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To the victor go the spoils.
I’d heard the phrase before, but I didn’t understand what it meant.
I was 19, young, lean, and restless. I was living on the family ranch, a few miles outside of a small Nebraska town of about three thousand souls. Now, many years later, I look back on that lifestyle, rural middle America, with some fondness. At the time, I was chaffing to get out, but had no idea where I wanted to go or what I wanted to do. I wasn’t looking for a purpose, hell, I didn’t even understand what that meant. Days were full of hard physical work and nights were spent in the aimless random wandering of small-town denizens everywhere. Cruise the six blocks of main street, find your friends, hang out the local park, score some beer and sit around and tell stories to each other.
On one of those aimless western summer nights my best friend John pulled into the ranch yard in his Challenger and asked me to come with him, he had something for us to do. I jumped into the passenger seat and we rolled out of the yard and turned toward town. I didn’t know what he was up to, but I was down for it. We cranked up the rock and roll and headed down the highway.
We drove to the local community center, one of those multi-purpose Butler buildings that serve as a catch-all facility in small towns. The layout was simple. You came in through the lobby, with a set of two small offices on the left and a concession area on the right. From there, you walked through the main door into the general-purpose area, a basketball floor surrounded by pull-out bleachers, with a raised stage at the far end. On the left side of the stage was a small equipment room and on the right side was a stairwell down to a basement, just a single room, about a quarter of the size of the whole building.
We walked along the edge of the basketball court where a few locals were casually shooting hoops to wile away the time. John headed downstairs and I followed him. Another friend, Mike, was waiting near the bottom of the stairs. About a dozen other young men were milling about the basement area.
A pair of older gentlemen introduced themselves as Coach Anderson and Coach Smith. They’d gotten funding from some government program to form a boxing club and tonight was the kick-off. I had no interest in boxing at the time. It seemed kind of pointless to me, basically just punching other young men in the head with gloves on. But my friends were interested so I thought “what the hell, could be fun”.
The coaches had a box of basic equipment, generic boxing shorts, t-shirts, shoes, gloves, and protective gear in an assortment of sizes. While we all found something that fit or came close to it, the two coaches went through the basic rules, explained the waivers we’d have to sign, and the physicals we’d have to pass.
They announced the best way to learn to box was to box. We went through some basic calisthenics to warm up. They paired us off based on weight and height. Everyone was going to go through a sparring round, three minutes, to get an idea of skill levels. The fundamental rule of boxing is to hit and hit back they explained, and not everyone can do it or wants to do it.
I was paired with Randy Wilson, a local guy I knew by name and face, but not much more. To say he lit me up is an understatement. Randy had grown up in a family of Golden Gloves boxers. He’d been a local champion. He proceeded to beat me like a redheaded stepchild. I couldn’t stop him and I couldn’t touch him. In the next three minutes I might have landed one punch and that’s being charitable. I took a fast little beating that night, but my pride took a greater beating.
As I stood there, out of breath, half-dazed, watching the others get their introduction to the sweet science, I noticed we’d attracted a small audience. Three young women had come down and were sitting on a table against one of the walls, watching us. Two of them were the Reilly sisters and the other was a William’s. Small towns are strange places. Unless someone moves in your immediate circle, you know them, you know their names and their relatives, but you don’t know anything truly personal about them.
The older of the Reilly’s caught my eye. She was attractive, medium height and weight, with a nice set of curves, curly brown hair, and big brown eyes. She was wearing the universal uniform of small-town denizens, a t-shirt and blue jeans. Her name popped into my mind — Cindy. She had four sisters, and she was maybe five years older than me.
As the demonstration and try out fights continued, I watched her as she underwent a subtle change. The look in her eyes changed from curiosity to genuine interest and on into this look of pure lust. Aroused, her nipples cut a clear outline through the cotton shirt. I don’t know if I was the only one who noticed it, but I was hooked, right then, right there. If this sport could generate that kind of look from a woman, well I was going to give it a try.
