Dan Boxer's blog

APRIL'S OFFER – PART 1
When a buddy recommended that I try out a new gym he had discovered, I wasn't sure what to expect.
Most of my friends are enamored with the modern, plush gyms … the ones with all the high-end weight machines, the stationary spinning bikes and the treadmills that do everything but run for you. Their locker rooms look like the rest rooms at high-end restaurants … you almost expect someone to hand you a towel when you come out of the shower or stall.
Me … I much prefer the gyms that you find in basements, mostly in areas of towns that have seen better days. They'e spartan by nature … bad lighting, no fancy machines, and an odor of sweat that hits you when you step through the door. That's where I love to be … a gym for fighters.
My buddy knew that, and he didn't steer me wrong. When I walked in that afternoon and saw the medicine balls, the speed bags mounted on one wall, a couple of worn-out heavy bags on another, and a couple of full-size boxing rings, I knew instantly this was my kind of place.
A couple of guys recognized me when I walked through carrying my workout bag. There's a fraternity among boxers in gyms like this … and it stretches to other similar gyms. There are rivalries, but there is also mutual respect between those of us who spend our spare time preparing our bodies and minds for gloved combat.
They introduced me to the gym owner, who given the perils of the economy was glad to see a new face coming in to train. He asked if I needed help with a trainer or in setting up some sparring – and, of course, a membership – and I was just about to check on rates when I glanced to a secluded corner of the big room where heavy bags hung.
It wasn't the bags that drew my eye. It was the rear view of a decidedly female form, one wearing a pink halter top and pink shorts that hugged every inch, and true white boxing boots – not sneakers or tennis shoes, I thought … impressive.
She wasn't that big – 5-3 and maybe 115 pounds – but she was giving the canvas bag a good going-over with both hands, each encased in exactly the right workout mitts for that task. Her blond hair was tied back in a ponytail and flew from side to side every time she swung a punch, and the noise coming from the bag each time she made contact made it obvious she knew what she was doing. Impressive again, I thought.
But not nearly as impressive as when she turned around to work the other side of the bag. Wow ….
High cheekbones and a strong jaw, a stunning body that looked even better from the front than from the back … but it wasn't so much her attractiveness – make no mistake, she was a looker in every sense of the word, the kind that made men get hard and start leaking just with a glance – but it was the LOOK on her face as she pummeled the defenseless bag. It was pure focus and determination, the type of look that let you know she was serious about boxing – maybe not as a fighter, but one that loved the sport.
My cohorts saw me watching her intently.
"That's April," they said, noticing my interest. "Don't waste your time. She's got a guy."
Don't all the best ones, I thought … but it couldn't hurt to go and offer my help, maybe strike up a conversation. And if her guy's the jealous type … I know I can take care of myself.
I walked over and leaned against a wall, close enough so that she'd know I was watching, but she didn't look up and continued her assault on the bag.
"I'm really glad I'm not that bag," I said, trying to induce conversation. "I'd be screaming by now." Still no reaction.
I pointed at the bag, implying if she wanted me to hold it steady. "Actually, yeah, I'd like that," she said, and I grabbed one side of the bag and braced myself.
She stepped back at the other side of the bag and began throwing combinations, and I got a good view. She was truly stunning, every inch toned without being muscular. And that tight two-piece workout outfit left little to the imagination, especially the way she'd sweated through much of it.
Most attractive women don't look nearly as good when they're sweating through a workout, but April looked … alive, that was the best word. She looked at home here in this run-down gym. She wasn't a fighter, that you could tell … but there was no question she knew how to throw a punch, and she could take care of herself in the clinches – which was where I was aching to be at that moment.
When she finally stopped, her chest heaving, she grabbed the bag and leaned against it while she caught her breath. I tried to come up with a compliment that wouldn't be patronizing.
"I think you've worked this bag before," I said. "It's pretty much worn out."
She finally broke into a smile.
"As hard as you were going, you should be going after a different target," I said. "Hey, I'm always available if you need a sparring partner."
"I appreciate it, but that's not my thing," she said, still smiling. "I'm not letting anybody take a shot at this … or these," as she pointed at her face, and then rubbed her chest with her bag mitts.
"I'm more concerned with taking care of this," she said, as she put one of her bag mitts between the legs of her sweat-stuck-to-skin pink shorts, using the thumb to slowly massage her clit for a few seconds.
