Author's Note: So I had someone ask me a little while back. "Remington, introduce me to more of your people." So I decided that it was high time for me to do a show case of the people I regularly adore to write with. In addition the chats will be in their preferred style and range from competitive to just straight up stories. The first one out of the gate is as it should be:
Baileybadass. This woman has a direct line to my lust like few I have ever met. She boxes. She has done public titfights with me. She fucks like a dream. And she put a ring on it. So, as if I couldn't praise her enough I married her and its incredible. So please, enjoy the log. Enjoy Bailey. Love you all.
The train ride despite being a full twelve hours was all too brief that was for certain. The hotel however was everything I could have possibly imagined as I stood staring out the window. I feel like it's a typical look for me of late. My existence has been absolutely surreal given that I’m MARRIED to you. Married to Bailey Hirsch. I still can’t shake the fact that we were ships passing in the night for so long and that ache that I feel like I just acted sooner- I cut the thought off. No, I refuse to think or feel like that. I won’t. I have the only thing I could possibly want for. You. Looking over my shoulder I see you digging around in your bag. You’ve been sort of antsy for a minute now. Playful punches in the elevator. You climbed on me last night and gave me a few shots to my abs. I know this behavior, this buzz. This dancing around. You’re looking for something physical, a confrontation or at a minimum some foreplay violence. So I made a call to the concierge and explained what I needed.
It hadn’t taken them long in fact tonight’s date was a boxing gym that I could only describe as ostentatious and expensive. Private locker rooms. A flawless top of the line ring. All the fun little training things you could think of. I also made an order for some new gloves for both of us. Our strapons are also in a bag headed over to the gym.
Walking over to you I touch your back gently and smile. “Ready?” at your nod I head for the door. The car waiting to take us to our “date” the only thing I told you was to make sure you wore a thong under your dress. It's the only thing I plan on boxing you in. One of us is going back to the room with her thong in her mouth. Nothing on under her dress. The thought of tonight makes me giddy. --
You ask if I’m ready, as if that’s something that can even be. Prepared. Ready. Maybe the infinitude in between those two points describes our life up to this point. We missed one another. Oh so often. Over and over again. Maybe we were *prepared* for a relationship. But ready? I lean over in the car, and snake my tongue into your ear canal; it’s the first time I’ve been in a Rolls Royce. “I’m sorry I lied earlier. No. I’m not *ready*. But I’ve prepared myself as well as I can.” There’s no being ready for you. There’s no being ready for a typhoon.....There are steps you can take, you can mitigate the destruction. But....ready? --
The car ride is a lovely one and as you distract me from the evening lights of the city I can't help but smile. I think you've figured out what I planned for tonight as you cling to me. The poor driver. As he pulls up out front I climb out and help you out. Gesturing I smile. "It's ours tonight" is a lovely modern building so as I push in through the front of the unlocked double glass doors it leads past the reception desk and to an overlook. Below is the gym floor with the boxing ring smack center. Turning to you I smile and nibble your ear lobe for a moment before looking at your face. "Locker rooms are down there. You'll find your gift in there. See you in a minute? Thongs only." Kissing up your neck I leave you to enjoy the silence with the ring lights on over the open space illuminating the space we'll fight in soon enough. --
And....enjoy it I do for a moment. But....we DO have the full run of the place. So I shimmy my left shoulder and let the strap slide over my sun kissed skin....and the same to the other. Striding past you on my way to the locker room, my sundress slips off my body as if the silk were liquid. I couldn’t, honestly, have planned it better, when I look over my shoulder and wink with just the faintest rumors of a smile. I step from the dress, leaving it still warm on the vestibule floor. Opening the door to my locker room, I give you another glance.....before I slip into my room. My white lace thong was a gift, and meant just for honeymooning in. I’m greeted to the sight of what looks like a dressing room for a broadway starlet, with a makeup counter, mirror flanked in warm lights, and a brand new pair of white everlasts with a red silk bow tied around. I tug the ribbon loose with my teeth and inhale the scent of the new leather. I get another lungful. It’s invigorating, exhilarating.....and in a moment, I’m tugging the gloves onto my fists and trying out their weight, air boxing, testing my speed, accuracy. On the wrist of my left glove, I found embroidered your Initials; SH. On the right, my own BH. Slamming the gloves together, and my minge, visible through the thin vellum of what passes for panties, mats up with effusive verve.......”God I love that woman.....” --
I watch the entire show as you drop your dress and reveal that we are in fact going for some classic color coordination. White for you as the lace of the thong peaks over your ass and hugs your hips as the waterfall of sundress slides off your body. No one anywhere at all ever could tell me that my wife isn’t grade S sexy. You can’t if you tried I’d punch you in the mouth. As you slide into the locker room I trace my own path unzipping the side of my dress and letting it collapse to the floor next to me. Taking the handle of the door I open it and step inside enjoying how it is more dressing room than locker room. However the stark white plastic medical table is a reminder that despite all the lovely interior of the locker room. You may still be carried in here if you have to be carried out of the ring. My own pair of gloves rests on the table. For whatever reason you insist on Everlast's. and I of course would never say no to you about anything. Mine however are Venums, sleek black, shiny things that are only broken by a viper pattern and the stitched red of our initials on the straps. Pulling them on I flex my hands in them and grin fiercely. This...this is good.
