterfly wings. This is a very confused girl. I feel her trying to make a move, trying to slip out. No, you don’t. I loosen my arms a second and jog her whole body back up to get her pussy up against my tongue again.
She straightens her legs and instead of pulling away slams her wet crotch into my face hard, the inside of her thigh banging up against my nose. Crazy bitch. She wants it. She’s throwing the match, she wants me to keep going. Glad you’re being reasonable about this.
I stick out my lips in a cartoon kiss and pick up her clit and shaft and suck it hard till I can feel all of it contained inside my mouth. She has a big clit. Almost like a tiny dick. I give her another bear hug to keep her brain from getting smart, but she does it again. Throws her pussy up hard against my face, almost tipping me over. I’ve practiced this move with Gerry on a balance beam. I’m a lousy tipper baby.
Fuck, I can’t breathe.
Her thighs are like steel bands locking around both sides of my head. Bending her knees for leverage she presses her cunt up against my face as tight as an oxygen mask – but no oxygen.
Crazy chink bitch – she smothering me with her cunt!
I don’t stop, I keep working the clit, shaking her from side to side, trying to get her legs from around my head so I can catch a breath. I’m being smothered by an octopus. And then I feel it down below. Oh sweet Jesus. . . that’s . . . that’s good.
She’s got me in her mouth, deep throating me, laving that hot tongue around and around, in constantly moving rhythm. Her tongue work is fantastic. I’ve never felt anything like this in my life. My chest is spasming, screaming for air and I don’t even care.
But there’s the jitters coming off her interior labia. She’s losing it too. She’s so busy strangling me and making me come she can’t fight what I’m doing to her. I bear hug her ribs till I can feel them bend and for just a second that tongue motions hesitates. Then it comes back.
This is the craziest goddamndist thing that has even happened to me in three years in the professional ring. I’m asphyxiating her ass, getting her off at the same time, I know she’s absolutely going to lose it any second, I’ve got her right on the edge and this whole time she goes right on sixty-nining me. She’s licking my dog like an angel and strangling me with her legs and I’m dying on my feet and things are graying out and all I can think of is how I’ve just gotta come in her mouth before I die.
This is a race to the finish line chased by black fire breathing hounds of lust. This is the twilight zone. This is an insane nightmare wet dream. We’re racing balls to the walls against each other for our lives, for our souls, racing against the pleasure that will drown and enslave who ever orgasms, giving it all we got, no concentration left to resist dropping into the void. Whoever makes the other come first, goes home with that person as their slave.
Gray turns to tunnel vision. My ears are ringing and my legs are wobbling. I can’t fight it. I’m going down, I’m gonna shoot my load down her gullet before I hit the floor – but . . . the fuck . . Here it comes, the ripples against my tongue. I’m taking her down with me, fighting to nail her even as the waves of ecstasy wash over me, thrilling me, curling my tongue tip downward and working her G spot, and sucking her clit at the same time. I push back the clitoral hood with the tip of my tongue, feel that tiny spaghetti noodle tip of a glans and work the glans as I feel my balls squeeze and the Roman candle goes off in her mouth. Her thighs let go and pump wildly at my mouth, out of control, and I feel those firecracker waves spasming her vaginal walls, squeezing my tongue.
Have I been asleep?
I’m lying on my back looking up at the big flood lights. My head is throbbing, and I feel something wet under my nose. My eyebrows are itching. What am I doing, what is this place. . .
Blank. There is this huge blank space where I don’t remember anything. Like being dead. Oh no. Oh no. Oh no. Not me, please God no. I’m think I’m gonna be sick.
I can’t get up, I’m weak as shit. I roll over on my side and try to let my stomach settle, feeling that little lump in my ass where the shot went in. I’m been in the Broke Zone. Wide open. How long have I been laying there with my eyes rolled back while she ran barefoot through my brain?
