Here the second part any interest for the third part?
Part II
Later that afternoon, as the sun dipped toward the horizon and painted the backyards in lazy gold, Zoey and Brad fired off a quick text invite to Marg and Ben: "Our place, 4 PM sharp. Rules rundown and third-round verdict. Bring your A-game... and maybe some wine." The couples converged on Zoey and Brad's cozy living room, the air already thick with that pre-event buzz, beers cracked open, a charcuterie board half-devoured on the coffee table. The ring in Ben's yard was complete, photos shared via phone: ropes gleaming, mats inviting, a salvaged dinner bell dangling from one post like a siren's call.
They settled in Brad and Ben on the couch, legs sprawled like kings of the castle; Zoey and Marg cross-legged on the floor, facing off with playful glares. Zoey kicked things off, her post-gym glow still lingering under a tank top that hugged her curves. "Alright, team rules first, to keep it fair and filthy. Three rounds, three minutes each, 6 oz gloves, no low blows. We start with the top: the winner's husband claims the loser's top as the trophy. Two-minute break. Round two: same deal, but loser forfeits bottoms if they dropped round one. Another breather. Round three? That's the wildcard we've been debating."
Brad nodded, ever the smooth operator in his post-construction tee, wiping sawdust from his hands. "Zoey and I talked it out half the night. If someone's already lost top *and* bottom, buck naked and uncomfortable, round three goes full nude for both. No holding back. Total exposure, all stakes on the line."
Ben leaned forward, his face lighting up with that guilty-pleasure gleam from his late-night scrolls. "From my... uh, experience with this stuff in videos, just topless would be great. Keeps it teasing, builds the fantasy without going overboard." He shot a sheepish grin at Marg, who turned a bright, flustered red at the mere mention of Zoey's nude twist, fanning herself with a coaster.
Marg's blush deepened, but Brad, the calm anchor of their quartet, always diffusing tension with logic and a smirk, sided firmly with Zoey. "Nah, Ben, full commitment or bust. If there's a third round and someone's already stripped twice, it's total nude for the finale. Sweat, strategy, everything on display." He locked eyes with Marg across the circle, his voice dropping low and deliberate. "And well, if you lose round three, Marg, let it be known now: I'm gonna be fucking you so hard."
Ben's jaw dropped like a trapdoor, his beer pausing mid-air as he gaped at his buddy. "Brad? Dude, what the ?"
"Come on, honey, let's go. This is just too weird," Marg stammered at first, grabbing Ben's arm to tug him toward the door. But then she paused, a spark igniting in her eyes as she shoved him back down onto the couch with surprising force. "Not so fast. I think Brad has a valid point. And well, I accept his challenge 'cause I'm gonna have Miss Hard Tits here watch as I fuck your poor husband's brains out."
The room erupted in gasps and chuckles as the guys exchanged wide-eyed looks, while the women locked horns. Zoey and Marg trash-talked, leaning into it to rile up their husbands and coax reciprocity. Zoey arched her back, rubbing her tits through her tank top, staring daggers at Marg. “Okay, *bitch*, you’re on. Try that on Brad, and you’ll regret it. He’s mine, and if I win tomorrow, I may let him fuck you in your ass as a consolation prize.”
Marg didn't back down, crossing her arms under her freckled cleavage to push it up defiantly, her voice a sultry challenge. "Bring it, silver-dollar. My hooks'll have you seeing stars before the bell. And Ben? He'll be putty, maybe I'll even let *you* join in if Zoey's too winded to watch."
The trash talk flew like jabs, playful barbs about "freckle targets" and "gym-rat bounce," each woman escalating to get the men squirming, their faces a mix of shock and arousal. Brad and Ben shifted on the couch, beers forgotten, the temperature in the room skyrocketing despite the late-afternoon breeze drifting through the open windows. It was all psych-up fuel now, the air electric with promises and provocations, priming everyone for the backyard brawl.
As the sun sank lower, Zoey raised her glass, sloshing with her grin. "To tomorrow: gloves up, guards down, and may the best... everything... win." The toast clinked amid laughter and lingering stares, the group dispersing with hugs that lingered a beat too long. Saturday was locked in, and no one was sleeping easily tonight.
As the guests, Marg and Ben, finally piled into their minivan and waved goodnight, the driveway lights flickering off behind them, Zoey turned to Brad in the doorway with a wicked grin. "Get this stick ready, 'cause I want to see you fuck her in the ass, you hear me?" she murmured, her voice low and teasing as she gave his crotch a quick, promising squeeze through his jeans. Brad's eyes darkened with a mix of surprise and heat, but he just nodded, pulling her close for a lingering kiss before the neighbors' taillights vanished around the corner.
The house buzzed with energy, the air still filled with trash talk and toasts. Brad grabbed Zoey’s hand and led her to the backyard, the cool night air brushing against their skin under a starry sky. The fence kept prying eyes away, yet the open space felt intimate. “Zoey,” he spun her, his hands firm on her shoulders. “It’s your win tomorrow. Don’t hold back. Pound her. You’re the better boxer, with years of gym time and footwork. Marg has heart, but you’re the knockout queen.”