She saw my surprised reaction, and if she'd looked hard enough she would have seen a huge erection.
"Sorry … it's that I just love being around fighters. Coming to the gym and hitting the bags is a good workout for me, but mostly I love being in the gym … the sounds, the smells … the views," she said as she looked around the gym, watching the male fighters in the two rings. "I get hot when I watch two warriors fight, two alpha males facing each other in the ring, trying to beat the other into unconsciousness …" Her voice trailed off.
I was in the process of determining if this was indeed the most perfect woman ever.
"Would you like to grab a cup of coffee when we get done," I said with a big grin, "or would you just like to go out and get married right now? Or can we just rape each other right here?"
She smiled that same smile.
"I don't want you to get the wrong idea," she said. "I'm with my champion … he's pretty much the best in this gym, and I'm his prize for winning. I keep him motivated, and I just melt when I watch him fight. The only way somebody gets me is by beating him."
Before I could ask where I sign up for that fight, she said, "Duke's fighting here tonight … a charity deal for the local Boys' Club. That's why I'm here now … had to work off the tension. Every time I looked at him today, knowing he was about to get in the ring again and fight for me, all I could think about was his body. And you know the old adage … no sex right before a fight."
At that, she grabbed her towel and bag and headed for the door. I was too dumbfounded to form words.
"I figure I'll see you here tonight," she said over her shoulder, and I watched that same stunning rear view all the way out of the gym.
"You can close your mouth now," one of my buddies yelled over.
Now it was my turn to need a workout, to get rid of the sexual tension. But before I left the gym, I made sure to get the time for tonight's bouts and buy a ticket from the gym owner.

++++++

I could hear the shouts of some of the spectators even before I made it through the door, and most of the metal folding chairs were filled when I entered the gym that evening. Good crowd, good cause … everybody wins, I thought, especially me, if April was indeed back to watch the fights.
There were a couple of lightweights in the ring when I arrived, both novices but well matched, and there was some spirited give-and-take throughout the four-rounder. That was followed by a female bout, but it lasted less than a round since it was obvious that one young girl was much more experienced … her opponent basically turned her back after being pinned in a corner and the referee stopped the right.
One of my buddies, a middleweight like me – we'd sparred some, but I think he knew better than to get in the ring with me for anything more serious – was in the next bout. He held his own against a decent fighter for a couple of rounds, but he got tagged with an overhand right early in the third round and the ref started a count before waving it off.
I went back to the locker room to make sure he was OK – he was – and on my way back toward the ring I saw a tall blonde standing in one of the aisles between the chairs. I knew instantly who it was, even before she turned and walked back up the aisle. In contrast to the overall dingy appearance of the gym, she was a point of light – especially in the red velvet dress that she showed off magnificently. Her heels made her appear even taller than when we met in the gym earlier.
I waved … she had a little wave back, but kept walking toward the other side of the ring, and settled in one of the ringside seats that was apparently saved for her.
Two heavyweights were in the ring, doing a lot of pushing and shoving and not landing very many decent punches, and she and the rest of the crowd watched without much interest or reaction. When they finished – a draw, naturally – I thought about walking around the ring to speak to her. Instead, I decided to wait, stay in the back and see what happened.
In just a few minutes, a fighter came out – a Mexican who carried a little more than his share of baby fat on a big frame. It only took one look to tell this wasn't her man, so I found myself staring toward the locker room door waiting for a first glimpse.
Suddenly, there he was – a big guy, 6-foot-5 and 260 at least with sandy blonde-to-red hair, obviously Irish and obviously muscled from years of gym and ring work. Had to be Duke. Shit, I thought … I've fought guys much bigger than me a lot, but most of them weren't polished fighters … and there wasn't much riding on the outcome. This guy looked nothing like a novice, and he had a dead-serious look as he walked toward the ring.
I also noticed he had on bright red trunks, the same shade as April's dress. Maybe a coincidence, I thought, but maybe not, but there was no doubt about April's leanings … she never sat down and never took her eyes off him as he went up the stairs, climbed through the ropes and started rolling his shoulders and shadow-boxing to stay loose. I swear I saw her slowly lick her lips at one point.