A motion next to me gets my attention. I glance over, and she’s there too just a few feet away. Stretched out on the mat. Her nose is bleeding. She’s got hundred mile eyes, like she’s in another world, shaking her head, her legs jerking like a spastic sock puppet. Her muscles are messed up. Her reflexes are totally fucked up. She’s a spaz case. She looks high as a kite. Her eyes roll over and meet mine and I know those eyes. I’ve seen those eyes looking up at me from the mat 31 times. And son of a bitch – I’ll bet I’ve got those eyes too.
I nailed her. I know I did. Drove her right into zombie land. Knocked her out of the fucking world. We had each other. Together. At the same time. This has never ever happened that I ever heard of. A simultaneous imprintation orgasm in the ring. We knocked each other right the fuck out.
In all my life I’ve never seen anybody look at me the way she is right now. Soft. And she means it, I know she does. She’s in love. She wants me to love her, and I want to love her too. We’ve got respect. I never felt this way in my life. We could stop this, we could stop this right here, and be lovers. Real lovers. In love lovers. I could lie next to her at night and we’d hold each other tight and just tell each other about our love.
She rolls over on her belly, with those soft wounded eyes and tries to crawl over to me. Her lips move. I reach out my hand and gently wipe away the blood from under her nose and she lets me. Her hand brings mine to her lips. She licks her blood off my hand and holds it against her face.
The bell rings ending the round and Case is running, and the Chinese woman from her corner is running. We ignore them, gazing into each others eyes. We can do this if we want. We can end this and be together.
Case hauls me to my feet and I stagger on watery knees, leaning against him as he brings me to the corner and drops me on the stool.
Tiger Lee and me, we’re both looking at each other across the mat like besotted school kids. We’re both fucked up behind the eyes. She looks lost. As she sees my eyes on her she looks away and then starts to stand. Her corner woman puts her hands on her shoulders and shoves her back down. They’re not playing for the audience, it’s real.
The old chink woman grabs a towel that’s been soaking in ice water and splashes it on her like a cold shower, trying to get that basal temperature down, trying to shock her out of her dreams and back into the real world.
Case is slapping ice water on me trying to cool me off. But it’s not working, what Case is doing. I want to say something, I don’t know what to say. I don’t want to do this anymore. Something’s happened. I’m feeling it. I’d do anything for that woman right now, anything she asked. Something broke. It’s bad. It’s bad this time. I’m balls deep in the shit and upside down. Fuck me. I look across the ring at Tiger, and I just want to be alone with her and just . . . just do any shit she tells me. It’s all gone out of me. She’s turning her head, looking at me too and the demon light has gone out of her. The corner lady keeps grabbing her by the chin, turning her head away to look at her, and Tiger looks pissed. Case is looking at me too, disturbed, checking me out.
“How we doing on points?” Trying to talk my ass out of this. But Case is zeroed in on me, reading me, passing his hands over my head, scrutinizing my face.
“Fuck the points,” says Case, “We’re not fighting for points. Mack, you gotta tell me. That was seriously the weirdest shit out there I’ve ever seen. What the fuck happened out there? Be straight, if you lie I’ll know. Did she get in your head?”
I nod, all beat down.
“Are you fucked up?”
I shake my head. I don’t want him to know. I want to get back out there to be with Tiger. She’s looking right at me and arguing with her corner lady. Things are fucked up over there too.
Case slaps my cheek, hard. “Macko, you in there? Anybody in there? Are you fucked up?”
“You look fucked up, all right? You look seriously fucked up. Is she in your head Mack? Did she get you?”
Case takes a deep breath and drums his fingers on my shoulder. “Holy shit,” he mutters. “Holy shit. Holy fuck, this is bad. Mack, this is very bad. I’m calling it.”
I grab his bicep and squeeze. “Don’t you call shit!”
“Mack, you’re over the line here. Let go.” He pulls my hand off. “I gotta call it, man. I’m stopping the fight.”
“Don’t you call shit! Don’t you fucking call shit, I swear I’ll beat your ass.”
“She zoned you bad, Mack.”
“I zoned her ass too!”
“Hell you did.”
“I did – fuck, just look at her. I zoned her ass good.”