Zoey smirked, stepping behind him in the dim porch light. She tugged his Grateful Dead tee off and tossed it onto the grass, then peeled her tank top off, letting it flutter beside it. The night breeze kissed her skin, hardening her nipples. She pressed her front flush against his back, her firm 36D tits rubbing against his warm shoulders. “Don’t worry, darling,” she whispered hot against his ear. “She agreed to the six-ounce gloves. She thinks it’s fun, but she doesn’t know what she’s getting into. Light padding, no defense against my jabs.”
To drive the point home, her hand snaked around his waist, dipping between his legs to find the hard bulge straining against his cutoffs. She palmed his erection through the denim, stroking with just enough pressure to make him groan and lean back into her. "And when I win *after* I strip her down and claim my prizes, you're gonna take this hard stick of yours here and fuck her in the ass to start things off. Brad's victory lap, my rules. Marg's been talking big; time to make her pay."
Brad's head fell back against her shoulder, a ragged laugh escaping as he bucked into her grip. "Jesus, Zoey, you're ruthless. But yeah... yeah, I'll do it. For you. Just bring home the win, babe." He twisted to capture her mouth in a fierce kiss, hands roaming her bare curves as the night deepened around them. They didn't make it back inside for a while, passion spilling onto the lawn like a preview of tomorrow's chaos, but when they finally did, tangled and spent, sleep came easily. The ring waited next door, and so did the reckoning.
Saturday morning arrived like a thunderclap of anticipation, the neighborhood unusually quiet as if holding its breath for the backyard spectacle. Zoey claimed the bedroom as her war room right after breakfast, shooing Brad out with a firm swat on his butt and a locked door. "No peeking, babe, this is my ritual. Go polish the bell or something." She spent the next hour curating the perfect look: a sleek black bikini that tied at the neck and hips, the top barely containing her firm 36Ds while the bottoms rode high to accentuate her toned legs and gym-honed abs. She oiled up strategically, glistening sheen on her shoulders, cleavage, and thighs to catch the sun just right, her wild ponytail tamed into a high, bouncy one for that fighter flair. A touch of red gloss on her lips, and she shadowboxed the mirror, gloves on and off, psyching herself up with visions of hooks landing flush.
Next door, Marg was in her own prep frenzy, the house smelling of vanilla body spray as she rifled through her drawer for the skimpiest bikini she owned, an emerald green number with halter strings that plunged low between her 38DD freckled breasts, the fabric straining like it was in on the conspiracy. She snapped a bold selfie in the full-length mirror, angling to showcase the full, natural heft of her assets spilling over the cups, nipples just hinted at through the thin material. *These are real yours?* she texted Zoey, hitting send with a mix of nerves and naughty defiance, her heart racing as she imagined the response.
Zoey's phone buzzed on the vanity; she smirked at the pic, zooming in on those freckled behemoths, soft, pendulous, the kind that jiggled with every breath. *Challenge accepted,* she thought, firing back her own shot: top untied just enough to bare her firm 36Ds, nipples erect and pierced with silver barbells that glinted under the light. She'd dabbed a bit of makeup to deepen the chocolate hue of her silver-dollar areolas, making them pop like targets begging for attention. *Firm, pierced, and fight-ready. See you in the ring, freckles.
?* The exchange lit a fire sisterly rivalry turning the air electric even from afar.
Finally ready, Zoey slipped the bikini top back into place, lacing the gloves into her duffel, and called out, "Brad! Inspection time, get in here!" He pushed through the door, his eyes widening like he'd walked into a private show, as his casual tee and shorts did nothing to hide the instant reaction. "Holy... babe, you look like you could take down a heavyweight." He circled her slowly, hands roaming with "professional" thoroughness: palms cupping her breasts to test the tie's security, fingers tracing her hips where the bikini bottoms sat, a squeeze to her ass that earned a playful swat. "Secure, lethal, and damn distracting. You're gonna own this."
Zoey preened under his touch, then shoved him toward the door with a fierce grin. "Good, now get your ass over to the ring and make sure it's primed for this brawl. Ropes are tight, mats are flat, and the bell is polished. And you better be ready too, 'cause I'm bringing home the win today. Marg's talking big, but these?" She gave her chest a confident jiggle. "They're staying mine." Brad backed out with a salute and a wolfish smile, heading next door to double-check the setup with Ben, who was already pacing the yard like a nervous promoter.
Zoey grabbed her bag, stealing one last mirror glance, fierce, fabulous, unbreakable. The fight was on, and she was dressed to dominate.
Ben paced the freshly mowed grass of his backyard, phone in hand, snapping a few quick shots of the ring under the midday sun, ropes taut and inviting, mats dusted off, the dinner bell glinting like a challenge. It looked legit, almost pro, a far cry from the sketchy setups in those late-night videos. Just as he pocketed his phone, the back door creaked open, and Brad stepped through with two cold beers sweating in his grip, condensation dripping onto the porch.