My friend Mike dropped Büyükesat Escort out that night and never came back. John and I signed the waivers on the dotted line, were assigned our weight classes, and given a short list of equipment we’d need from the local sports store, just the basics, a mouthpiece, jock and cup, boxing shorts, t-shirts, a robe and towels. Gloves, tape, groin protector, and headgear were provided by the club. There was some kind of voucher system set up at the sporting goods store and the coaches provided us with a little signed slip of paper so we could take advantage of the grant funding for our equipment needs.
We fell into the routine of training and learning every day. Running for endurance, exercises for strength, some basic technique, and sparring in the ring with other boxers in and out of our weight classes. I rapidly learned the difference between skill and talent. Skill was the execution of all the techniques we learned. Talent was the speed at which you learned them. I didn’t have talent. I was a slow learner. But I had skill. Once I learned something, whether it was foot work, slipping, combinations or the good old bob and weave, I could do it quickly and proficiently, without fail. As we developed the basic techniques, sparring became mixed with the learning opportunities and sparring with people at your own level. We focused on skill development, often sparring with certain restrictions to force us to use a particular skill and hone it against the stone of competition.
There were always spectators. They were a mix of people – people interested in joining the club, older people who were fans of the sweet science and people there supporting their friends, spouses, lovers, and family. On any given night it wasn’t unusual to have a dozen or more interested spectators.
We graduated quickly into the ring itself, either in intraclub fights every Friday night, or inter-club fights with the surrounding small towns. These were informal matches intended to give the young fighters some experience in the ring, experience with space, timing, and technique. They were not considered real matches and they were heavily coached. The coaches could and would stop the match to give tips and pointers to the fighters. Sometimes they’d stop a match to swap out opponents.
I’d like to tell you I was a natural, but I wasn’t. I did have one talent. I could take a punch without getting upset or rattled. I lost most of those early informal club matches on points. Gradually though, I began to tighten up as a boxer. I improved in both defense and offense. I started to win by a few points. Slowly, or what seemed slowly to me, I started winning more than losing. I was developing into a good technical boxer.
After several months of training, we were deemed ready for our first formal matches. As a club we developed enough skilled fighters that we could participate in formal events without embarrassing ourselves. These events were called “smokers”. A particular club would host them in their gym or a local gym that was available. There were small cash prizes for individual fights and a general prize for the overall performance of the club. We’d spend a few days taping up fliers, ads would be taken out in any local newspapers, and the coaches would meet to schedule the individual bouts. As new fighters, without any record of winning and losing, we’d be slated into the undercards, which usually fought in the afternoon. The host club would charge a small admission fee, run a concession stand, and keep the lions share of the profits. Local businesses would sometimes donate products and services to get their advertisements in the flyers.
So, let’s fast forward to my first official fight. The slate of fighters was agreed on in some backroom deal between the clubs, with an eye toward fair competition and giving the fans a good show. I drew a fighter named Jackie LeBeau and we were evenly matched, both new boxers, both about the same level of skill. We were way down on the undercard, so we fought early in the afternoon in front of a fairly small audience, probably a hundred people crowded into a local gym.
Being introduced to the crowd was a great feeling. They cheered us all on, regardless of which club we were with. At 2:00 PM, I slipped into the ring and was formally announced for the first time, which felt both awesome and intimidating.
“In this corner, fighting at 163 pounds, out of Middle-Of-No-Where, Nebraska…Ryan Patterson.”
Our club fans were seated all together on one side of the ring, those folks who had watched us train and spar, and they sent up a resounding cheer. There were the Reilly sisters and the Williams sisters and assorted friends, family, and relatives. I heard them cheering and thought, “Dear God, don’t let me fuck this up and embarrass myself.”
The fight was three rounds and consisted of going toe to toe for the first round, trading punches, Elvankent Escort moving around, bobbing and weaving. We tried out all the techniques we’d learned and measured each other. We probably traded points evenly. I was mostly focused on form and defense, more on not losing then on winning.
In about the last twenty seconds I threw a jab, slipped the counter jab, feinted left and then went right and tagged him with a roundhouse to the side of the head. We threw some more punches and counterpunches, then I tried the same combination again. Jab, slip, feint left, move right, roundhouse. A solid hit to the side of the head.