Case takes a long sideways look at the fucked up shit going on in Tiger’s corner. “Jesus fuck.” He mutters. “This is seriously the weirdest shit I’ve ever seen.”
The referee is in the center ring, looking from corner to corner and tapping his wrist. Case holds up four fingers. Give us four minutes before the bell. Tiger’s chink corner lady yammers some yik-yak shit at the ref and he throws up his hands and backs off to go talk with the judges.
“Now you listen,” says Case, serious as a pregnant girlfriend, “Listen good. She zoned you, Mack. You’re screaming zonked, man. I can see it. A dope can see it. It’s in your eyes. It’s in your voice. It’s in your skin. She fucked your soul. She chewed your brain, man. Maybe you nailed her too, I don’t know, I can’t take a chance. You’re my fighter, she’s not. I’m responsible for you. She really fucked you up the ass that time and if she nails you again that’s a double imprint and your brain will be seriously scrambled for the rest of your sorry ass life. Rules say you have to stop the fight before that happens.”
“Mack, you stupid fuck – “
“I nailed her too. I zoned her Case, I’m telling you so help me Jesus, I zoned her ass – “
“She’s gonna kill you, Mack!”
That stops me. His voice is trembling, practically crying. “You’re out of your league. You lose this shit, you’ll be double dummied by the same person, you’ll be a wasted brain dead fuck up like Gerry. And this bitch can do it. I’m calling it. You’re better off losing the belt than losing your soul.”
The ref comes back out and he’s heading towards us. Case starts to speak and I slug him in the gut with my elbow and the air wheezes out of him. “Shut the fuck up,” I whisper. “You ain’t calling shit. I’m doing this.” Before he can speak I stand up quick, make fists and pat my fists together. Let’s go. Let’s do this.
Case is all kinds of right. I know it. We’re all way over the line here. We’re in the fucking Twilight Zone. But I want her. It’s not the championship belt. Fuck the belt. I want her because I want her. She’s in my head. I was always scared of this, but now it’s happened and its not so bad. Maybe this is what its like to be zoned, I don’t know. But I want this bitch so bad it kills me. Its all I can think of, all I’ll ever want . She’s enough. We’ll quit when this is over. Go off somewhere by ourselves and make babies. But she leaves here with me or else, and I don’t even know what or else is. If this is what the sweet damnation feels like, I’ll have to live with it.
Tiger is standing up too. She looks baked. I can do this. I can score this bitch and take her home. Fuckin’ A. Stud wins every time. Definitely.
The ref claps, points – bell rings.
I bounce a little on my toes to get it going. But it’s not going. She’s coming out cautious now, bouncing on her toes like me, shaking her head, making her swollen breasts bounce to get my attention down, away from her eyes. But I’m watching her eyes. I’m on her. But the eyes are different. I send out my senses and feel her vibes, sniff the air, get the wind of her and nothing comes back that makes any sense.
I keep moving, circling around her space. She’s forced to respond to me, to react to what I’m doing, keep me from getting behind her. I’m leading her. Her stance is just a little sloppy. Legs too far apart, because of the sensitivity down there. Basal tempo is high, sinuses congesting, nipples swollen and dark. Interior labials protruding, swollen, the clitoral hood down all the way over the glans. She’s hopped. She’s chopped on sex. She got me off once, it’ll be harder to get me off a second time. I can use that. Women are the other thing, you get them off once its easy to get them off again. I can use that too. She’s breathing harder, her sinuses swelling. She can’t hide it from me. She’s so wide open, I can see everything. Her hands flex with that old Bruce Lee “come and get it” gesture, but I’m working the outside circle, waiting to see my shot, listening to my inner voice.
I can bag you, bitch, definitely I can bag you. Stud wins every time. Definitely definitely definitely. Sweet Jesus.
She jumps at me. I keep moving, not a flinch. It’s the old days. The bad days, the great days. They’re back and I’m movin' in the spot light and I’m going to bag me some good bitch. Come on. Come on.