"Well, buddy, can you believe how lucky we are?" Brad said, handing one over with a grin that didn't quite hide the edge in his eyes. "I mean, this is every guy's dream, isn't it? And well, today... It's happening."
Ben cracked his beer with a satisfied pop, taking a long swig before smiling wide, part excitement, part mischief. "Yeah, it is. Marg was talking in bed last night about her winning the last round, so I could humiliate you and Zoey by having me fuck your wife's ass. She's all fired up, man says it'll be payback for all the trash talk."
That hit Brad like a sucker punch, the casual ribbing suddenly sharpening into something real. His grip tightened on the bottle, temper flaring just a notch as he set it down on a lawn chair a bit too hard. "You know, Ben, that's never going to happen." His voice was steady, but there was steel in it, the protective husband surfacing amid the fantasy.
Ben sensed the shift and leaned into it, pushing Brad's buttons with a smirk and a shrug, beer halfway to his lips. "Come on, Brad, you know Zoey talks a good game and all, but Marg? She'll bring home the bacon today. She's gonna mop Zoey's ass with her large tits, she may not even need her gloves to finish her. Just like in the porn we watch, right? All that bouncing and pinning."
Their voices carried on the breeze, low rumbles of guy-talk escalating into playful jabs that masked deeper stakes, the ring looming between them like a referee waiting to call time.
Next door, Marg had overheard the tail end of it all through her open window, Ben's booming laugh, Brad's defensive growl, while she adjusted her emerald bikini one last time in the kitchen mirror. She rolled her eyes but couldn't suppress a chuckle, grabbing her phone to dial Zoey. "Hey, girl, you'd better get over here so we can start. I think Ben and Brad might beat us to the ring, given how they're talking smack about us. Ben's out there hyping my 'titty takedown' like it's scripted."
Zoey, still in her bedroom, finished her black bikini, tying the double-knotted ties and reapplying oil. She laughed, proud of Brad’s loyalty. “That’s my man,” she thought, flexing her pierced nipples. “I’ll be ready to be destroyed. I’m gunning for those large Ma Ma's and won’t take no prisoners.” She hung up, determinedly. She glanced in the mirror: fierce eyes, high ponytail, assets primed. She snapped selfies, capturing her 36Ds and barbells, texting them to Brad: “Fuel for the win. Yours forever.
?”
Bag slung over her shoulder, gloves tucked inside, Zoey strode out the door, the sun warming her skin as she crossed the yard to the fence gate. The brawl was moments away, and she was locked, loaded, and loving every second of the buildup.
Zoey pushed through the side gate into Ben’s backyard, the sun beating on her oiled skin. Her black bikini gleamed as she hauled the duffel with the gloves and ref gear. The ring looked imposing, ropes tight between the PVC posts, mats scuffed from the guys’ test stomps, and a makeshift bell hanging like a promise of chaos. Ben and Brad stood off, beers in hand, proud architects of the backyard bacchanal. She paused, eyeing them with a smirk. *Who do I toss the whistle and ref shirt to? Brad’s my guy, but Ben’s the host… decisions.*
Just then, Ben's phone buzzed in his pocket, pulling him from mid-sip. He fished it out, squinting at the screen before his face split into a grin. "It's Ron from the house behind us. He and Julie've been spying on the build all week." He angled the phone toward Brad: *Hey, bud, what's going on over there? Julie and I have been watching you two boys building something, and if it's what we think it is, can we come over and watch?*
Brad chuckled, shaking his head in amused resignation *Why not? The more the merrier.* "Tell 'em sure, but make it quick. The show's about to start."
Ben's thumbs flew: *Sure, come on over, but hustle. Action's imminent.* He hit send and pocketed the phone, just as the faint sound of footsteps crunched on the gravel path from the shared fence line. The gate swung open with a creak, and in burst Ron, a burly guy in his forties with a perpetual five-o'clock shadow and a faded Metallica tee, followed closely by his wife, Julie, who was decked out in yoga pants and a loose tank, her ponytail swinging like she was ready for anything.
"What the HELL?" Zoey blurted, hands on her hips as she stared at the uninvited duo, duffel dropping to the grass with a thud. The backyard suddenly felt a whole lot smaller, the ring's intimacy cracked open like a shared secret.
Julie flashed a wide, conspiratorial smile, waving off Zoey's shock as she sidled up beside her. "Brad and Ben said it was okay! What's up, Crazy Woman?" She'd been Zoey's gym buddy for months now, joining those boxing classes on a whim, even sparring a couple of light rounds with her in the ring there, dodging jabs and laughing through the sweat. Julie was no slouch: compact and feisty, with a mean uppercut that had caught Zoey off guard once or twice.
Zoey recovered with a laugh, shaking her head as she picked up the bag. "Oh, it's just your typical Saturday two of your neighbor girls getting together to try and beat the shit out of each other for their hubbies' entertainment. And TOPLESS, mind you."
Julie's eyes went wide, a gasp escaping as she clapped a hand over her mouth, then dissolved into delighted giggles. "REALLY? My god, you are crazy... and I love it! No wonder Ron told me to drop everything and follow him. I was mid-laundry, but screw it, this sounds legendary."
