Friday dawned bright and early, the sun peeking over the rooftops like it was in on the secret. A sharp knock echoed through Ben and Marg's quiet house, pulling Ben from his coffee mid-sip. He swung the door open to find Brad grinning like a kid on Christmas, decked out in his lucky Boston Cubs cap (tilted just so), a faded Grateful Dead tee that had seen better days, and ragged jean cutoffs that screamed "backyard project mode."
"Morning, ringmaster!" Brad said, clapping Ben on the shoulder with enough enthusiasm to rattle the porch light. "Ready to build the Taj Mahal of topless tussles? I've got PVC pipes in the truck, zip ties, and a cooler of motivation—aka beer."
Ben chuckled, rubbing sleep from his eyes but matching the energy as he led Brad through the living room, past the kitchen where Marg was already slipping out the back door for her own adventure. "Hell yeah. This ring's gotta be pro-level—sturdy ropes for leaning, enough give in the mats so no one actually gets hurt, but with that perfect bounce for... you know, the show." They hit the backyard, a patch of grass begging for transformation, and dove in: measuring, hammering makeshift posts from lumber scraps, threading ropes through eyelets. Sweat beaded under the rising sun as they bantered like old pros.
"Imagine it," Brad puffed, wrestling a PVC corner into place. "Zoey dodging left, Marg swinging those... assets. We're not just building a ring; we're crafting a fantasy factory."
Ben nodded, wiping his brow. "Ben's backyard: home of the neighborhood smackdown. Just don't let me faint when the tops come off."
By mid-morning, the skeleton of a 12x12 ring took shape—ropes taut, old gym mats borrowed from Ben's garage laid out like a red carpet for chaos. The guys high-fived, cracking open those beers a tad early. Mission: accomplished, with room for dreams to run wild.
Meanwhile, across the street at the neighborhood gym—a no-frills spot with creaky ellipticals and mirrors that flattered no one—Marg arrived huffing from her brisk walk, dressed in loose sweats that hid her curves like a bad disguise. Zoey was already there, bouncing on her toes in fresh leggings and a tank top, a duffel bag slung over her shoulder containing the star of the show: the 6 oz gloves, soft red leather that looked more playful than punishing.
"Morning, champ!" Zoey called, waving her over to a corner mat away from the early-bird crowd of retirees on treadmills. "Brought the hardware. Let's do a little pre-sparring, test how these babies feel. No full contact—just enough to get the rhythm down before tomorrow's main event."
Marg eyed the gloves warily as Zoey helped her lace into a pair, the padding snug but light, like wearing oversized mittens for a pillow fight. "You sure? I haven't shadowboxed since that one Zumba class last year. Feels weird... empowering?"
Zoey slipped on her own pair, flexing her fingers with a grin. She'd been a gym rat for years—cardio circuits, weights, and the occasional kickboxing class keeping her in tip-top shape: lean muscles rippling under sun-kissed skin, her 36D assets firm and high from all those push-ups and planks. She was built like a fighter who could go the distance, all speed and stamina.
"Empowering's the goal," Zoey said, circling Marg slowly. "Jab, jab—keep it light. One minute rounds to start."
Marg, on the other hand, was every bit the curvy bombshell her bikini pics promised. A bit of soft fat around her middle spoke to PTA potlucks and stress-munching, but up top? Those large, freckled breasts strained against her sports bra like they were ready for their close-up, full and bouncy in a way that turned heads at every summer barbecue. And her ass—round, toned from chasing kids and the occasional squat—filled out her sweats with a jiggle that could make a man forget his own name. She threw a tentative punch, gloves whooshing through the air, and laughed when Zoey easily slipped it.
"See? Not bad!" Zoey encouraged, tapping Marg's mitt with her own in a gentle parry. "You've got power in those hips—use it. Tomorrow, the boys'll be drooling before the bell even rings."
Here a story I have been working on hope you enjoy more to come on the match....
Weekend spat
They shadowboxed for twenty minutes—Zoey darting like a pro, Marg finding her groove with surprisingly solid hooks—giggling through the awkward moments and building that pre-fight buzz. By the end, both were flushed and breathless, gloves off and high-fives exchanged.
"Feels good, right?" Zoey said, slinging the bag over her shoulder. "Ring's probably up by now. Lunch later to strategize round three?"
Marg nodded, wiping sweat from her freckled cleavage. "You're on. And Zoey? Thanks. This is nuts... but the good kind."
As they parted ways—women buzzing with sisterly solidarity, men toasting their handiwork—the neighborhood thrummed with Friday fever. Saturday's showdown was locked and loaded.