Leaving the room I head for the ring and I see you moving across the space towards the ring as I track you I can’t help but watch as you walk and those hips roll. Watching you climb in the ring I climb up after you and settle in testing the floor of it moving my feet around and seeing if I’ll slide on the canvas. I spent so many years training in rings that had slick spots from age and wear. This though is so much nicer so much better- I can’t help it my attention gets pulled by you again as you move. “Oh...my…” --
I blush as you look me up and down while I’m warming up my limbs. Being contorted in the throes of ecstasy is one thing. Being leveraged to inflict as much mound soaking agony on my beloved as possible? That’s a different level of work. I work through combinations; left, right, hook hook, uppercut. Jab , cross, jab.
Jab and slip, flinch and hook. You’ll never meet a boxer with a stuffy nose, I’ve heard someone say; they’re cleaning out those particular pipes for hours. Jets of air thrust over my lips and through my nostrils at the same time as I get my arms to sign onto mutually assured abuse. Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood. Imitate the action of the tiger. You know. All that Henry V shit. I’ve developed a nice sheen, my hair back in a high ponytail.....my thighs are nice and limber, arms feel...alive. Strong. Good. --
Watching you work and blush I realize that at some point I should probably think about moving around myself. Bouncing on my toes I inhale slowly and then exhale. And then I move...it's like somewhere in my head I can hear the music. Stepping my arms work as I slide forwards: jab into overhand right, turn out into a hook high low. It flows from me like I know it does from you. We've pulverized each other so many times now that I can't begin to tell you just how much I adore the feel of you leather on my skin and tonight is no different as I move around. My heart pounds in my ears and I increase the pace of my punches feeling my breathing increase in speed and volume as I develop my own little glow in my corner. Finally settling out of it I toss my blue ponytail back over my shoulder and shrug my shoulders up and roll them forwards.
I know I'm ready for tonight come what may as I shuffle in my corner looking to you to see if you are ready as well. The giddy energy boils up in me and I can't help but smile. --
“Ready, Santa” I giggle in my best Rudolph claymation voice. To watch you is to know that grace has a razor edge to it. I shake my gloved fists out at my sides, anxious to increase blood flow to my extremities. My gloves come up, standard guard, leading with my left, and shuffling in. Now, I should have told you this before we got married, and maybe this changes the whole game for you. Are you ready? Here is it......I’m not the biggest, strongest bitch in the world. Cue your shocked face....right?! I know. It’s just not me! So when it comes to how I’ve been fighting for so long, it makes dick sense that I would stand there, feet planted, shifting and circling like I’m in cement. I’d been trying something different in my training regimen, and in other sparring sessions, I’ve seen it help, just the simple act of bouncing, foot to foot. It plays into my strengths; cardio for days, nervous, frenetic energy. Speed. So I decide to unveil this new tac, bouncing toward you, McGregor-esque. Watching your shoulders, and flicking my eyes up to yours every now and then to make sure that I’m enjoying honestly one of the best parts of your body....those eyes.... --
Sliding out of the corner towards you as I watch you bounce. This is quite possibly the first time I've seen this from you. I knew you'd been working on some new moves but this isn't something new to your arsenal no it's actually an overhaul of your fighting part of me is a little sad to see my slugger vanish into the bouncing gait you have now but part of me is happy to see you're playing into what you are naturally good at. Every time you meet my eyes it makes them crinkle. Trying my best not to giggle I motion you over like I want to touch gloves and as soon as you're in range I do something from my foxy boxing days. Pushing my chest out I bump you breast to breast. Yes I have a large rack but you hardly trail me and you've shown me tit to tit just what you can do so when I give you the bump I feel you bump right back.
