Bumps Fighting Story
OK, we'll start
with me. I've written ten stories and posted them on this site. Those stories
are based on lots of different people, but none of them are based on fact. None
of the characters are real. They're just sexy boxing stories, fantasies. If you
read a couple of them, you'll see I write in several different voices. None of
them is me. So who am I, really? Doesn't matter. At least I didn't think it
mattered...until this past August when some guy claiming to be Bumps Murphy
called me out. I let it pass, thinking it would just be a battle of words. I
thought I might write about another character, maybe Rick Logan, the young
fighter in my last series. I even considered writing another story about Bumps.
I thought about writing. But I didn't post any more stories.
About two weeks after his challenge, my phone rings. This deep, whispery voice chills me the minute I hear it. "So what's it gonna be, Doc? You ready to fight?"
I hang up the phone. Why?
I'm 42, and I haven't boxed on any level for about fifteen years. I still have the gloves, the mouthpiece, the cup, other stuff, all packed away in a box in the back of the closet. I stopped boxing because I liked getting hit. I'd end up with an erection in the middle of a fight. If that didn't happen, I'd at least obsess the fight into a sexual fantasy that could sustain my dreams for days. Obsessed enough to lose one job and seriously risk losing a second. So I stopped, packed it all up, and put it away.
But I kept it. I kept all of it.
I kept in shape...mostly. I've always been a hefty dude, but I still look strong enough to scare some people. Some of my friends say I look like a high school football coach.
After a couple of days, the phone calls stopped. Then I noticed this guy in sunglasses standing in the parking lot outside my office building. For several days, he's out there staring at me every time I'm there. When Friday rolls around, he's shirtless, the boxing glove tattoo on his left pec clearly visible. He sees me checking out the tatt, and he pops his left pec muscle a couple of times. I'm not sure what I'm supposed to do now, so I stand there, my briefcase strategically placed over my crotch, both hands gripping the handle. He walks the distance between us and ends up in my face. "What's it gonna be, Doc?" That voice again. I can't see his eyes because of the sunglasses. His mouth a slight sneer over nearly perfect teeth. Hair cut close, but not skinhead short--kind of an extra short caesar cut. Tanned skin. Not exactly ripped physique, but the muscles are clear, covered now with a light sweat from standing in the sun. He's close enough for our noses to touch.
"I don't want to fight you." I say, my knuckles aching from squeezing the briefcase handle.
"I think you do. I think you will." He pulls in close to whisper in my ear, his chest to mine, the scruff of his beard stubble scratching my cheek. "Tonight. Eight o'clock. This address." His hand pushes a piece of paper underneath the elastic of my underwear. I feel his tongue give my neck a quick lick. He pulls back, the sneer wider now. Then he walks away slowly, arms held loose but back to emphasize his triceps and shoulders, his hips rolling in a smooth and arrogant sway, his head back to lengthen the look of his spine and allow his back muscles to ripple.
After he's gone, I wilt against my car. Before I think about it, my hand is down my pants, groping for the address. I catch myself before anyone sees me. I get into my car and manage to get the piece of paper out of my shorts. The gym is on the other side of town, an area I don't know. No way I'm gonna go. Then I check my rearview mirror. His car--a black convertable with the top down--is right behind mine, blocking me in. He's waiting for my response. I hold up the address, then close my fist. He flexes his left bicep--a golden, knotted rock of muscle. Then he drives away. No way I'm not going. I spend the next couple of hours waffling like this. Then at 7:30 I'm in my car, my gear in a gym bag on the back seat. Can't believe I'm doing this.
But I am.
The gym is like any boxing gym, nothing remarkable about it except that there's only one ring, and it's a small one. Maybe 12 feet, but I'm no judge of distance. Enough to say it looks very small. No real room to run. Another thing about the ring that I'm not ready for--there's a line of tape across the middle. Not sure what that's all about, some training practice maybe. Doesn't seem to matter at the moment.