Ron, hanging back with Ben and Brad, just grinned and cracked open a fresh beer from the cooler, toasting the group like it was the most normal thing. "Heard the rumors all week, man. Figured it was either a treehouse or... this. Glad we made the cut."
Zoey rolled her eyes good-naturedly, but a thrill zipped through her at the added audience, more eyes on the prize, more stakes in the air. "Yeah, I figure it's that guy thing they have. They would've made great cavemen, don't ya think? Dragging us by the hair to watch the fights over the fire pit."
The group erupted in laughter, the tension easing into that easy neighborhood vibe, but Zoey's pulse quickened as she scanned the fence line. Marg was due any second, and with the crowd assembled, ref duties were suddenly shared between Ben and Brad, whistle in hand, the ring was calling. *Time to throw down,* she thought, flexing her fingers in anticipation.
Zoey and Marg converged on the ring from opposite sides of the yard, the grass whispering under their bare feet as the small crowd Ben, Brad, Ron, and now Julie formed a loose semicircle around the ropes. Marg had arrived moments earlier, her emerald bikini hugging her curves like a second skin, those 38DD freckled breasts bouncing with each determined step, a fierce glint in her eye that said she was ready to back up her trash talk. Zoey met her gaze across the mats, a nod of mutual respect laced with rivalry, before dropping her duffel and fishing out the ref gear: a loose white tank labeled "Official Referee" in Sharpie, and a whistle on a lanyard.
"Here make it official," Zoey said, tossing the bundle to Julie with a wink. In the spirit of the wild afternoon, Julie caught it mid-air, her grin turning impish as she gripped the hem of her own tee-shirt. Without a second thought, she peeled it off in one fluid motion, flashing the guys a quick, glorious view of her sports bra-clad assets, pert C-cups that drew a chorus of appreciative whistles and wolf calls from Ron, Ben, and Brad. She laughed, slipping into the ref shirt (which hung comically loose on her frame) and looping the whistle around her neck like a badge of honor. "Alright, ladies, let's do this right."
The yard crackled with energy as Zoey and Marg ducked between ropes, climbing into their corners. Zoey draped a towel over her red hair, while Marg donned her blue. Ben slid beside Marg, squirting water into a bottle and giving her pep talks. Brad mirrored him in Zoey’s corner, his hands steady on her shoulders. Both wore loose athletic shorts, but the bulges were obvious. Erections fueled by their wives’ appearance, Marg smirked and kissed Ben, promising victory spoils. Zoey flexed her pierced nipples for Brad, drawing a low groan. They exchanged a glance, their smiles sharpening the gamesmanship. Marg mouthed, “Look what we’ve got ‘em down to,” and Zoey nodded, their mutual tease igniting their fire.
Julie stepped into the center, rule card in hand, a crumpled index card Zoey and Marg had scribbled the night before: three rounds, three minutes each; no hits below the belt, no clinching; winner by points or knockout (or submission, if things got feisty); escalating stakes per round. She blew a short tweet on the whistle to gather them, her voice carrying with mock authority. "Fighters, to the center. Touch gloves... good. Final instructions: Fight clean, fight fair, but fight hard. This is for fun, bragging rights, and whatever wild prizes you've cooked up. Seconds, stay in your corners after this. Break on my command, protect yourselves at all times. Questions?"
Zoey and Marg shook their heads, fists bumping lightly before Julie inspected the gloves, 6 oz red leather laced tight on both pairs, padding thin enough for speed but with just enough give to keep it safe. She tugged at the straps, nodding approval, but secretly, Julie's mind raced: *Damn, Zoey really talked her into these lightweights? Marg's got power, but Zoey hits like a freight train in sparring; those jabs could sting through the padding.* She kept it to herself, stepping back with a grin. "Alright, back to your corners. When you hear this whistle, come out swinging. Round one begins!"
The whistle pierced the air, sharp and electric, and the two women advanced from their corners, gloves up, eyes locked, the crowd leaning in as the backyard brawl ignited.
### Round One: From Zoey's Point of View
The whistle's shrill tweet sliced through the humid air like a starting gun, and I surged forward from my corner, gloves up in a tight guard, heart pounding with that familiar gym-rush adrenaline. *This is it play it smart, wear her down,* I thought, circling left on the balls of my feet, the mats soft under my soles. Marg came out aggressive, her emerald bikini top straining against those massive 38DDs as she bobbed forward, throwing a wild right hook that whistled past my ear. Too telegraphed amateur fire, but she had reach with that curvy frame.
I slipped it easily, countering with a quick one-two jab to her shoulder and ribs, the light 6 oz padding letting me feel the solid thump against her side. *Not too hard yet test the waters.* She grunted, freckled cleavage heaving as she reset, swinging a left that grazed my guard. The crowd's cheers for Brad's whoop were the loudest, fueling me; I could see his bulge twitching in those shorts, Ben mirroring him across the way. I pressed, feinting high before dipping low for a body shot to her midsection, that soft layer of fat giving way just enough to make her wince. Sweat beaded on my oiled skin, bikini ties holding firm as my 36Ds stayed locked and loaded, barbells glinting with each pivot. *She's got power, but no footwork, keep moving.* The round ticked down, my jabs peppering her arms, forcing her back toward the ropes. I owned the center, breathing steady, already plotting round two.