Backing off my guard comes up and then I lick out with a jab combination. Yup. Exactly as sounds two high and then I drop suddenly and pop the third one at your lovely tummy as I turn out to the right henacing you with a snappy right hook in case you wanted to try and get close. I do want you to close all the time...just not right this second! --
When your tits bump into mine, a delicious electricity roils through my everything, and I get the sudden, delicious memory of the past few nights. Writhing in bed, feeling your everything....I crave every bit of you. And this.....this penchant for violence. It’s as much a part of you as it is me. So when your jabs come in, light on my feet, I’m able to bob, and slip past them....that last one low to my midriff requires my guard....and I’m able to sled er your exploratory blows away. When I see you slash with that right as you’re leading that way, the hook rippling through the air like serpentine lightning, I get the first confirmation that this “Frigate” style, light and fast, just may work. I’m just out of range of that hook, and I’m glad I didn’t rush in. Your power is on par with that of a blacksmith’s trip hammer, and I don’t want to take a drilling from that bit until I absolutely have to. Dancing about to my right to counter your movement; eventually I’ll move in contrast with you instead in concert, but I want to get a good momentum first. Build a nice foundation before I look to get too aggressive. I keep my guard crisp and high, the glove thumbs nearly touching my cheeks. Believe it or not, I have you to thank for this....watching you Lindy Hop recently reignited my love of dance, and when I felt myself getting into a rhythm, I tried it with a pair of gloves....light, bouncy.....hopefully deadly. I snap a left, left jab combo, aiming both the asps at your chin....I flinch and feint on that right cross, and then fling it in earnest a moment later, hoping to glance one off the side for your jaw. --
You move out and around as my cautionary right hook scrapes air and I yank it back around to my guard. With a grunt of satisfaction I continue to rotate out and around you watching you dance along the canvas as I can only smile and flick my eyes over you. What comes next I press my right glove out tapping the jabs out of the way with the parry. You cock back and feint but it doesn't matter overly much as I dip down and to my left on angle. It does however mean that you bounce your glove off the top of my head as I go under it. Gritting my teeth I know that could have been way worse but as I skate by under the cross I twist my body and lash out with a left hook into your floating ribs and a left hook high over the top of your arm looking to push you around a little. I'm not bigger than you but I have quite a bit of force at my disposal as I look to put the pain in my wifey. It's still wildly early in this dance and with your moves I wouldn't be too shocked if you scrape out of it as I dip low. --
I try to get too cute too early, and with nothin in the way of a sombrero within three city blocks, my ability to be cute is severely diminished. If we’d only done the fight in Antigua, I muse to myself.....I pay for my lack of precision with a punishing left that slams into my ribs. The bones flex and buck; the ribs are like that. They’ll play fast and loose a lot more than will, say, a femur. It doesn’t mean it won’t hurt like high holy fuck. It also isn’t as bad as it could be; having twisted into the errant right cross, my liver is still in the shadow of those ribs. That could have been a quick night. As it is, it’s not exactly a Swedish massage; unless the masseuse is named Helga, who’s currently going through a messy divorce, and used to go by the name Cecil. It’s an oddly specific metaphor, but I’ve led an odd life. To the point; your left hook rips into my side....and I flinch from the pain....but you draw your left back again, going for a second bite of the apple. My right, is still being reels back home, but your left flies through the air....I’m able to duck under the menacing club, and rifle out a right hook to answer your own body shot....with your flank exposed, I try to mangle some ribs too....these are on the back, and cover your kidney....and I want...that ....kidney.... --
There are some things that just FEEL good. Your wife sitting on your face. Your wife putting her lips on your pussy. Feeling up your wife’s rack while she’s unsuspecting in the shower. Punching your wife right above the liver. Okay listen just because we are into different things doesn’t mean you have to judge. So when my glove plows you in the side and I see your face register the hit I have the urge to hug you to my body. Not because you look hurt but because I want to rub on you. That doesn’t happen in fact as I swing for your head with the left hook you duck under it and drag a right hook into my side. “OOOF! Bitch.” I crunch to the right side as you whip that right hook into my kidney. I’m a tough cookie but the glandular organ punches suuuuuck. My only reaction is to pop off with a left jab to your face trying to rock your head back and then I swing a right of my own trying to kiss your pretty jaw with the front two knuckles of my fist through the leather of my glove. It's because I love you I swear! It's the strangest of things really but I do want you on your back chest heaving softly with your lights turned out. But I want it after you’ve been punched around the ring in pain. You want it too! Don’t give me that. The sounds you make in the ring (and that I make) are essentially sexual to my ears at this point. --
I feel that blow rattle up my arm, into my spine, and register in my brain at the front desk of the “Oh, hell yes!” Department. Stone Cold Steve Austin mans this section, and he’s never smiled, even though he’s often been happy. Right now? Stevereno is pretty dang happy. I take my pound of flesh from you, but you’re a counter puncher, and I pay for it with a nasty jab, almost a back hand as you flick it out. I know better than to stick around, because you’re going to stack shit up on me high enough to reach to the moon and back if I let you. I’m already dancing around, to my right, trying to stay offline of that right. Bouncing about, switching to southpaw for a moment as I angle right, snapping a few right jabs out, flicking them toward your face, like I’m trying to bat a fly out of the air.....then planting on my right foot, and digging into a low left hook, hoping to tag just north of your navel....before I bounce to standard guard again, leading on my left, and dashing in that direction now. --
The left jab rocks and the right chews air as I chase you. My wife the speedster knows exactly what a counter puncher I am so its not surprising that she's long gone when my right goes to ring the doorbell. You circle out and then your beautiful feet glide on the canvas so you can throw those right jabs high. My left arm comes up like a Roman legionnaire taking the shots on the arm as I plant my right foot and turn myself towards you pivoting to keep you in my hips where I can dump power in you. You plant and dig as I turn and WAM! You dig that punch into my lower body, I crunch painfully as you blast air out of me. Consequently my body reacts in the only way it knows how. Yup you guessed it. I lash out with a right hook looking for pay back as you switch your stance and DASH left I don't have copious amounts of power cause I'm sucking air but I already had my right leg set so I press trying to snap my hips over and clean your clock as you mix up your direction right into my power side. --