Before long we're both geared up and in the ring, ready to go. There's about ten people around, but nobody seems to be getting ready to ref the fight. Besides that, this is my first shot at seeing the guy without his sunglasses. Piercing blue eyes, the kind that can hypnotize you and draw your attention away from the larger movements of the torso. If that's not enough to distract me, he has the bumps above his eyebrow, just as I described them when I created his character. Unreal.
Once we're both in the ring, I ask, "So what's with the line of tape?"
"We're gonna go old-fashioned. No ref, no timer. We only stop when one of us gets knocked down or out. If you're down, you get up and toe the line. Then we fight some more. All the way to knockout. You game?"
I don't answer. I just pop in my mouthpiece and raise my guard. Bumps sneers wider than ever, then he does the same as me. He circles to his left, but I move straight in and wing a right cross--well, the punch goes from my hip to his left cheek, but it's not bad for a guy who hasn't fought in fifteen years. I aim a left at his nose, but I hit him square on the jaw. Neither punch rocks him all that much, but he goes back a couple of steps towards the ropes. Did I expect to knock him out that quickly? I guess so, because I hesitate for a moment, just to judge the effect of the punches. Stupid. He spins away from the ropes. He keeps some distance between us for a while. I can't tell if I really hurt him or if he's just reeling me in. Hard to figure, and there's no time. So I follow him and try to get close, hoping for a few more lucky shots.
We start exchanging near misses to the head. He doesn't block anything--he ducks the punches, lets them slide past. On the other hand, I block most of his shots and dodge what I can, which isn't much. Finally, he throws a right cross that brushes past my chin--I can feel the heat of the friction of his glove against my skin, but there's no impact. He's almost found his range, so it's only a matter of time before I really feel his power. I've got to land something soon. WHOMP! His punch connects, and I can feel my legs give way. WHOMP! WHOMP! Forget about stars--I go straight to flashes of white light. WHOMP! Then it's darkness.
When my head clears, I'm on the canvas. Big surprise. Bumps is waiting in a corner across the ring from me. I've got no idea how long I've been down, but I'm vaguely aware that fewer people are in the gym now. It takes time, but I manage to get to my feet. My legs are rubbery, but I toe the line. And stay there.
Bumps bangs his gloves together and heads straight for me. Before I can even throw a punch, he's in close, his left shoulder against my chest, winging hooks to my ribs and uppercuts to my gut. At first, I can handle the pain, but soon each blow feels like it's cutting me in half. I can only breathe in shallow gulps. Hyperventilating, almost. Got to pull out, got to move. But I can't. I can't put up any defense--hell, I can barely stay on my feet--and I start to get lost in the sound of the punches, the smacking thud of leather against flesh. I hear repeated grunts, then realize the sound's coming from me as the air is forced from my lungs. Suddenly, he pushes off my chest, and I can see the uppercut coming. WHOMP!
I'm down again. He's in the corner again. Even fewer people in the gym now. A lot of the lights have been turned off. How long have I been out? Couldn't say. Hell, I couldn't say how many times I've already been hit up to this point. How knocked out do I have to be before this is over? Obviously, not enough just yet, because he's waiting for me to toe the line. Is it up to me? Can I just say I give? I'm near a corner, so I use the ropes to pull myself up. There's an ache in my left side, so a rib may be injured or broken. I can't breathe deep, so it's time to stop. Time to go to the emergency ward at Mercy General. I turn towards Bumps to tell him I've had enough.
WHOMP! WHOMP! WHOMP! WHOMP! WHOMP!
Down again. My head turned to one side. It's darker now. All the lights out except for a couple over the ring. Street lights shining in through the front windows. I don't see or hear anybody else in the gym. I'm trying to remember if I toed the line. I must have, or this guy doesn't play by his own rules. Just in case, I decide to roll out of the ring so that there's no question of putting a toe on the line by accident.
