Body Punching Bed Story

We're in the bed. My bed.
Our bodies pressing together,
hardening from the friction, the grinding,
pulses increasing, sweat flowing.
No need to describe us, not really, but here's what you get:
we're both over 40,
neither of us would win a bodybuilding competition,
but he's a bit leaner than me.
Suffice to say no one in a gay bar would give us much attention,
well, not the twinks anyway.
Their loss.

He calls me "Doc."
"Doc," he says, "is it true, what you write in those stories,
that you like gettin hit?
That you get off on it?"
I don't say anything.
I put my hands behind my head and lie there, gut exposed.
He's on my right, resting on his left side.
He punches me at the navel, just a light poke, just a jab.
"Harder," I say.
He punches the same spot, harder but reserved.
I've got my abs flexed, and he presses his fist down to feel how solid I am beneath the fat.
"Harder," I say.
He punches me again, good heat on it this time, enough to make me grunt with the contact, enough to make me hard...
So he has his answer.
He pulls his fist back for another shot, but I stop him.

"Wait," I say.
I pull his face to mine, and we kiss.
"Now," I say, "now, while we're kissing."
We kiss again, and he hits my gut again
and my grunt sends my breath into his mouth
and this excites him, so we're both stiff.
He moves on top of me, torso to torso,
arms enfolding, tongues plunging into each other.

"Wait," I say.
He doesn't question me now, just rolls off me.
I reach into a box I have next to my bed
and I pull out the rolled-up hand wraps
and I wrap his hands tight.
He works his hands as I do it, spreading his fingers wide then clenching his fists.
We stay close as we do this, a stray kiss now and then,
his tongue against my neck,
my hands caressing his arms, squeezing his biceps, fingers tracing his triceps.
When I finish, I get off the bed and stand against the wall and I wave him in.
I point to my navel and say, "Here,"
and he punches me there, a solid hit
I point to my right side, just under the ribs,
and he punches me there, even more power in it.
We go on this way for a while--six, seven shots, maybe eight...I lose track.
I point. He punches. One punch at a time.
We're breathless, moaning lightly from the bliss.

"Wait," I say.
I move past him, back to the box by the bed.
He leans against the wall for support. He's trembling.
I get the gloves and put them on him.
I get my mouthpiece and pop it in.
And I stand next to the bed and wave him in.
"Go for it," I say.
He thinks it over for a second, body confused, aroused, flushed.
Then he hits me--three hard shots to the pit of my stomach.
Pain. Good pain.
I bend over a little.
An uppercut straightens me up again.
I see the ceiling. I see stars.
A cross.
A hook, maybe two. Maybe more. Maybe a lot more.
The white flashes come, and I'm out...too soon, by my standards.
Next thing I know, we're in the bed again.
My head on the pillow.
Mouthpiece gone.
The room in a slight, slow spin.
With his right hand (still gloved), he's rubbing my temples.
Don't know if that helps, but I like smelling leather as I come to.
With his left hand (no glove, still wrapped), he's lubing me up.
His eyes meet mine.
His lips meet mine.
He gets inside me, gentle and slow thrusts at first,
then harder and harder, until I feel it like punches from inside my gut.
He punches down into my gut with his left, and I feel myself tighten around his shaft.
He hits my face with his gloved right hand,
hard enough to bring the stars out again, but I stay conscious this time.
He seems worried about that--stops for a second.
"Again," I say.
Another right, more stars.
This time I lay there as if I'm knocked out.
He pauses again, checks my breathing, speaks my name like a question: "Doc?"
I don't respond.
"Wait," I tell myself, "He has enough sense to know I'm fine, but will he play the game?"
He does.
He pounds into me, harder still,
and I keep my body passive as long as I can, moving as he moves me.
But the pain builds, and I can't keep quiet for long.
He thrusts and punches me lightly now.
I grunt and cry out as if it hurts more than it does.
He pulls out and lies on top of me again
and we press and rub and grind until we come.
When it's over, he rolls off of me but stays close, his sex against my thigh.
"I guess you do get off on it," he says.
"I guess you do, too." I say. "Didn't know that."
"Me either, Doc. You ok?"
"I'm ok."
I reach for his hands, the right one first.
I take off the glove and start to unwrap his hand.

"Wait," he says.
I wait for whatever's next.
He says,
"Round two?"

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