### Round One: From Marg's Point of View
That whistle hit like a slap, and I charged out, gloves raised high, feeling the bounce in my step and the heavy sway of my freckled 38DDs threatening to spill from this skimpy green top. *Come on, girl, show her what real assets can do,* I fired up in my head, Ben's encouraging nod from the corner spurring me on. Zoey was quick, darting like a shadow, but I went for broke with a looping right hook, aiming to clip her jaw and make those pierced tits jiggle. She ducked, damn her gym polish, and fired back a sharp jab that stung my shoulder, rattling through the thin gloves straight to bone.
*Oof, she packs heat,* I admitted inwardly, shaking it off as I threw a counter left, brushing her block. The mats felt sticky under my feet, my curves working against me a bit extra weight in the middle slowing my turns, but I powered through, swinging for her ribs with a hook that connected solid, feeling the give of her toned side. Ben's grin widened, his shorts tented like a flag of approval, and I smirked at Zoey, taunting with a shoulder shimmy that made my breasts strain the fabric. *Use what you've got.* She pressed back, her jabs like needles pricking my arms, backing me up, but I planted and fired a body shot of my own, thudding into her abs. Sweat slicked my freckles, top ties digging in, but I held the line raw heart versus her finesse. The bell loomed; I wasn't done yet.
### Julie's Observations as Referee
From the center of the ring, I bounced on my toes, whistle at the ready, trying to keep my eyes neutral amid the chaos, though damn, it was hard not to root for Zoey after all those sparring sessions. The women circled each other with surprising poise for backyard warriors, Zoey's footwork a clinic in precision: crisp jabs snapping out, light and fast, landing clean on Marg's guard and body without overcommitting. Marg came in swinging wilder, her hooks carrying real weight from those powerful hips, but they telegraphed too much. Zoey slipped most, countering efficiently.
No fouls. I stepped in to break a tangle when Marg crowded close, her freckles nearly brushing Zoey’s. I called impartially. Ben and Brad shifted uncomfortably, their erections obvious, adding to the electric vibe. Ron chuckled from the sidelines. Sweat flew, bikinis straining. Zoey controlled the pace, landing 60% of her shots, while Marg connected fewer but harder. As the three minutes wound down, I signaled the end: a clear edge to Zoey on points, but Marg’s resilience kept it competitive. “Back to corners, good round, ladies!” I blew the whistle, grinning.
The bell chimed Ben’s enthusiastic ding, and Zoey and Marg peeled apart, gloves slipping as they retreated to their corners, chests heaving under the midday sun. Sweat glistened on their skin, bikinis clinging damply. The crowd murmured approvals. Zoey slid into the red corner, where Brad waited, towel and water bottle in hand. His athletic shorts did little to hide his erect penis. He draped the towel over her shoulders, wiping her brow and neck. He squeezed her thigh. “Beautiful, sharp, controlled. You’re carving her up. Keep the pressure, slip those hooks, and own the ring.” His voice was low, husky, eyes devouring her firm 36Ds as the barbells pressed against the black top.
Across the mat, Marg ducked into the blue corner, Ben right there with a towel of his own, dabbing at her freckled cleavage and the soft curve of her midsection where Zoey's jabs had left faint red blooms. His boner was equally blatant, straining against his shorts as he leaned in close, murmuring fiercely, "You're tough as hell out there, Marg, those counters landed solid. Don't let her speed rattle you; plant your feet, use that power. Round two's yours, make her pay for that edge." She nodded, gulping water, feeling the weight of her 38DDs settle as she caught her breath. Ben's encouragement and his obvious arousal stoked her fire.
Julie, her whistle gleaming, stepped to the center and raised her voice over the yard’s buzz. “Marg, Brad to the center. Zoey wins the first-round trophy on points.” Marg climbed back out, defiantly tilting her chin despite the flush. Brad sauntered over, triumphant, holding out his hand. She untied the emerald halter, letting the top loosen before shrugging it free. Her large, freckled breasts spilled out, nipples hardening in the breeze. Ron whistled from the fence, but Brad took the warm fabric like a prize, bunching it in his fist. “Thanks for the warm-up,” he winked. Marg shot him a glare, promising payback. She headed back to her corner, arms crossed loosely under her bare assets, jiggling enticingly with each step.
Zoey, still buzzing in her corner, couldn't resist the taunt: she jumped up and down on the mats like a victorious prizefighter, her black bikini top bouncing with the motion, then dragged her right glove hand slowly across her throat in a classic "it's over" slash, locking eyes with Marg across the ring. *Round two? You're done,* her stare said, the gesture pure psych-out fuel.
Back in the blue corner, Marg tuned out the showboating, focusing on Ben's words as he knelt before her, towel at the ready. "Ignore her, she's gloating 'cause you're in her head. Circle right, pick your shots; those hooks'll drop her guard. You've got the heart to turn this." His hand brushed her hip reassuringly, his erection brushing her knee accidentally or not as he stood, making her smirk despite the vulnerability of her topless state.