Her guy never changed expression during the ref's instructions and while in his corner waiting on the bell. When it sounded, he came out deliberately but in control, and I was doing my best to put April out of my mind and focus on finding some weaknesses that I could exploit … already convinced that I was going to wind up in the ring with him, and if the prize for winning was what I hoped, the sooner the better.
The Mexican fighter was dancing around, swaggering and smiling, while April's man was watching, slowly moving forward and focusing on getting a handle on his opponent. The Mexican tried some quick jabs, an overhand right and an uppercut, but all found nothing but air or bounced off as Duke continued stalking. It's obvious the Mexican is impatient, throwing lots of wasted punches, but his hand speed is pretty good for a heavyweight and he gets in the first punch on most exchanges.
He also wasn't nearly in the shape as April's champ, who was still circling and waiting for his opportunity, and I could tell that chance wouldn't be long in coming as the Mexican was already down off his toes halfway through the first round. Late in the round, the Mexican tried to feint a left and launch a big overhand right, but Duke skillfully pivoted as the punch flew by and suddenly left the Mexican's beefy body as a wide-open target.
His first big punch was a quick right hand right on the breastbone, and the "thud" of the impact could be heard all over the gym. His opponent stepped back several paces, but quickly regained his composure and started launching some big overhand roundhouse shots, looking to end the fight with one punch. And, surprisingly, one got through and crashed into the side of Duke's face. He staggered back into a corner and the Mexican was immediately on top of him, throwing caution and many punches to the wind. The champ skillfully covered up, but the punches were too numerous and soon he sank to one knee in the corner as his opponent danced away, playing to the crowd.
OK, so he's not superhuman, I think, but I can also see that April's champ still has his wits about him and stays down to recover during the eight-count. When he rises, I see a bloody cut over his right eye, but other than that he appears to be under control and he easily clinches and covers until the end of the round.
All this time, April is standing next to the ring, banging the canvas with her hands and screaming encouragement to her man as she pushes her body into the ring apron. The champ never looks her way, but he can hear her … as can everyone else in the gym.
When the timer goes off for the second round, her champion starts off the same way as he did in Round 1 … slowly and patiently advancing, circling and waiting to find a weakness in the Mexican's defense. His opponent is buoyed by his first-round success and is back to dancing and showboating, but it's already obvious that his conditioning is not up to a long fight.
Suddenly, Duke ducks under one of those roundhouse left hooks and throws a straight right that hits the Mexican square in the face. The punch has his full weight behind it, and his opponent is stopped cold and his nose spurts blood. He tries to clinch, and Duke follows with a left hook to the cheek that splits the Mexican's lip and creates a second blood flow.
The Mexican grabs and holds on, and when the referee separates the fighters it is obvious that the Mexican is laboring and the champ is in control. Duke sends a low combination to the abdomen, the second punch a digging left hook that looks like it buried a foot deep into the body, and the Mexican screamed and went to his knees.
He rose reluctantly as the champ waited in a neutral corner, but as soon as he did the champ continued his assault.
Duke's attack went on for several rounds and he kept the Mexican in constant trouble. Several times he could have finished his opponent off, but it appeared he wanted to draw out the action, maybe get in a workout and maybe prove a point – that the early knockdown was only a fluke.
Eventually the Mexican misses with an uppercut, and Duke clips him with a perfect right hand to the point of the jaw. He staggers to the ropes just above where April stood, and her shouts were audible over the entire crowd. "Yeah, baby," she yelled. "Fuck him up bad! FINISH HIM!" She is leaning so far forward that she's almost between the ropes, and I can see even from back where I'm standing that her red-dressed pussy is rubbing hard against the ring apron. Damn…
Her champ complied with her request, shoving the now-defenseless Mexican up on the ropes and landing an uppercut that nearly lifted his opponent off his feet before he crashed face-down on the canvas.
Shit, this guy's strong, I quickly thought, he can take a punch, and he knows how to handle himself in the ring. I know I'm a lot faster, but that may not be nearly enough if he catches me with one of those ham-sized hands.
The referee stepped in to count and quickly called it off, rolling the Mexican over and taking out his mouthpiece as Duke stood close by, shooting his gloves toward the ceiling.
I quickly looked over at April, and she was breathing just as heavily as the fighters and running her hands up and down the lower rope. Her body was still pressed against the ring apron and her mouth was open and forming a circle, and even from far away I could tell she was trembling with excitement.