At the bell I went into the corner to spit and rinse my mouth out. Coach Smith told me “Keep hitting him with that combination to the roundhouse until he figures out how to stop it.” I nodded and then on the bell stepped back into the ring.
Jab, slip, feint left, move right, roundhouse, boom. Again, jab, slip, feint left, move right, roundhouse, boom. The crowd screamed on every roundhouse and somehow, through the screaming, I heard Coach Smith yelling “Pour it on!”, so I did. Over and over. Jab, slip, feint left, move right, roundhouse, boom, all as regular as clockwork. Eight, nine, ten times in a row, then suddenly the referee was pushing us apart, waving his arms, and muscling me back into my corner.
“He’s done.” Coach Smith said into my ear as he rubbed my shoulders. Sure enough, the referee gave him a standing count and called it. TKO. Technical knock-out. Out to the center of the ring, touch gloves, then the referee was calling the match and lifting my arm in victory. It felt awesome. The fans loved it. The coaches — not so much. (I later learned that I was accused of being a ringer, which ultimately set me up to spend three rounds getting my ass knocked around like a pinata in my next match.)
I climbed down out of the ring and headed back to the locker room to get my gloves and gear off so the next boxer could use them. The locker room was down a small hallway with steel doors on each side, After dropping my gear off, I said a few words of encouragement to the next fighter, and pulled on a t-shirt and headed back out toward the gym to watch the next bout.
At the door from the hallways back into the gym I was intercepted by the older of the Reilly sisters, Cindy. She took my hand and said, “Come here.” and pulled me through another door just off the hallway. I followed her, uncertain, as she we entered a small storage room. There was a pair of desks up against one wall, some rolled wrestling mats, and assorted boxes of miscellaneous equipment. The room was illuminated by a single bare bulb dangling from a lone ceiling fixture.
Once inside she turned to face me, and I saw something in her big brown eyes. Her eyes were fever bright and her pupils were widely dilated. It was a look that I had never encountered before, but one I would become intimately familiar with. It was pure, primal, animal lust.
“Was that your first official fight?” She asked.
“So, you lost your boxing virginity tonight?”
I laughed at that and said, “Yes, I think so.”
“Good.” She replied, smiling like wolves smile at sheep.
The next thing I knew she had pushed me back against the door, pulled my t-shirt up, and she was all over my sweat covered chest, licking and kissing my pectorals, biting at my nipples. Her lips and tongue burned on my skin. It took my breath away. When her tongue slid over my nipples, they were instantly erect and she toyed with them, nipping at them and sucking powerfully. She started working her way down my abdomen, caressing the lines of muscle with long laps of her tongue and alternating with soft, sucking, kisses, lapping up my sweat. As she worked her way down across my chest and stomach, her tongue swirling into my navel, she made little moaning, mewling sounds.
Then, she dropped to her knees, still holding me against the door, and her hands found my waist band, her fingers hooked into my shorts and jockstrap, and she skimmed them down in one fast and sure move. Just that quick I was naked from the waist down, stunned. I might have been overwhelmed and bewildered by her sudden aggressiveness, but my cock wasn’t. It rose from my groin to meet her mouth and the next thing I knew she was sucking my cock.
She took the head and first few inches into her mouth, her tongue swirling around the tip and her hand curling around the shaft. She bobbed up and down, her hand squeezing and stroking. Her other hand slipped between my legs, cupping and caressing my balls. There was nothing I could do but lean against the door and gasp for breath as the liquid heat poured over my cock. I’d had a few blow jobs before, but they had been nothing like this. They had been tentative and gentle; this was voracious and animalistic.
She was purely primal. She devoured me. Kissing, sucking, licking the length of my Beşevler Escort cock and lapping the sweat from my balls. Her hand strokes were equally fierce, squeezing my cock, working up and down the saliva slicked shaft. My cock responded, flushing with blood, the head darkening, the veins popping out, straining into her mouth. She would start at the base of my cock and slowly drag her tongue upward, culminating with a swirl around the head, then she’d repeat the move. A few minutes of that and I could feel my orgasm rapidly building, my balls tightening and drawing upwards. She felt it as well and gave the base of my cock a hard squeeze.