Over in red, Brad leaned in close to Zoey, holding Marg's discarded top up to her nose like a victory cigar. "Sniff that your first scalp. I want those bikini bottoms next round, babe. Go get her jab to the body, then unload upstairs. She's exposed now; make her squirm." Zoey inhaled the faint vanilla-and-sweat scent, a thrill zipping through her as she nodded, flexing her gloves. "Bottoms are mine," she murmured, eyes narrowing toward Marg's corner.
Julie clapped her hands from the center, rule card tucked away. "Fighters ready?" Zoey and Marg both nodded sharply, gloves up from their stools, bare skin (Marg's especially) gleaming under the sun. The ref blew the whistle *Tweet!* and round two erupted, the women advancing with renewed fury, stakes stripped bare and rising.
### Round Two: From Zoey's Point of View
The whistle's echo still hung in the air as I bounced out of my corner, gloves high, eyes locked on Marg's bare torso like a heat-seeking missile. She came forward cautiously, just like Ben must've coached, arms up tight around her face, elbows tucked to shield her jaw and cheeks. *Perfect gift-wrapped for me,* I thought, a predatory grin splitting my face under the sweat. No way was I wasting that opening; I feinted a jab at her head to keep her guard locked, then dipped low and unleashed a sharp right hook straight into the soft, freckled underside of her left breast. The 6 oz glove connected with a meaty *thwack*, the thin padding barely muting the impact as her flesh jiggled and rippled, that full 38DD swinging like a pendulum. She moaned a low, pained gasp that shot straight to my core, fueling the fire. *Yeah, feel that.*
I circled her right, targeting the other side, slipping her wild counter and following with a left uppercut to her right tit. It bounced, her nipple hardening, and another moan escaped her lips. The crowd roared, especially Brad, whose erection throbbed visibly. Sweat flew as I worked her relentlessly, alternating hooks and crosses to her exposed assets, feeling her skin redden with each strike. She tried to weave, dropping her guard for a desperate body shot that grazed my ribs, but I powered through, owning her vulnerability. Bottoms next, then the finale. By the round’s close, her moans turned to whimpers, and I eased back, victorious and buzzing.
### Round Two: From Marg's Point of View
I advanced from the corner with my arms glued to my face, Ben's words ringing in my ears *Protect the head, let her come to you* but it felt like walking into a trap, my bare breasts swaying freely, freckles stark against the flush creeping over my skin. Zoey was on me in seconds, that feint drawing my guard high before her glove slammed into the soft underside of my left tit like a hammer. *Oh god * The pain bloomed sharp and hot, a deep ache radiating through the tender flesh, and I couldn't hold back the moan, my knees buckling just a fraction as it jiggled wildly. *Bitch focus,* I told myself, swinging a counter hook that missed as she danced away.
She circled me, cracking an uppercut into my right breast, lifting it high before it slapped back down. The sting made my eyes water, and another moan escaped my throat. My nipples throbbed, hardening against the abuse. Every hit sent jolts of pain and humiliation. I tried to shell up, but she ate the distance and hammered back left, right, hooks that burned my chest and freckled skin. Ben’s cheers blurred with the crowd’s noise, his arousal obvious but doing nothing for my desire. I gasped through the barrage, my footwork slowing as the ache built. My moans sharpened with each glove’s kiss. *Can’t… let her break me.* But as the bell neared, tears pricked my eyes, and the soreness throbbed. I needed that corner, relief now.
### Julie's Observations as Referee
I kept my feet light in the ring's center, whistle poised, watching the action unfold with a mix of awe and concern *Zoey's exploiting that guard like a pro, but damn, those hits are landing heavy.* Marg came out smart, head protected as instructed, but it left her chest wide open, and Zoey pounced: precise hooks and uppercuts targeting the bare breasts with clinical efficiency, each *smack* echoing off the fences. Marg's moans carried clear, vulnerable, pained sounds that made me wince inwardly, though I stayed neutral, stepping in once to warn Zoey against crowding after a particularly flush right that sent Marg's left tit bouncing sideways.
No real fouls, but the intensity increased. Marg’s counters were sporadic, and her power shots glanced off Zoey’s guard. Zoey absorbed the breast-focused barrage, her skin reddening under her freckles. The men’s reactions were electric erections, but I tuned them out, focusing on the fighters. Zoey controlled the pace, landing 70% clean. Marg’s topless state amplified every impact. As the round wore on, Marg’s form slipped, and I readied the whistle. Zoey had the edge, but Marg’s grit could flip it. At the bell, I signaled end, watching Marg hustle to her corner, eyes glassy.
The bell clanged sharply, and Marg bolted from the center like her heels were on fire, bare breasts bouncing painfully with each hurried step, tears glistening unshed in her eyes as she ducked through the ropes into the blue corner. She slumped onto the stool, arms crossing protectively over her sore, reddened chest, breathing ragged while Ben fussed with a fresh towel, dabbing gingerly at the welts forming on her freckled skin.