I watched her follow him back into the locker room area, and then paid scant attention to what was apparently the final bout of the evening – two featherweights who were apparently local favorites, because the spectators were really getting into the non-stop action. Six or seven rounds into that bout – one that was probably going the distance, I figured, given the high level of ability of both fighters – April and her fighter finally came out of the locker room door.
They were arm-in-arm, but halfway toward the door she spotted me, while I was acting like I was paying attention to the bout in the ring. While her fighter was talking to one of the spectators and had his back partially turned to her, she looked toward me, gave me a wink, quickly pointed at me and then at her man with her free hand, made a fist and punched the air lightly, and nodded her head.
Wow … what do I do … go say hello and congratulate him? That would be very two-faced, since my desire to take him on, beat him and claim his "prize" rose every time I looked at April. Go challenge him now? No, not the right time. Instead, I stayed in the back and watched them leave, her hanging onto his arm with both hands, seemingly attached at the waist and floating beside him as they left.
I'll have my chance … and you better be ready, big guy. I know I will be …

++++++

I made it a point to hang around the gym a lot over the next week – hell, I probably sparred more rounds that week than in most months – hoping that I'd run into either April or her fighter.
I was hoping for the former, because I wasn't sure how I'd approach the guy if it was just him … I mean, how do you go up to a guy and tell him you want to fight him for his girlfriend? Even when she apparently wanted that to happen?
I didn't have to answer that question, since one Monday afternoon when I was sparring with a friend, I looked around and there April was at ringside … and quickly became distracted enough that the next thing I felt was my buddy's overhand right on the point of my jaw. The timer went off a half-second later, and I sort of wobbled over to a corner.
April almost beat me to the corner apron. How long had she been there? I wasn't sure.
"You get hit like that from my guy, and you won't wake up until Tuesday," she said with a big grin. "I was hoping it would be competitive … but now I'm not so sure you're ready for him."
"See what you think five minutes from now," I said. It was the best I could do for a comeback line, since just looking at her had me tongue-tied – and with a growing stiffness inside my protector.
When the timer went off for the next round, it was all I could do not to sprint across the ring, and I started throwing some serious punches at by friend-turned-adversary. For me, this had changed from a sparring session to a tryout, one that I wasn't going to let slip by.
My first serious combination was a straight left, an overhand right to the cheekbone and a pivot to throw my favorite punch, a left uppercut just below the rib cage. I'd put more than one opponent down gasping for breath with that, and this one landed pretty perfectly. My buddy quickly went to one knee, trying to draw in air, and looked up at me with a questioning look on his face, trying to figure out what turned our friendly sparring into a serious exchange in a matter of seconds.
I walked back to the corner, put one glove under an arm and jerked it off before removing the other one, indicating we were finished with this session. April climbed up on the apron, smiled at my friend – he was still on a knee, catching his breath – and took the gloves out of my hands. She held them under her nose and breathed heavily for a second, before handing me a towel she had taken from a chair and brought to the apron with her.
"That's more like it," she said. "You're not bad … a little overanxious, maybe, but you set up your shots well, you've got pretty heavy hands for your size and they're really quick. Really good hands," she added, as she took one in hers and stared at it.
How I'd like to show you how good my hands, and a lot of other body parts, can be, right here and right now, I thought to myself.
"Think I would stand a chance against your guy," I said, grinning but at the same time making sure she knew I wasn't joking.
"Doesn't matter," she said. "I've already got a fight set up between you two. Be here Saturday night, nine o'clock … just you. Bring all your stuff with you, and I'll take care of the rest."
She handed me my gloves, and when I took them she made a point of rubbing her hand against my chest, then down my suddenly goose-pimpled abdomen, past the waistband of my trunks and down to my crotch, where she gave my protector a squeeze … enough for her to realize she had me hard as a rock.
"And you won't need this thing," she said, grabbing the edges of the protector one more time before stepping back, climbing down the steps and walking out the front door before I could respond.
I stood there dumbfounded for a few seconds, a mixture of shock and excitement, and realized I was as close to orgasm as I'd ever been in the ring. I quickly headed for the locker room … I really needed a cold shower.