I succeed in planting my fist into your lower body, but I should have gone with my directional change for a while longer....what results is that I about face, right as you dumpster truck my skull like a bull trying furiously to mate with a duck. My dash to the left meets your hook from the right, and the crack of leather on skull is something sickening and otherworldly.....my head seems to wrap around my vertebrae, and Linda Blair ain’t got shit on me....the whiplash rattles my head around and my body falls to a heap on my side, gloves still out in front of me like I was slow dancing when the world turned perpendicular....My head bounces off the mat....and I roll to my back...staring at the lights...my breasts heave up and down....eyes blinking lazily.....a thin wry smile crosses my lips as I furiously try to remember the rebooting protocol for my brain....”Nice....one....” I pant.... --
I lay you. The fuck. Out. I'd love to say I planned that. That I'm standing over you flexing and prancing after putting you on the canvas. Nope. Take a moment to bend at the waist and just suck in air. Your punch to the solar plexus was not fun as you pant at me I look over at you and smile. "Not..woof.. bad yourself baby. Nhhg. Right in the tummy. I have to go back to sit-ups. You like my belly too much " watching as you lay on the mat and try to figure out what day it is. I finally manage to walk over to you. Picking up my right foot I playfully tap your left nipple with it. "You want some more or should I count?" You and I have really gotten to the point where the count is a ritual shaming a final "you lose" to a senseless or occasionally obviously too beat up partner. I'm not sure where you are at but I'm not counting because you're still clearly conscious even if I did ring your bell a bit. --
I bat your foot away, taking it for the spit in the eye it is.....but it’s the playful banter of our kind. Other couples play grab ass and wrestle in the kitchen.....we beat the stew out of one another in the ring.....”Get out of here, bitch. You know your ass is down here next....and it won’t be off some lucky shot, either!” I twist the lemon a bit on that one, and roll to all fours, shaking my head, and getting up to my feet.....Inhaling, and shaking my head around some.......I slam my gloves together, and face you again...”Alright....let’s see it… --
I can't stop the giggle. It's going to get me punched in the mouth but I can't help it! You roll over and scrape yourself off the canvas. I know there is some sort of payback coming down the pipe as I watch you clamber to your feet telling me how my ass beating is about to be all skill and no luck. I believe that. But I also know what you look like when you've had your bell rung. I give you a wry smile as you say the words. Taking a step I lick out a jab from further range than normal looking to make you kiss leather as I try to bop you with it immediately after you just climbed off the canvas cooking my right shoulder back I take a huge step in like I going to take your head off your shoulders and as my left comes back my right lashes out. Not in an overhand cross though but in a low right hook aimed to pulverize your uterus through the abdominal wall just above your thong as I duck out to my left side. --
You’re as merciful as a great white wearing a necklace of entrails. Your left snaps out and just bounces off my lips, knocking my head back....I’m on the back foot, and I keep angling away, which is my future children’s saving grace, as your glove ripples into my abdomen, but it only delivers half its Joule payload, before physics glances or the rest of the way off....but now I’m piqued and ground. You’re ducking to your left, and I cork screw with you two my own, but only just so I can leave my angles right, lashing a left overhand, flying above your extended right, aimed for your temple. But I stop short here again (it worked so well for me last time) and fire a right uppercut; aiming for the tender velvet of your right breast. We’re not squared up, and your right orb is in line with my wheelhouse, so I ripple off into the blow. --
Ducking out and to my left seems to be the thing that works and also REALLY does not work. You clip me on the top of my head with that left punch and I take a stumble step as that right uppercut just about smacks me in the face with my own boob. Howling I stumble back and into the ropes as I give you a feral grimace. "Yeah okay I guess I deserved that one…" running my aching right orb I shuffle back looking to see how you play this one. I don't particularly feel like trading punches while my right hand is busy rubbing my aching right tit. I can see some of the light back in your eyes and while I take joy in that I really do need to switch it off at some point and that's always a lovely thing to see. --
“That one....amongst others....” I purr, happily. It’s....so rare to find someone who enjoys hurting someone...who enjoys being hurt. Sure, there’s that initial, oh I wanna tire iron beat a bitch....that’s biology kicking in. But once the chemicals wear off, and a different batch rolls in......it’s an endorphin rush unlike anything else. Sure, we’ll watch the dolphins frolic at sunset together. But that’s for tomorrow. And it’ll look like we both got mugged the day before. I flash that left jab, snapping straight ahead, aiming for your already aching breast.....but the real bitch is when I rifle off the overhand right, hoping to crash down on your left shapely tit.....and as I bounce back, I lance a left jab high again, hoping to dust off my tracks, in case you come bouncing back in… --
I feel like you know better but the longer you do it the more I get to inflict this strange combination of pain and pleasure on you. You got to mug my jug again and my right hand is waiting. Launching it out to meet your left I throw the punch so it skips off your already low aimed left jab and I try to find purchase in your face as it clips the punch offline and sends mine over top. With my back to the ropes I shrug my left guard up and catch your over hand right on it. It drives my glove into your head but it's way better than my titty getting splattered by your glove. As you bounce back I come off the ropes looking to follow with a left hook and instead you pop me in the mouth and my legs go out from under me and I'm left on my ass shaking my head. "You little…" putting my left glove to my mouth I can taste blood. Just a little split as I look up at you menacingly. --