“Not yet.” She said, her voice a mewling plea. “Fuck me. Please fuck me.”
She broke away, scrambling to her feet, and shimmying out of her blue jeans and panties. She kicked them aside, and placed her hands against the wall, thrusting her ass back.
“Take me. Take me like I’m a prize bitch in heat. Fuck me like I’m your prize.”
Dumbstruck, but acting on instinct, I grabbed her by the hips and moved behind her. She reached between her legs and guided me in, adjusting the head so it slid between her lips. I spread my legs to brace myself a bit better, adjusted my grip and then plunged into her. She was wet and hot and I slid in easily. Looking down, I could see the thick shaft of my rigid cock forcing her pussy lips open and sinking into her. She let out a crying whimper that I instinctively muffled with the palm of my hand.
Her head nodded jerkily up and down, a silent “Yes”.
Holding her there, braced against the door, I mounted her and fucked her as hard as I could. My cock, rigid and swollen, pistoned into her, forcing her cunt open. She bucked on every upward thrust, twitching, jerking, and straining. I found the rhythm, fast and pummeling. I don’t know where it came from, but this primal, animal lust uncoiled inside of me. I didn’t just want to fuck her. I wanted to fuck her until I broke her.
One hand over her mouth to muffle her whimpering cries and the other hand holding to her hip I pounded up and into her. Just like a jab. Short, fast, and hard. Each thrust jolted her upwards, made her feet scramble on the floor, slammed her body into the wall. As I pulled my hips back I could the lips of her cunt, clinging to my cock. I’d plunge back in, and she would grunt from the force of the thrust. I’d fucked before, but never like that. There was no foreplay. There was nothing gentle or loving about it. It was hard, fast, and primal.
When her legs started to buckle, I spun her around, away from the door, and took her down to her hands and knees on the bare concrete floor, my cock never leaving her. Another quick adjustment and I was fucking her like that, squatting over her from behind, cock pummeling her, hand tight over her mouth. From somewhere within me had risen this terrible, urgent need to just fuck her as hard as I could. I slammed my hips against her ass, plunging into her, wet and hard, over and over.
She responded like an animal, down on all fours, slamming back into me as hard as she could. She screamed into the palm of my hand and had an intense orgasm, jerking and shaking, her cunt clutching at my cock in pulsing waves. As she came, she tried to pull away, but I was having none of it. I held her tightly and kept going, pounding through her orgasm, forcing her clenching pussy to open for my cock. I don’t know how long her orgasm lasted, but it seemed like a long time. Her trying to escape from my driving cock, me straining to hold her place and keep slamming in and out of her. Her scream into my hand was long and animalistic, a desperate cry of pure hunger and explosive pleasure.
She reached up and pulled my hand away from her mouth long enough to gasp out.
“Cum. Cum in me. Please, oh god, please fill me up with your cum.”
Then she collapsed forward onto the floor.
I followed her down, my cock never leaving her, still thrusting deep inside of her, the wet sound filling the small room. I bore down on her, thrust as deep into her as I could, and came. I came hard. Each pulsing wave following the next, again and again, buried inside of her. Her cunt squeezed at my cock, milking it, pulling each pumping spurt from it and into her. I’d never cum that hard before in my life. It was like a piece of my soul broke free and poured into her. I collapsed on top of her.
We lay there like that for a long time, gasping for breath, listening to the muffled cheering of the crowd outside. Eventually I rolled off her onto the floor. We lay there together for a while, naked from the waist down in the dim light, her snuggled into my side, arm draped over my chest. Finally, she patted me on the chest a couple of times and sat up.
“Fuck me. That was good.” She said.
Speechless, I nodded in agreement.
She stood up, cum smearing her cunt and thighs, found her jeans, and shimmied back into them. Once she’d buttoned her jeans closed, she reached down and helped me to my feet. We found her simple cotton panties and she wiped my abdomen, cock, and thighs clean of cum before slipping them into her pocket. She helped me put my jock and my shorts back on, gently snuggling my cock and balls back in.
“Give me a couple of minutes then come out yourself.” She said, kissing me softly on the cheek.
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