I waggle my hips, make my phallus dance for her and the crowd loves it. It gets her attention for a fraction of a second and she drops her eyes to it. I pounce and she skips back, startled, trying to hide it, but I see it, just for a moment. A bit of fear. The inner conflict as she wants to surrender to me and be taken which is what a woman is hard wired to want, but there’s still that killer instinct she’s trained so hard for.
She steps her left foot back and dips into a small crouch, she doesn’t know what to expect she’s just being ready. I’m not thinking. I’m not feeling. I’m in the moment. I’m in the Zen. I’m just waiting for something I don’t even know what.
She backs off, shaking her head. And I feel it, it hits me, just psychically, like being punched in the soul.
I can’t do this. Not like this. She comes towards me, warily. Arms out . I throw myself down to the mat, spin on my heel, sweep her legs out and she doesn’t fight me. She drops and in a flash I’m on top of her.
She doesn’t fight. She pulls me on top of her, puts her lips to my face, peppers my face with butterfly kisses and puts her tongue in my mouth. We lay like this for the longest time. Just kissing. That’s all. That’s all. Like kids. I haven’t just kissed a girl in years. I feel shy, mother fuck, I forgot what it even feels like to be this shy.
Then it starts. The booing. All around us the crowd is freaking out. They came here to see some blood. To see some soul getting fucked.
The crowd. The cameras. The fans. The contracts. The endorsements.
My messengers race over her body and tell me things. Her sensitive places, mapped. Her state of arousal, calculated. But I don’t want to zone this bitch. I want to give her pleasure. It’s enough. I feel right now that I’d do anything she tells me, anything. But still –
I slide my left hand down her right lateral nerve meridian and feel the change in her skin. Her right ear, secondary zone, setting up the primary zones. My finger tips touch behind her right ear, caress. My other hand, reaches behind her head, tips her head back and I nuzzle her throat as I run that hand back down, tapping rag time at the sweet sensitive nerve clusters along her belly.
Her body responds. Then I feel it, her hands on the move, touching me there – aw fuck – and there, and then there, oh the little chink skitch , she knows me, she knows me. A pinch that makes me want to hammer my cock in her and give it up. But she changes course, her tongue is still in my mouth, kissing. The tongue that broke me for the first time and sent me into the zone. It tastes like Juicy Fruit gum. She’s not trying to break me. She’s trying to please me. The crowd can’t see it. All they see is two people laying quietly on the mat in each other’s arms, going slow. They’re screaming bloody murder at us. They want the porno they paid long green for.
Her finger explores my anus, she scoots down to get some leverage and I feel that finger going in. I grunt my approval and relax my butt for her.
It lands on my neck, wet, clammy, small. It breaks the spell we’re weaving for each other. I reach behind and pick it off me.
The pink thong.
I raise up and Tiger’s eyes pop open, instantly feeling the disturbance, the rude breaking of focus. Her head shakes – what?
I’m looking at the direction it came from. Case is wigging out. He grabs the three legged stool and throws it down on the mat. He shakes his fist at me.
I look down at her. Her painful little girl face. What am I doing . . . Tiger, honey pie. . . what are we doing? You and me?
I climb off of her, holding the pink thong in my hand like a guilty piece of forbidden fruit. I stagger up and look at Case. He’s holding his hands out, waving What The Fuck at me. Tiger gets up slow, not looking at me, standing solidly, looking over at the woman in her corner who’s doing the same shit like Case. Fuck. Aw fuck.
The ringside mooks, throwing their cigars at us. Throwing programs and chewing tobacco tins, any shit they can grab. A used condom soars by and splats near Tiger’s sweet, deadly little feet.
You fuckers. Oh you fuckers.
She’s looking at me. My training, my radar goes out. I read her body, her face, the set of her jaw. Everything, the blink of her eye, every drop of sweat on her golden chink skin is calling to me – we don’t need to do this anymore. Fuck everybody, it’s just us that matters. Walk away, just us.
I feel my eyes burn, go red with pain. Suddenly I feel like just another naked man with a hard on in front of a big crowd of people. What she did to me, tore the scales from my motherfucking eyes. Its like I can see and I don’t want to see. I was happy before. I’m fucked. Case is right, we’re all fucked up the ass in this place. I’m nothing but a dancing monkey with a boner.