I look down at you, having just snapped one into your face, catching you right on the button...we’re both a bit worse for wear, neither of us are....flawless. And yet......”Go on....finish it.....say it ......” I coo with a wicked grin.....of course, at the same time, I’m offering my hand (pun intended) and looking to help you up should you want it. No counts. No numbers.....I just want you on your feet again. That animal part of me is roaring around now, and I just....I need something to rip into… --
“Bitch.” I smirk at you from my ass as you offer me your glove. “You may very well regret this…” Catching your glove I let you pull me up and in a fit of pique I do something really uncharacteristic. gripping your hips with my gloves I yank you close and press my lips to yours, rubbing my chest across yours as I do it making sure you can feel how hot I am for you. Shoving back I put my gloves up and smirk at you. I’m not sure if it was meant to be some sort of an offense or I’m just really turned on but something about you topless in gloves just does it for me. --
I’ll be honest....you, in just gloves and sweat does it for me too. I’m still savoring the taste of your mouth, the way you tongue feels as it scrapes across mine. To know your kiss is to know gentle strength...it’s to know the velvet wrapped hammer. I slam my gloves together, squirming on the inside, and nodding at you....We’re both.....prepared.....I bounce left and right, darting in for feints and back out....the two left jabs i offer are from a practically aerial platform, as I’m just testing you, gauging your speed..... --
My instructor used to accuse me of something once upon a time. It was that I would purposefully back or maneuver my partner into other sparing pairs or over objects in the room or any number of things. It was like a dog dragging its owner into a tree branch or through a bush. The idea being that I was manipulating my environment. He wasn’t wrong but it was because I could see. You bounce left and right and my stance shifts to track you as you flick those two jab out. My right foot sucks into my left foot and I suddenly lunge my left jab licking out at your face. Hoping to get those gloves up before my left foot steps again and my right foot drags in and I hammer down with a right cross dropping my level to kiss your left nipple with the leather and try and touch your ribs with it before my body jerks back over and up as I try once again to scramble your entrails with a left uppercut aimed at your spine through your tummy. --
Standing toe to toe with you is a bad idea; I learned that when I watched the film of our sparring seshes in the past. Planting myself, it lends a modicum of power, but it soaks up vast amounts of mobility.....Speed is life, in this game. And that flurry you’re sending my way, it’s built on the back of that opening jab, and the prospect of it dominating my field of vision. I see it streaming in, and I’m already on the back foot, bouncing back, that left dashing through the humid air - but the right is what you were concealing, you cheeky minx.....while I”m able to bat that cross offline, you pour on the gas with a left uppercut....I’m still trending back, but you’re gobbling up real estate in the ring.....the left glove meets my guard, and the sheer force is enough to knock my forearms back into my abdomen.....already flitting around like a hummingbird, there’s a precarious moment when both feet are up in the air, and the grunt that blasts through my lips sifts through clenched teeth. A moment later, that left skips off my guard, though, your left arm screaming up.....and when my feet touch the canvas, I bounce in, bringing to bear my speed in an offensive manner this time, ripping off what should be a criminal right hook: I’m aiming for those deliciously exposed obliques, and ribs.....firing off a left hook a half a moment later, this aimed for your solar plexus, and finally a right overhand, aiming for the point of your chin....deft, light, flitting about, and, when I need to, grounding and driving… --
You’ve become in many ways my opposite. Where I’ve for many years continued to build my ability in trench warfare and small unit tactics I’ve watched as you master cavalry tactics and the ability to circumvent what I am up to. Which just means that the longer unspooling traps are the important part. AS I hammer on your guard and you continue to bleed ground. I know I’m going to have to contend with your assault in response and I can only hope that it doesn’t bleed away more of my resources than I can afford to expend. Sure enough you jack your body over for a right hook that makes me gasp as it slams into my rib and I twist my back to my left. It's the saving grace as you piston back across and slam with a reprising left hook that nearly folds me over. Instead it crashes into my ribs on the other side behind my elbow. Damn babe, I’m not going to be able to sleep on either side as I groan from the punches. You’re not done though as you slam forwards with a right aiming for my chin. My guard is too low to do anything about this. So I move or get clocked. I jerk to my right and move my head forwards slipping to the inside of the punch as I throw my own left cross crashing forwards into you and trying to get around the punch while I loop my other around the top and moving towards you chest first. --
As always, you’re slipperier than greased owl shit. You manage to bob offline of my overhand. Now, all things being equal, that would have been amazing to have landed that flush. But, I believe in moral victories, and the fact that I have you in a moment on the back foot, and effectively out of place for proper defense is......encouraging. Truth be told; I was stagnant. You owned me in more than a few fights, and it forced me to a crisis of conviction; either lay the gloves down for good.....or evolve. Here’s to evolution....Now. That’s not to mean that you’re a wilting lily, nor that you’re a tree to be felled by a few simple strokes. You slip inside my glove, and slice into my exposed right side with your left. The act of moving in steals some of your power, as your cross isn’t able to reach full extension. The looping right dashes into my sternum, though, and blasts the wind from my sails, sending some spittle flying through the air....I go in the direction of the punch, knocked to the side, and listing with the momentum....all the while extricating myself from the narrow row of canvas you were bullying me into.....I switch to southpaw for a moment, because I’ll utilize those snapping right jabs...bouncing, slicing, bouncing, slicing, working always to my right in order to get me a bit more ring to work with. --
There is a moment I think with you of late where I have been slightly hesitant in how I react. This...nagging sense that for some reason I need to hold ever so slightly. That I can’t treat you quite the same. That I need to pull a punch or just maybe not press as hard. It's not to say I’ve ever thrown anything with you but it's this little tiny hesitation and it's not there with anyone else. So as my right sends you stumbling and you switch stances I can feel it creeping up on me. That sense that maybe I need to drag a step a little slower that I’m in love and maybe I don’t need to hit you that hard every time?