From the sidelines, the guys' perspectives were a unified haze of arousal and awe, beers forgotten in their grips. Brad, in Zoey's corner, pumped his fist with a grin, his boner at full mast *Holy shit, babe's turning her tits into punching bags; round three's gonna be naked glory.* Ben watched with wide eyes, erection tenting his shorts shamelessly, a mix of pride and heat flushing his face *Marg's taking it like a champ, but damn, that jiggle... better than any vid.* Ron, leaning on the fence with Julie's discarded tee over his shoulder, chuckled low *Backyard gold; never thought I'd see neighbor tits in a title fight. Zoey's owning it, but Marg's got heart.*
Ben leaned in close to Marg, squirting water into her mouth, his voice breathless with excitement. "Babe, this is better than the porn I've been watching. Your tits bouncing like that? Epic." He grinned, oblivious, adjusting his shorts without shame.
Marg’s head snapped up, pain twisting her features. She glared at him through watery eyes, clutching her throbbing breasts. The ache was a deep, fiery pulse, making every breath hurt. “Empathy, idiot!” she hissed, voice cracking. She was ready to swing her glove at his balls. “These hurt like hell,” she said, “shut up and get me some ice.” He backpedaled, sheepishly laughing. But the fire in her eyes promised she’d channel the soreness into round three.
Julie stepped to the center of the ring, her ref shirt flapping, and the whistle dangling. The backyard spectacle had grown. Word spread, and now a dozen couples milled around, coolers in tow, whispering and chuckling. Some waved beers, others snapped pics. All eyes were on the mats where the stakes were high. “Marg, Brad to the center,” Julie called, her voice cutting through the murmurs. “Second-round trophy: Zoey takes it again, points and dominance.”
I followed their lead, my heart pounding despite not being called. I stood before Marg, her reddened breasts still heaving from the pep talk, freckles against her flushed face. Without a word, I untied my black bikini top, letting it fall away. My firm 36Ds sprang free, pierced barbells catching the sun as my areolas darkened. The crowd gasped, a few guys shifted uncomfortably, but I held it out to her with a grin. “You’ve been a good sport, Marg. My puppies need some air in the next round.”
Marg's eyes widened for a split second, then she broke into a tired but fierce smile, taking the top with her glove and tucking it under her arm like a talisman. "Thanks, Zoey, but it won't help you this next round," she shot back, winking through the pain etched on her face, her voice steady despite the tears she'd blinked away earlier. The gesture cut the tension, a sisterly nod amid the rivalry, and I felt a surge of respect for her grit.
Julie rolled her eyes from the sidelines, hands on hips. "If you two don't mind wrapping up the titty exchange... Marg, Brad gets to untie those bottoms and keep 'em as trophy. Make it quick final round's waiting."
Brad, his face a mask of excitement, knelt before her, his massive boner in his shorts impossible to ignore. He tugged gently at the emerald strings on her hips, the fabric whispering free and pooling at her feet. In full view of the neighbors, her neat red landing strip, a fiery strawberry patch, confirmed rumors about her heritage. Soft curls framed her intimate spot, inviting the cool backyard breeze to raise goosebumps on her thighs. Marg blushed deep crimson, instinctively crossing one leg over the other but holding her ground.
Brad muttered under his breath, low enough for just us to catch: "I always knew she was a true redhead. Ben's a lucky man." He stood, bunching the bottoms in his fist like a conqueror's flag, his grin wolfish as he backed away.
The crowd buzzed louder now, husbands nudging wives, a few cheers breaking out, ten couples strong, from the young tech couple next door to the retired folks peeking over the fence, all drawn by the promise of this unscripted finale. Marg scooped up her discarded bottoms from Brad's hand. No, he kept them, twirling them around his left index finger like a victory lasso as I nudged him hard in the ribs on our way back, whispering, "Easy, caveman, save the gloating for after."
Julie barked over the din, whistle to her lips. "Back to your corners, bitches! You've got one minute before I blow this thing and we end it." The women complied, me topless and striding proudly, my breasts bouncing with each step, while Marg, now fully nude except for her gloves, hurried to the blue corner with as much dignity as she could muster, her red patch drawing lingering glances from the peanut gallery.
In the blue corner, Ben was all over her, squirting water and draping a towel loosely over her shoulders, careful not to cover too much, his eyes devouring the view. "You got this next round, babe, turn it around, use that fire. She's exposed too now; go for broke." His voice was thick with arousal, his erection straining as he hyped her up, oblivious to the way her sore tits and fresh vulnerability made her grit her teeth.
I slid into red beside Brad, who was still swinging those bottoms like a hypnotist's pendulum, his free hand roaming my bare back. "Final round, Zoey finish her ass is ours." The minute ticked down, the crowd settling into hushed anticipation, Julie pacing the center like a showman. The whistle loomed, and with both of us stripped to the essentials, gloves, grit, and glory, the brawl's climax hung in the air, electric and inevitable.