The ref is coming over, people are still yelling shit. He gets one word out - “Forfeit – “ and Tiger hops up in the air like a mad bastard. Her fast right heel fires off a warning shot past the ref’s lip. Back up you fat fuck. This ain’t about you.
Her eyes jink ever so slightly towards the bull run. Let’s go. Naked. Like Adam and Eve. Innocent again. Let’s just walk the fuck out of this shit hole together and never look back. I’m reading her, looking for tricks, but there’s not. She’s not lying. Her eyes plead. I’ll bet a motherfucker this the first time those strong eyes have ever pleaded for anything in her whole goddamn hard ass life. Ever. But –
Tiger baby, no.
We’re gladiators, babe. It’s who we are. And like the old gladiators, we’re still slaves. We’re the slaves of bull shit. We’re still the glamour bitches of the motherfucking sons of bitches who paid for our training. They own shares of our stock. They own the soap in our showers. They own our contracts. Hell, girl, they own our asses.
Tiger baby. You sweet thing. No.
I shake my head. She’s pissed. The crowd. The cameras. The endorsements. Its all going. You fuckers! Ah- this motherfucking world! Why can’t they just leave us be.
I’m still holding the pink thong. I throw it. I don’t know why I do it. I throw it because I’m holding it. I throw it because she’s stomping towards me. I throw it in her face.
She freezes in a fighting stance. She picks it off very, very slowly, with huge dignity and tosses it away. She glares at me with her sharp teeth showing and her fists are clenched tight. The bell rings. End of round two.
Aw fuck. This fucking world.
Case picks up the stool and sets it back up. As I head back to my corner, I look out over the ropes at the flush big money dicks in their pimp ass suits, breezy dime pieces in their fancy gowns, people never hungry for anything a day in their life, judging me. Like they know shit. Like they can judge me. They think they paid some big cream for a ticket and that gives them the right to see a soul get raped in real time for fun and profit. Gets the ladies hot. Beats their cakes. Give it up in the back seat of them long rides. You fucking mooks. You think you’re fancy shit. I read you. I read your eyes. I read the way you hold a smoke. I read your skin. Your breath. I read your mama, in two fucking seconds flat I know her better than you, because the truth is there’s nothing there to know. You’re nothing. You fucking mooks.
“Talk to me, weeble.”
I drop down on the stool and the little lump in my ass is still there. “Almost had her.”
“Doing what?” says Case, all up in my grill now. “Cup cakin’? Kissy face is not the game, Macko.”
“Case, tell me. What the fuck about this is a game? Tell me that one time, Case. Where in this shit we do was there ever a game? Is Gerry a game? Am I a game?”
“You know what? I think you are. You’re a game, Mack. She’s playing you. She nailed you, zoned you flat. She’s in your head. You need to cut your losses. Pull out and let me call it.”
I grab a handful of ice from the bucket and mash it against my face. “No way. Go fuck yourself.”
“I’ll tell the press it was my decision. We’ll let the title go this time, get you straightened out and set up a rematch. Big bucks. Match of the century. We’ll hype it up stellar. Sometimes you just gotta embrace the suck and fight another day. I’ll call it and we’ll come back when you’ve got your marbles right.”
“I done told you, Case. You ain’t calling shit.”
“That’s how you want it?”
“That’s how I fucking want it. Nobody’s going to make a rematch, they don’t let you do rematches. Nobody’ll endorse me. I’m about to lose everything, Case. And you know what? I don’t know if I care. Answer me something. When did they stop throwing people to lions?”
“Those dumb ass lions. When did they stop throwing dumb shits to lions?”
Case sighs. Glances at his watch. Pats my cheek. “What makes you think they ever stopped?”
“Don’t you call shit.”
“Then shut your shit down, peanut,” says Case in my ear, “Stop with the goo-goo shit. You’re not a lover, you’re a fighter. She’s prey. She’s an opponent. She’s meat. That’s all she is. Fight the meat. Bag this little bitch and let’s go home.”