When I got there, there was an envelope taped on my locker. In it was a photo of April, but not a regular photo. She was on a bed of red sheets with her head close to the foot of the bed, her blonde hair loose and seemingly spread all the way across the bed. Her stunning legs were propped against the headboard. She was naked except for a black boa over her crotch and a pair of long black gloves that were both sneaking under the boa and doing god-knows-what underneath. Her eyes were closed and lips barely parted, a pretty good indicator that her hands were working over what had to be a flaming-hot pussy. Her lovely breasts were round and incredibly inviting.
Written at the bottom of the picture were three words: "Worth fighting for?"
Later that night, that picture and its message provided me with all sorts of sensuous dreams. God, how am I going to wait a week?

++++++

The week seemed to last a year, and my excitement level grew each day. I was working out with a passion, and found myself asking the biggest guys in the gym to spar with me so as to prepare myself for a bigger opponent. None of them were anywhere near as good as April's champ, but getting used to pushing and getting leaned on by more weight in the clinches – and aiming my shots at a much taller opponent – couldn't hurt.
April had written her e-mail address on the back of the photo, so I couldn't resist sending a note early in the week asking for more details about the fight. The first message I got back, only minutes later, read, "The only things you need to know is the fight goes to a knockout, it is winner take all, and I am the prize."
Oh, jeez, not only do I have to beat a guy who outweighs me by 100 pounds, but I have to knock him out. So much for my first strategy of keeping my distance, ducking and jabbing, and piling up points.
That was the only e-mail I sent during the week, but now that April had my e-mail address she sent regular messages, a couple each day. They were very short, but to the point: "Ready to kick his ass?", "Fuck him up good, baby," "He is all yours," and my favorite, "Knock him the fuck out so you can have me."
Was she just egging me on, goading me for her own enjoyment? Or – god, I hoped this was true – was she actually hoping and truly wanted me to win, did she want another lover, was she so much into boxing that she would actually ditch the loser of our fight … and fulfill every erotic fantasy possible with the winner?
It was too much to think about, so I spent every free hour trying to concentrate on my opponent, either with physical or mental preparation. Sometimes I succeeded … but more often than not her images kept popping into my head, the way she looked when I first saw her in the gym, then later that night, then that last time in the gym when she looked ready to tear my trunks off – but not half as much as I wanted to rip her clothes off and take her right there.
I didn't sleep a lot Friday night and was useless most of the day on Saturday, eventually returning to my apartment early after some errands to try to relax. Not much chance of that happening, either, so I spent a lot of time packing my gym bag.
I picked out my favorite trunks … white satin with no trim and a large waistband, not the long kind that too many fighters are now wearing, but cut almost mid-thigh, the vain part of me thinking that they showed off my tan well. White shoes freshly cleaned, mouthpiece, towels, jock strap. Gloves … guess I should bring several, got some white 8-ounce, 10-ounce, 12-ounce … April didn't say anything about what gloves we'd use, but if this is ending by knockout only I won't need the 12-ounce. I picked up the protector and then put it back, remembering what she'd said … and how she grabbed it. Just the thought was enough to get me rock-hard and start a flow of pre-cum through my sweat pants.
I figured I'd get to the gym early, just to see what I'd gotten myself into. I got there a little before eight and the place was deserted, the front door locked. But I saw the side door blocked open … naturally, with a glove … and went inside, being careful to put the glove back in the door to keep it open.
The gym was dark except for the five bare bulbs that were above one of the rings, which provided the effect of spotlighting that ring. Guess that's where we're fighting, I thought, and a twinge of nervousness went through me with this first physical evidence that this bout was actually going to happen.
I went down the all toward the locker rooms and saw two cards on two of the doors, one reading "Champion" and one reading "Challenger." Figuring the latter was for me, I stepped inside with my bag, and noticed the light was already on …
"Good evening, champ," the voice came from the old leather training table where April was sitting. "You ready for the fight?"
As my eyes adjusted to the lone light hanging from the ceiling, they took in a stunning sight.
April looked damn good the first three times I saw her – I had a quick realization that the only times I'd ever seen her were right here in this gym – but tonight …
Her blonde hair was swept up off her shoulders, one of which had a strap that held up a slinky white satin dress that looked like it was painted on in all the right places. She was seated on the table with her legs crossed, and the slit in the side of her dress was aimed straight at the door (no doubt in my mind she'd planned it that way) and showed all of a lovely thigh. She had on high, high heels, and her perfect make-up contrasted with the dingy locker room.