### Round Three: From Zoey's Point of View
The minute in the corner flew by in a haze of Brad's hands on me his fingers teasing, then flicking each of my silver barbells with a sharp *ping* that sent electric tingles straight to my core, my nipples hardening to peaks under the sun. "Go wild, babe end it," he growled, his erection brushing my thigh as the crowd's chatter swelled to a roar. Julie's whistle pierced the air just as the imagined clock ticked down, and I exploded from the red corner like a coiled spring, topless and topless-fierce, my 36Ds bouncing free with every pounding step on the mats. Marg and I had that unspoken pact sealed in glances during prep: no holding back this final round finish hard, no mercy, all or nothing. Her naked body was a buffet of targets red landing strip winking between her thighs, freckled breasts swaying unprotected, that defiant spark in her eyes begging to be snuffed.
I charged, closing the distance before she could circle. Gloves up, I led with a vicious right hook to her midsection, doubling her over with a thud. Her soft belly gave way under the 6-oz padding. She gasped, staggering back, but I snapped her head sideways with my left jab. Then, I feinted a knee-lift, drawing her guard low before hammering an uppercut into her right breast. It flattened and rebounded, drawing cheers from the crowd.
Targets everywhere take ‘em. Sweat slicked my skin as I pressed, slipping her wild counter and firing a body cross to her ribs. She fought back, landing a glancing shot to my shoulder that stung. I owned the frenzy, striking her nudity as I targeted thighs, belly, and those reddened tits. The endgame hit like lightning: as she lunged forward, guard dropping for a haymaker, I dipped low and drove a sneaky right straight up into her exposed pussy through the glove, right on that trimmed red patch. Her lips formed a perfect O of shock and agony, a deep, guttural moan ripping from her throat. Knees buckled as she crumpled to the mats. *Dream shot landed.* I stepped back, gloves raised, the crowd erupting. Victory tasted sweet. Brad jerked off furiously in the corner, shorts shoved down, his face twisted in ecstasy. Ben’s crushed, ashen look across the way. Julie’s smirk from the center, half-ref, half-admirer, whistle limp in her hand.
### Round Three: From Marg's Point of View
Ben's last words, "Unleash it all, babe, she's beatable," echoed as I rose from the stool, fully nude now, the cool air kissing my sore tits and strawberry patch like a taunt, the crowd's eyes devouring every freckle and curve. That unspoken rule hung between Zoey and me like a dare: third round, no quarters, hammer down till someone broke. I nodded to her across the ring, resolve hardening despite the throb in my chest, and when Julie's whistle blew, I met her charge head-on, arms weaving to protect my face and core, but she was a blur, topless fury closing fast.
Her hook slammed my gut first, folding me like paper, breath exploding out in a whoosh that left me gasping, bare breasts swinging wildly. *Bitch come on,* I thought, firing back a jab that clipped her jaw, but she shrugged it and cracked an uppercut into my tit *smack* the pain reignited like fire, making me yelp as it bounced and burned. The mats blurred under my feet, her assault relentless: jabs snapping my head, crosses thudding my ribs, every strike exploiting my nakedness, thighs quivering as a low shot grazed my hip. I countered hard, looping a right that thudded her shoulder, drawing a grunt, and for a moment I pushed back, hooking her side, feeling the give of her abs, but she was everywhere, circling like a predator, her pierced nipples flashing with each pivot.
My body screamed tits aching, skin slick and stinging but I dug deep, swinging for her face, missing, then landing a body shot that made her wince. Then it came: her dip, that sneaky upward punch driving right into my pussy blunt force crushing my most sensitive spot, the trimmed red curls no shield as pain exploded white-hot. My lips parted in a perfect O, a moan tearing free deep, involuntary, the kind that echoes from a violated core, legs giving out as I hit the mats, vision spotting. *No...* The world tilted, defeat crashing in as the whistle faded, Ben's face crumpling in the distance like a bad dream.
### Round Three: Julie's Observations as Referee (Brief Wrap)
I barely kept up in the center, whistle ready, but the action was too frenzied for breaks. Zoey charged like a storm, exploiting Marg’s nudity with surgical strikes: hooks to the body, jabs to the head, uppercuts that made her freckled breasts dance painfully. Marg held her own at first, but fatigue and exposure wore her down, her swings growing desperate amid the crowd’s cheers. No fouls until the end, but per their wild rules, it stuck. Marg collapsed, her O-shaped moan and crumple sealing the bout. I blew the whistle sharply at the three-minute mark, raising Zoey’s arm amid the uproar: *Fight over, Zoey wins!* I smirked at the raw spectacle, the guys’ reactions pure caveman chaos.
The bell clanged finality, and the yard exploded neighbors toasting, phones out, the ten couples a whirlwind of shocked laughter and applause. Marg stayed down a beat, curling on the mat with a hand between her thighs, that moan still echoing in my ears as Ben rushed in, face crushed like his world had ended. Across the ring, Brad was lost in the moment, shorts around his ankles, hand pumping his erection with unashamed excitement, eyes locked on my triumph. I strutted to him, bare and unbroken, the smirk on Julie's face mirroring my own victory, complete, spoils mine.