“Bag this bitch! Bag the bitch! Bag her, get her fucked and let’s go home.”
“Bag the bitch. Just bag the bitch!”
“Bag the bitch.”
The bell rings. I’m up. I’m on it. Bag the bitch. Get her fucked. Go home.
She leaves her corner, moving easy, staying out of range, and then stops, fixing me with those eyes like gun sights. She has wild eyes, I can’t read them. I’m looking right at her and for the first time, I don’t know what the fuck, I can’t feel it, I don’t have a clue about her. She holds her palms out and presses them down slow, feet together like a dancer, watching me, focused as a snake on a rat. Her belly swells with the slow intake of her breath. That, now that I can read. It’s a simple message to me, that little belly breath.
She’s not fucking with me anymore. One of us isn’t walking out of here. She wants it all.
Okay. Fuck you too then, bitch.
You want to play like that, we can play like that.
No more strategy, no more thinking. My body is telling me – you don’t seem to know what you’re doing anymore, asshole, step aside and let me handle it. I sink into some place deep inside and stay the hell out of my own way.
Her belly moves. Deep breath. Me. Deep abdominal breath. Fist in palm. Press down. The dumb fucks can see us even from the cheap seats and the over head TV monitors and the entire Boston Brigham Sports arena, and hell yes, even they get it, they get it all at the same time. This shit isn’t fun anymore A man and a woman, drawing their swords. Blades out. The whole joint turns silent as a funeral.
Come on, babe.
Let’s get serious.
Gladiators, we. Purified. Sanctified. Bona fide.
We charge straight at each other.
Our hearts jacked, two mad bats mating by radar, twisting and spinning, colliding like planets, ripping into each other suspended in bright camera lights. Neither of us getting what we’re after, but feeling the electric zing, coming so close, so close each time we touch skin.
I move fast, never letting my feet get too far apart, ready to step and jink and jump. I dart in fast, breaking her personal space – her eyes widen a fraction, dilating nostrils - bingo bango, I fake a spin at her face and it brushes her back. I keep coming at her and she’s back peddling, snapping off front kicks, just little bluffs that stop an inch from my face. She can fight backing up. That’s pretty damn slick, you chink ass bitch. A lot of people don’t know how to do that. It won’t save you from me.
A front snap kick, but this time she plants her foot, and tries to drill me in the heart with a surprise straight knife hand that says it all. Me, side stepping, grab the wrist, twist – Sankyo bone lock - and I see the dark flush of dilating capillaries in her aureoles as she responds to getting caught. She hugs her captured elbow in tight against herself, jumps straight up and flips forward in a mid air somersault, risking snapping her wrist, but her hand slips right out of mine. Sweet Jesus. Genius. This gorgeous little gutsy woman.
A sudden spin on my toes and I see her hopping just to the side of me. I fake a roundhouse that makes her raise up her guard against a head shot and – pow! The ball of my foot zaps the connective tissue of the sartorius muscle of her right inner thigh dead fucking nuts perfect, beautiful, and that leg is toast, brother. She hops back, her eyes narrow with pain. Got you, breezy. Let’s see you jump around now, you nasty little fuck. You can’t do shit with that leg.
Smackdown City, Kitty. You lose, coose. Prepare to be fucked righteous.
A single tear on her face. Not of pain. Or hate. Or rage. Or sad. Or anything I can name. One little tear.
It smokes my dick.
Fuck this shit. Fuck all of it. I’m done. My lips move. I turn away from Tiger. Me, at the ropes, yelling. Me, spit flying at the half assed front row of fat cat cigar sucking widow and orphan screwing, mother fucking weezers.
“You fat smug sonzabitches – fuck you in the ass - all of you!” I hold up my finger.
Total eargasm. The arena goes bat shit. Booing. Screaming. Stuff flying in the air. The camera boom whizzing in for a close up. I am destruction. I am Shiva. I am blind Samson, pulling the motherfucking temple down around their ears. I am free – at last. Free of all the bullshit. Oh god, we can do this. Tiger baby, we can really do this together.