In that weird moment I know that I’m wrong. That is you ever found at I’d ever hesitated you’d scream and rage and demand an accounting. So, instead of letting that little nag get at me I slam myself into higher gear. You track to the right trying to escape. My left foot licks out and I practically hop on a perpendicular line keeping my left glove up like a shield to ward those right jabs keeping my glove on my forehead feeling the punches rattle my frame. As I take the hoping left step I swing my right hook for your kidney. Yanking back, and then hammering it back in looking to clip the lower lobe of your liver with the second punch before I rechamber and third time and throw the third right hook high, pulling it at a downwards angle looking for your head. --
You mirror my steps, showing an aggressive tac. You are push push push push, and this tactic gives me another look into your psyche. Offer no quarter. Full court press. that’s it.....that’s fucking it....I knew I’ve felt this kind of stifling defense before. In soccer, same as basketball, there’s almost an unspoken understanding that the other team moves just past mid-field (or court) before you ratchet the pressure up. In certain, critical situations, you press the adversity the whole way. But there are some, some very aggressive sorts, that play full court all the time. But the reason for ceding half, half the field has nothing to do with courtesy; it has everything to do with gumming up the works for the other team. Getting more bodies in the way of the goal. When you shift left, and cut off my bid for more real estate, something clicks in my head. Eureka.......
You rifle off those gawdawful right hooks, I tuck my arm in tight, and keep moving....one hop to my right still.....and your gloved hammer wraps around my defense and lances into my back, jarring my organs, and sending octopi made of hate and agony flailing around in my body......another hop, and you reload, and fire again, looking to put me into the clay with a liver shot.....I’m wary, and I cover this critical zone staunchly, still feeling the wretched agony as you flex my arm into my own body.....and then you reload for a third....and that’s when I plant my feet, and slip low, and to my left.....I wait for the extension, for that hook to slice in through the air......I’m nearly broadside of you.....so that when I uncork my right hook, I’m practically facing your profile, and hammering my gloved fist at your second intended target.....your liver.....the left hook that rifles out a half second later is poised on your back, at your right kidney.... --
The first two hooks meet organs, I know they did but you plant and jerk into an absolutely lethal slip ducking under my last hook as it chews air. You whip back across and I’m just not fast enough to get out of the way of the punch. It scrapes my liver and I am reminded of just how much that fucking hurts. I drop and your second hook it's my shoulder tossing me to the canvas for the second time. I splay out and am left wondering what the fuck happened. Not, what I got hit by but what the fuck happened to me. Its like I got old. Like the world caught up to me. Pain lends this weird sort of clarity to my thoughts as I lay their tits down and aching badly. I know it will slither away eventually. My gloves plant on the canvas and I moan into it. There is a very serious moment of consideration where I wonder why you bothered to marry me. I’ve had this weird barb in my psyche for years where I hang my self worth on my ability to fight and right now you could plant your foot on my face and I wouldn’t be able to do a damn thing. It makes me jaw ache and click as I clench it. The animal side of my brain SCREAMS. At me to get up. To make you hurt too. To devastate your body. The issue is mostly that my legs are still on strike and my liver is advising me that it is in fact the largest glandular organ in my body. I realize something else too. My face is wet and when I open my eyes I see little wet spots on the canvas. Tears? Fuck. No. No! I’m not done! I don’t want to be done! Uhg! I pound my forehead on the canvas and tense my biceps preparing to push myself off the floor on sheer willpower and the strength in my arms. --
And here we are, on the razor’s edge. It’s a narrow place. Dangerous. And when you look over the edges, it’s a long, long way down. I see you drop to the canvas, and the sounds.....normally that’s one of my favorite parts....but to see you collapse like that. It takes the will out of me, the life out of me...I drop to my knees, and scoop your head into the hollow of my gloves....”Remi. Remi.....it’s okay. I’m right here.....I’m....I’m not leaving you..Remi......Remi?” My breathing is shallow, my jaw is set......my muscles tense and clench up....god, oh god.........”Remi.....I’m right here.....”. I keep saying it over and over.... --