But I can't do this. Bumps is straddling my chest, waiting for me to come to. Our eyes meet--well, as much as they can meet in this odd lighting. From my current position the overhead light actually comes from behind him, but it's not bright enough to obscure his face. Those blue eyes cut right through the shadow.
"Learned your lesson yet?"
I don't answer. I'm faintly aware that I'm getting aroused in the midst of all this, or maybe the boner showed up while I was unconscious. Somehow I don't think Bumps has sex on his mind at the moment.
"Here's the lesson, bitch. Don't write about me again. Ever. Got it?"
As if I wasn't ready for more, he lets me see him kissing his right glove before the punches resume. WHOMP! But he waits until I'm clear. "Sexy, huh?" WHOMP! "Think you like--" WHOMP! "--your ass--" WHOMP! Clear for just a moment, can't make out what he's saying now. WHOMP! WHOMP! WHOMP! WHOMP! Out again.
When I come to, I'm not in the gym. I'm in a hospital bed. A nurse next to me. "He's waking up, Doctor." How long have I been out? The doctor doesn't speak to me. He flashes a light in my eyes. He mutters something like, "Good, good." Then he nods to someone I haven't noticed, a cop who's been standing by the window.
"Sir, can you hear me? Can you understand me?"
"Yes." Nothing wrong with my ears, mister, just the ache all over my body.
"You've been out for a couple of days. They tell me you had a couple of ribs cracked and some bruising to a couple of organs, but the real damage was trauma to the head, like somebody punched you for a couple of hours. Were you in a fight, sir?"
Just then, Bumps appears just behind the cop's shoulder. My mouth goes dry, so I just shake my head no. What else can I do? How do I explain this? It's not exactly like we were fighting in a back alley.
"There's also evidence of sexual intercourse. Anal penetration. Sorry if this upsets you."
"Most likely rape. Most likely after you were unconscious."
"Unless you consented. I'm assuming you didn't."
Now Bumps speaks up. "That bastard!" Just the right touch of anger and sadness. What has he told these people?
The cop now realizes Bumps has been standing there. "Your friend here's been pretty concerned. Says he found you and brought you in. He hasn't left your side since you got here." Of course not, because that way he wouldn't be here to prevent me from reporting him now. "If you're sure you don't remember anything, we'll leave you two alone for awhile. I'll leave my card so you can let me know." The cop drops a card on the table next to the bed, and then he leaves the room.
The doctor and nurse linger, though. He says, "I probably shouldn't have let him in here. But he insisted. I apologize. Look, the brain is a tricky thing. You might wake up tomorrow and remember everything. You might never remember a single detail. For the moment, don't let it worry you. Try to sleep. Your friend should sleep, too, but preferably at home." The doctor leaves, and the nurse trails behind him.
Bumps sits on the edge of the bed. "Sorry I went a little too far. But you deserved it, bad boy. You're forgiven...for now. Here's the deal." He puts the fingers of his right hand against my lips. "No more stories. Well, just one, just this one, just the one you know because you were in it." He trails his fingers down my neck, my chest, my gut. "We can be good friends." His hand gropes my crotch. "All up to you. Be a good boy, OR" He gives my balls a tight squeeze, and I twitch with the pain. "OR we can have a rematch." He leans in and brushes his cheek against mine, his voice a whisper now. "I'd rather be friends." He lets go of my balls. He kisses me full on the lips for a few seconds, then licks my lips before pulling back. And then he leaves.
They kept me in the hospital for a week, just to be sure they'd billed enough to my health insurance. When I got back to work, everyone was sympathetic, even my boss. Things went back to almost normal. But I haven't had the nerve to post the story until now. Haven't seen Bumps for weeks, and he hasn't phoned. I haven't gone anywhere near that gym. Then this past Friday I found a note on the windshield of my car.
"Write the damn story or I'll beat your ass again."
So here it is, Bumps. Hope it's good enough.
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