"We have the gym all to ourselves tonight," she said, "just the three of us … you, me and him. I figured it would be better this way."
She eased off the table and walked toward me – I hadn't moved, just taking in the view – and took my bag from my hand and sat it on the floor. She put her hands on my biceps and started softly rubbing them. I was wearing only sweats and tennis shoes – not knowing how the evening was going to unfold, I figured that was safe – and with me in tennis shoes and her in heels she hit me right at eye level. They were the kind of eyes that guys get lost in and never get out … and never want out.
I had a perfect view of her ample cleavage just by looking down at the low-cut satin, and she felt my hands go to her waist.
"Let's get those hands taped," she said. "I so want to see how good they are, how fast and powerful, how much damage they can do … I want to see them pointed in the air as you stand over your beaten opponent in total victory." I swear I could feel a shudder go through her body as I took by sweat top off and sat on the table, and she rubbed my chest for a moment before reaching in her bag for wraps and tape. She came prepared, I thought, and proceeded to wrap each hand skillfully … it wasn't the first time she'd wrapped a fighter's hands … before finishing off with the tape.
"You going to fight in those, or did you bring some trunks?" she laughed as she pointed to my sweat pants. "Let me help you get those off."
April slid my sweats down my legs and tossed them aside, leaving me wearing only hand wraps and a jock strap that wasn't doing a good job of concealing my now-throbbing erection. God, two weeks ago I would have done anything just to touch this stunning woman, I thought, and now she's got me stripped down and totally under her control. I would do anything for her right now … including take out a fighter who outweighs and out-powers me by wide margins.
Apparently sensing my thoughts, April stepped next to the table between my dangling legs, pulled my face into her chest and held it there for a moment before reaching behind me and pressing her hands against my ass, pulling me to the edge of the table and pulling my body into hers.
I raised my wrapped hands … fortunately, we hadn't gloved up yet, so I was able to knead and squeeze her hardened nipples as they poked through the white satin. My cock, now poking out of the top of my jock strap, was rubbing against her crotch as she started slow thrusts. I could smell the heat of her excitement and felt the wetness now building at the tip of my member.
Suddenly April pushed my chest and back onto the table, ripped off my jock strap and began fondling my cock, slowly pumping the length of my shaft until I could stand no more and shot a load of hot, white cum into her hands. I watched her lick her fingers, and she then knelt over and began using her tongue to flick up and down my shaft and balls before taking my again-hard cock into her mouth.
I sat up and grasped the back of her head, trying to thrust my hips despite still being seated on the table, before bursting once again and filling her mouth. I slumped back on the table, looking up at the lone light suspended from the ceiling, and watched her stand and lick her lips.
She walked to the side of the table, leaned over and kissed me deep, our tongues probing each other, and said, "You better finish getting ready … the fight starts in 15 minutes." She snatched up the jock strap, saying, "By the way, you boys aren't wearing these today," as she quickly walked out the door.
What had just happened? Did I just get one of the greatest blow jobs of my life, 15 minutes before a real bout where I could easily get hurt bad? Shit, what am I doing? How the hell am I going to fight somebody when all I feel like doing right now is going to sleep for a few hours?
I quickly went about the process of getting my trunks on, loosening up and trying to concentrate on the fight. Wearing the satin trunks without a jock felt different, but if she didn't want it … and unless something happened soon, she was going to get a good view, as just the thought of April filled the crotch of my trunks to the breaking point.
I was beginning to pull the white gloves from my bag when April walked back in. She looked like she'd just stepped out of a magazine … hard to imagine that this was the hellion that rocked my world not 10 minutes earlier. She couldn't miss my erection, since my trunks were tenting out to an alarming length.
"All white … I like that," she said, and took a half-step back, seemingly to make sure I noticed she was also in white (Did she somehow know in advance what I'd be wearing? How?). She took both sets of gloves, tossed the 10-ounce ones aside and tugged the 8-ounce ones onto my fists.
"These will work better for tonight," she said as I pressed my glove against her chest to allow her to lace and tape them properly. We didn't say anything else until she was finished with the laces and tape.
"It's time … you ready?" she said. I nodded, looking straight at her eyes. "Then I'll see you in the ring," she said.

END PART ONE