I can feel you suddenly right there. I can hear you saying my name and that. That feels amazing and then something in me hurls it back. My legs finally function again as I get to my knees shaking off your gloves. Looking up at you. "We're. Not. Done…" it's not anger in my eyes at all. My voice may be cold but its determination. Blinking back the rest of the tears I use your crouched body to pull myself up. Damn it this is our honeymoon and if I'm going to lose then I want to be spectacular not some basic bitch liver punch where I'm groaning on the ground and you feel bad about it. No. No! I absolutely refuse to let that be how you remember your honeymoon boxing match. It's either going to be you waking up with you thong in your mouth or you laying me OUT on the canvas. You're my absolute love and I'll be damned before I give you anything other than a match that soaks your thong through and through. Rolling my shoulders back I inhale slowly and focus on that center of the pain gritting my teeth and then grimacing as it finally obliges me by settling into a dull throb. Turning so I'm not quite so bladed I drop my hands down ever so slightly. Sweat beads my painted skin and my bare naked and starting to discolor a little chest rises and falls as I take manual control of my breathing to make sure that it is smooth through the pain shaking my arms gently. "Come on Bailey. You either finish me or I'll lay you out." My mouth pulls towards a smile as I look at you. I cleaned your clock earlier. I'll fucking do it again… damn I'm so in love. --
My left glove hooks around the back of your neck and I pull you into a kiss....so deep and hungry that lions will study it when teaching their young how to hunt. I growl into your open mouth, my tongue is a flutter.....nothing about us makes sense to most beyond these walls. None of it needs to. I don’t do it to make sense to, for them. I do it because it’s you. And me. And this universe has its boundaries three inches outside this ring....”Then get up....and either take me to the shower.....or stand up and fight......either way...I need to feed....” I lean back on my heels, my weight just above my feet, and I stand. Pushing up to my full height...I slam my gloves together..... --
The kiss is hot and your words are hotter as I feel my body kick itself over finally. A wash of adrenaline hits my blood and gods of the dark realm does it sing as it pounds through my veins. I can feel the heaviness in my limbs but I know this feeling. I can nearly hear the opening drum beat of Sing Sing Sing in my ears. My vision narrows down to just you and the area around us. If you want to win in a fight you have to hurt the other person so badly they decide they have had enough or their body decides it for them. The best way to do that though is up for debate so as you slam your gloves together and put them up. I know that I’m on limited time as my liver informs me it still doesn’t feel great and the weight of tiredness presses in around me. I can feel it like a lead mantle but for right now as my adrenal glands give me a shot of the necessary cocktail. I’m running on redline.
My lead glove lashes out like it's a striking snake aiming it right for your face. I pull the punch at the last second and my left foot skims the surface of the canvas. It's a feint to hide something else entirely. Instead of a true jab I feint into a sticky punch that I slam onto your guard as I shrug my left shoulder up. I’m not staying long. I sweep my right leg in tight as I unleash a shovel uppercut right for your left ovary. I’m hurt and I’m desperate as I move to liquify your guts but in my brain my body is no longer fighting its dancing as the main line of the song hits. I have so little time and I can feel it bleeding away.
Push. Harder.
Bobbing to the left to try and avoid any immediate retaliation as I lash the right shovel uppercut I shove off of my left foot where my weight has just shifted to and whip my left glove high. If I mash your head great but I don’t give a shit its a much more sinister punch as I whip it close to your cheek and try to peel your guard. As soon as my weight is on my right foot again I kick my hips over. With the movement I jack my right arm into a cross but I bend at the waist and aim it HARD hopefully over your down guard and try to plant it on your jaw. --
Dance with what brung you....I’m bouncing still, my energy in the green. I feel.....wounded, hurt, but still well within the sweet spot. I know that look. I know that determination. When we’re old and grey, you’ll have dentures because you crush your molars, knuckle up....and press on. I’m just not ready for the speed. It’s breathtaking, just the swiftness of it. You lance into me with precision and the crackling of static electricity; your glove slices through the air and my guard just isn’t in position....I’m able to mitigate some....SOME of the force, but for the most part, you dart that glove into my guts and make me gag from the pit of my stomach.....