“You don’t own our asses! We’re not circus animals fucking for you! I want out! We’re free! She’s free too! We’re all motherfucking free! I’m fr - !”
It must be the second knuckle of her right middle finger, pointed like an arrowhead, the most precise bone hit you can make and solid enough to break wood, that strikes precisely, beautifully, smack bang excellently against the very end tip of my coccyx bone at the base of my spine. It hits my sciatic nerve like an iron nail swung from the end of a baseball bat.
The agony is nauseating. Way beyond getting kicked in the balls, my whole lower half goes down and I fall into the ropes, bounce backward and drop like my spinal cord has been severed. I feel like I’ve been shot gunned in the nuts. My spine can’t bear my weight. I can’t even stand the pain enough to get my feet under me. I’m twisting around on my side like a worm trying not to piss myself while my spine sends lightning bolts of boiling lead from my ass to my skull. My fingernails dig into the mat and I discover I’m biting the fabric with clenched jaws. My stomach heaves and I try to vomit but even that hurts too bad. I’m gagging on my puke.
Make it stop, somebody. Please god. I’m so fucked.
And then the pain does stop. Just like that.
There are many qualities of pleasure. I’ve been trained in all but one. The pleasure of terrible animal pain very suddenly relieved. That is a pleasure of the soul. This pain, to be suddenly delivered of this pain makes you want to beg for mercy.
Two gentle fingers pressed on nerve centers on my ass check, held exactly right so that I can’t feel anything as long as she goes on holding me there.
“Piece of shit,” she whispers in my ear. I glance over my shoulder and she’s smiling sweetly as a little girl with a sucker and hauling that spearhead knuckle back to do one more piece of major damage to me.
And . . there . . is . .not . . a motherfucking . . .thing . . I can do about it.
The knuckle spear lands on the exact spot where the peanut butter shot went in a lifetime ago. The spot where I’ve been feeling that little lump.
Her knuckle absolutely jambasticates the lump, like a fucking asteroid hit, exploding what was left of a very rudely interrupted syringe injection of undistributed hormone into my system, a little well of hormone that wasn’t worked in, a little goodbye gift from screwed up Gerry.
My dick, which had been starting to sag springs up so hard the glans is swelling like a purple plum. My skin burns again and my balls feel like they’re turning into balloons. Leaping fucking lizards - Bitch! Gonna fuck up your shit bitch – I grab her shoulders to throw her on her damn belly and bust both her goddamn arms and ram seven inches up her tailpipe and -
Aw – fuck – !
She lifts those fingers from my ass.
I don’t hear myself scream, I just feel my throat go raw. The pain has been building up and explodes in a bolt up my spine and this time I do let go and go sick on the mat. But the pleasure is there too, rising from my balls like ice with the fire, over whelming me, filling my senses, stunning me with pure overload. I can’t think straight. Every nerve is screaming shit in my skull at me. Then her fingers dig in on my ass, blocking the nerve centers, like shutting off a fire hydrant of pain.
She rolls me on my back, keeping her fingers on my ass, straddles me and slips me inside her pussy with that sweet smile. She digs her free hand between my legs and presses her finger hard on my perineum so I can never ejaculate until she releases that finger, and begins pumping her hips on me, working my hopped up cock. I try to pull out but I can’t. Her pussy muscles are so strong it’s unbelievable. She’s squeezing and massaging me like a fist with just those muscles and when I try to push her off she just squeezes my cock like a python and won’t let go. I feel like I’ve got my dong up an industrial vacuum cleaner hose. I can’t pull out. I feel the pleasure building, the glans swelling until it feels like it wants to split wide open and she bears down on that pussy squeeze until my eyes are bugging out of my head.
She squeezes squeezes squeezes - BITCH! Sweet Jesus! I feel myself come, but I can’t ejaculate and the orgasm just keeps going and going and it fills the universe of devils and angels yammering in my head. She squeezes and rocks me and I come again. And again. Wave after wave, getting stronger and longer each time like a gigantic sneeze building up in my dick I can’t get off. She can do to this me all night without stopping, making me come over and over without ever getting off any kind of release. The back pressure building up makes my balls ache.
She pumps her hips, rocks and screws me like a belly dancer, and she sees my face scrunch up in male ecstasy again and again. My head is pounding like I’m being beaten on my skull with a golden sugar coated brick. When I try to throw her off, try to fight back, she lifts her fingers off the nerve centers in my ass cheek only a little bit, just to give me a little taste of what’s building up there, and I go limp with my teeth biting my tongue, the agony mixing in a sensuous brew with the unbearable pleasure and I know what’s coming.
She reads me like a pro and works my nerves with exquisite control. Its beautiful work. Fucking beautiful. Gorgeous craftsmanship, what she’s doing to me. She holds me perfectly on the razor edge a long, long time and I’m flopping my head side to side like a spastic and arching my back and I know what I look like to her because I’ve seen so many women losing it all like this under my expert hands. It’s the sweetest sight in the world.
She sees what she’s been waiting for in my involuntary responses. Throwing back her shoulders, she suddenly jerks both her hands away and up in a huge gesture holding them over her head fingers spread wide in victory.
Release the flood gates of sensation. Let loose the howling hounds of pain and pleasure.
Fiery electric agony and stinging ecstasy flood my nerves as the whole neural tsunami lets go and explodes together in my skull in a sunburst of white hot nonsense blasting away everything I’ve ever known. Everything I’ve ever been.
Bliss. Oh, bliss.
Her voice is whispering in my ear filling my starving awareness with only her presence. Only the woman is real. All my life until now has been a dream. There is only the woman now and forever.
“La Noy.” My lips move.
“My secret name - La Noy.”
“Belong to me.’
“Belong to you.”
“Anything for me.”
“I’ll do anything for you.”
“I am your slave.”
“Yes. Yes! God, yes! I love you!”
The death throes of love.
She climbs off of me and gives a waist deep bow to the crowd and then to her corner. Her corner lady bows back reverently, palms pressed together in namaste. She stands towering over me and looking down at me. When she turns her back and steps several feet away, my body and soul cry out to her. She gestures for me to come to her and I bawl like a new born baby. She holds out her foot to me.
I’m whimpering. Drooling. My tongue is sticking out, dry. I’m so thirsty all of a sudden. But she waits for me. Look at her waiting. She’s so patient. She’s so good to me. Gratitude floods me, and I feel tears. I raise my face so she can see my tears.
I used to know. . . . I used to know . . .
I roll onto my belly and try to stand, but the spinal pain drops me. My loving goddess. I crawl on my belly because I can’t stand up, but I need to go over to her because that is what she wants.
She holds out her foot, shakes it impatiently. I’m so slow. I’m such a busted up piece of shit. I want to crawl faster for her, I just can’t. I crawl on my belly, ignoring the pain because La Noy needs me to do something and I must do what La Noy needs me to do. So she’ll know how deep is my love for her. Then La Noy will love me more.
I inch up on my elbows, grinding my teeth against the burning in my ass, stretch out my mouth in delicious anticipation. As I feel her warm toes brush my grateful lips, far away a bell is ringing and the stadium crowd is standing and cheering for her. Cameras are flashing. Who are all these people?
for you . . .
© 2011 C. Sanchez-Garcia. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.
Bio: At this particular time in a wandering, often bizarre and unexpected life, C. Sanchez-Garcia is living quietly in eastern Georgia, where the size of his personal library is bursting the walls of his little house. He stubbornly believes in passion, God, sensuality and spirituality, and that a good love story is life's finest medicine for melancholy. He is the author of the erotic novellas Mortal Engines and the Color of the Moon. Several of his stories have been published in the Mammoth Book of Erotica and Coming Together anthologies as well as the Erotica Readers and Writers Association's online gallery and permanent archives. If you would like to meet the author you will find him at www.facebook.com as Christobal Sanchez-Garcia, and at the Oh Get a Grip writer's blog ohgetagrip.blogspot.com where Sanchez-Garcia's blog appears hell or high water every Wednesday.
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