The lurching, roiling nausea....the ripping agony....it feels like you’re trying to unseat my organs....it feels like you might be succeeding.....you’re coming in, and I need to mount up again.....cavalry is no good when they’re knocked off their horse. Again...I see you putting everything in...full court press....I know I can’t just back up....so I choose a direction and slip left, angling back as your glove slices through the air.....I snap a short left hook, crisp, tight...I’m not firing 40MM like you are....but I’m aiming for quickness....I’m aiming for speed.....the left hook slides high, trying to ride the line of your extended right hook....and a moment later, I step into a sinister right overhand....this....this one I’m aiming for your left nipple....if I can clock your head....it might give me the momentary freeze I need to crush your button.... --
The right finds its home in your guts but you're still far fresher than I was hoping despite some pounding hits. You breeze back out of the way of the left hook and I can’t help the grin. It's not a right hook, it's a cross and it's always been a cross every time I’ve thrown the ugly thing. I tfires from the shoulder and its loop comes at the end when I turn my thumb downwards. So as you slip in and fire your own hook over top I do a simple movement. I shrug my shoulder up ever so slightly and it slams off the top of my head. It doesn’t feel good by any means but it's way better than you clobbering me into submission. As you fire I know I need to take your lines away so I shove off my back leg and with my right arm still extended I jerk it back as I push in. Your overhand right slams into my glove and puts the glove right into my breast making me exhale in pain. As my momentum carries forwards I press off my left foot and lash my left hand around looking for the clinch. I don’t stop though I can’t stop this as I slam into you with my body jerking you and pressing looking to put you on the back foot headed for the ropes. Come on...bite. This has to hurt... --
I don’t know much. But one thing that keeps resonating through my mind....keep moving. Keep moving...sharks don’t remain still. My lifeblood is my movement. And you’re wrapping me up, keeping me stationary, and herding me back toward the ropes......so with your left glove wrapped ugh, I sneak three slicing right hooks, looking to wrap the blows around your back, like a puck around the back boards...aiming for your kidneys…
My left glove plants against your shoulder....and I look to jerk and tug myself out of the clinch to your right.....my ear is tucked against my left shoulder, using that arm as a guard....in case you’re looking to ping pong my head around.....I don’t know a lot of what you’re doing here...something in your veteran mind is working overtime...and all I can do is focus on my basics... --
You wouldn't be my wife if you weren't hitting in the clinch and I turn to present slab muscle instead of kidney. Success is moderate to mild as you still hammer on my glandular organ and I can feel my body reminding me that the clock is ticking as that nasty adrenaline surge is bleeding away with every step and every punch. I need to do something and I sure as hell am trying to. Just another little bit...I'm not sure how much more I get beyond this If I can't hurt you. I've managed some body rockers but you're a tough cookie, honey and I love it.
You jerk towards the right and I cut my push abruptly with my left still lodged at my side. I know I get exactly one shot at this as I feel my adrenaline rattling down. When you jerk to the right and pull your left guard up it means my left is still on the inside of your right glove. So I yank hard with my right glove as you peel away stepping in and swinging my left uppercut like a BOMB looking for that unprotected chin. With your right arm on the outside and your left glove at your ear I get one shot while you're tangled up with me and not scampering.
So I swing and pray. --
I’m like a pheasant from the fowler’s net...or so I think. I’m skipping away, turning always in the direction of open water....and then I see the trap sprung...Your left glove is streaming up from the fucking basement....like you’re Hades in finer raiment, bringing a fresh load of Styx water to bathe me in.......any which way you slice it, this next part is gonna suck quarters. But there’s one way that gives me even a modicum of a chance...and I’ve gotta take it.....as you swing up...I crank my head down....it’s not a smart strategy, but in all honesty, I’m not looking for a good option. None of those are available to me. I’m looking for the best bad option. I tuck my chin to my chest, and present a rounder, less....sticky target....and decidedly a much denser one. I try to stuff your glove a little lover, and take the blistering abuse on my forehead. It doesn’t glance off nearly as well...and I’m stunned....that’s putting it lightly. I’m fucking rocked.....but had that one hit me square on the chin? We might have been going home early on this honeymoon...instead the blow snaps my head back upright....and I’m rifling off a blistering combo, on instinct....a right hook, aiming for the slope of belly just above the thong line.....followed by my own left uppercut......swinging for your chin, for the fences....the design, the hope of this combo is to catch your chin on the way down, if the right hook lands… --
That's it! Fuck yeah I slam your head back and- and that’s all I remember.
From what you’ve told you soaked the hit with your forehead and then your body took over. The right arm that I breezed past with the left uppercut lashes in while I’m trying to take your head off with the punch. It absolutely guts my center line and I as I stagger back. You flik my lights off like a switch with your left uppercut. My bent over body gives you the perfect spot to put an uppercut right on my chin. I am by no means a glass jaw but that doesn’t save anyone from a perfectly placed uppercut. It wrenches the muscle and nerves in my neck and my brain slams the reset switch. I have no choice in the matter. I crumble to my knees. slam sideways onto my right side and then slump to my back. No count required. I am fucking down and drooling. Nipples erect and things are soaked.
I’ve seen the pictures you took...they make me turn bright red…but they also make me soaking wet. If I was going to lose like that to anyone I’m glad it was you. It’s been an interesting road out of retirement and I need to go back to the drawing board on a lot of things. You’re certainly not one of them. --
When you awaken, it’s to the tune of the first song we danced to, being hummed by my voice. My thong is....decidedly not in your mouth; no one does that to my wife. Not even me. Your head is cradled in my lap, and my hands rest on the canvas, gloves having been ripped off a few moments after I hit your off button......I feel a stirring in you, and when I look down....you give me that quirky purse of the lips and side eye before smiling....”Hey.....” --
My eyes flutter and I look up at you as you cradle me in your lap. My mouth is in fact empty but I think secretly I’m happy about that. Even if I do want to taste you right now. Groaning gently I reach for my jaw. It stings and then I realize what you are humming. “Hey...mmph...I’m going to assume you won..” That’s all I can really get out as I inhale and watch my chest rise and fall. Yeah...I married that right woman. Not many can put me on my back. --
I did. I really did win. It all just depends on what game you’re talking about
