I snatch a weentsy pair of pink silk thongs with tiny Betty Boops all over them, held out from the end of some hot bitch’s fingers and press them to my face. Sweet Jesus. Pure wet cunt. Nothing smells finer. Nothing smells like it, fucking period, amen brother. I breathe them. I kiss them. Hold them to my face and taste them. A long curly hair stuck on the end of my tongue. I suck on it. I inhale the green seaweed smell and it makes me dizzy to fuck somebody right down on the floor right now, I don’t care who. Even Gerry would look good to me right now. I hang the pink Betty Boop thong on the end of my leather-shielded dong and it waves in front of me like a little battle flag as the cheap seat mooks go out of their mother-grabbing skulls for me.
I know this shit house. It’s funny how the fighting arenas all look the same after a while, only the dressing rooms are different. This is where I did this butch Russian dyke once right here back in the Juniors, before I hit the big time. Red hair, cunt hair, big tits. It was hard going, until I started punching her in the tits and it turned out she loved it. Crazy fucking bulldagger. When I finally had her pinned and I was doing her good, she had this fine little moustache that would curl up at the ends whenever she’d orgasm and do that monkey grin. I made her come three times and got a TKO off her, but I never zoned her ass out. Never did. Those real iron-ass diesel dykes, you’ll never break them if you’re a guy unless you’ve been trained for Extreme Dominant, maybe Third Degree Black Domino at the least. Even those guys almost can’t ever do it. Fuck that shit. I never had any business being in the ring with her and me still in the Juniors, Christ, what a rat fuck, but I had bad management then.
Case leads me to our corner of the ring and peels the wet thong off my cock. Now there’s a little wet stain on the leather from the wet silk, you can see it shine in the floodlights. I hope the cameras can pick that up. I can make the cover of Adult Sports Illustrated with that shot.
I raise my arms high over my head and step my legs apart. I am the God of Prick, Bananarama. Where’s my virgin sacrifice?
Case reaches under and unbuckles the phallus sheath and steps aside so the cameras can get a good frame. He lifts the sheath, with a faggy flourish like a matador’s cape. My righteous cock. My bazooka of justice. High and hard.
My high holy penis and I, we climb under the ropes and I take a seat on the wooden stool, a kind of tradition from the past. On the other side of the ring there’s a huge swell of cheers and applause. Chanting in a foreign yik-yak language. That side of the arena, it’s mostly chinks. They’re here to see the cream cake I came to bake. She’s a chink chick. Chink chick chink chick chink chick.
I did my homework proper like I always do, I tried to find out about this little ol’ chink chick I’m here to fight, but fuck, there’s nothing on her. Nothing, not a motherfucking thing. I saw the YouTubes of her fights, but I still don’t know what kind of sugar and spice she’s made of inside. Nobody’s ever pinned her down long enough to fuck her, so nobody’s figured out how to break her. She showed up out of nowhere in Indonesia, blew through the Juniors and welterweights, half a dozen men fucking blew their brains out over her after she imprinted their fag asses in just the first round, but nobody can say where the fuck she comes from. Women are scared shitless of her, Case says she can’t even get a booking with a woman anymore. Maybe she should fight a Russian bulldyker, see her rat fuck that shit.
I’m still worked up. Sitting on the stool in the ring corner, I feel this sore little lump in my ass where the shot went in, not to mention where Gerry bit me. I shift and try not to sit on it. I’m jittery and hot as a stud bull in the stall.
The Boston Brigham Arena is packed to the walls, enough for a small town. The press pit is filled with reporters with gadgets stuck in their ears and eyeballs and probably up their asses. This is the big time, the real time, the old days, the truth days, the righteous days. The days of crazy pussy. Zing zoom zam pow bam Fuck!
Case yells in my ear over the crowd noise. “Don’t slouch. Don’t hold your breath in. Breathe out.” I close my eyes, exhale and sit up straight. I put a finger to the right side of my nose, hold it and inhale into my belly slow and deep. I feel calmer. I focus my awareness on a spot just under my navel and hold it there. Lot of cigar smoke tonight. I move the finger to the other side, exhale, switch sides and inhale deep again, counting the rhythm of my heart. Better. Five beats in. Hold. Five beats out. Woof. Move finger. Inhale. Five beats. Better.
Behind my eyelids I can hear her feet shuffle-step onto the thick ninety-foot-square futon mat just in front of me. The world’s biggest bed. The crowd falls weirdly silent. I open my eyes and she’s just a few feet away, looking right at me, trying to get in my psychological space. My territory. Trying to spook me. Go ahead, little tit bitch.
The small, nude, Asian woman dances light as a sparrow without an ounce of fat on her anywhere. About 18,000 men all go apeshit, you can hear them yelling to put their dick up all her tight dark places. I can’t even guess this chink girl’s age, but from her stats she’d be about twenty-seven years. If I met her on the street I’d think maybe eighteen or finger-lickin’ sixteen; she looks like a kid but she has the wizened eyes of a woman. Dark skin, no tan lines, no body hair, head hair chopped short as a nun’s on top so there’s nothing to grab onto, and clean muscle lines that pop out smoothly when she moves. Six-pack belly, with just the perfect layer of padding. Sweet-faced as a Buddha, with a small nose and almond eyes that look calm and alert. She radiates confidence. She radiates sex. Every man in the arena is sitting with his mouth open like a dog. I look at her bald little pussy and I’m imagining what it’s going to feel like when I slip it in there nice and slow, after I’ve softened her up proper.
I’ve seen her fight clips; she’s a helluva kicker, has to be because she’s short. She’s too damn short by the looks for most of the standing penetration positions, that’s OK. I’ll pin her down on her belly where she can’t get at me with her feet and slip in from behind until I’ve got her pacified and seeing things my way.
She’s moving her feet, hovering them over the mat in a perfect sweeping circle like a music-box dancer; and she has beautiful feet this girl, and moving her long-graceful hands in some kind of gesture. I’ve seen this little show of hers somewhere before. Old Chinese folks in the park in the morning. Tai Chi, and something else different, something with sudden precise moves. Calm and violence together. So that’s her shit, Tai Chi. I can defend that shit. The foot sweeps forward and up, held aloft perfectly vertical and still as a ballerina. Not a shiver. She’s got a couple moves, all right.
Man, won’t she look sweet on her knees licking my meat in my hotel room tonight. Pass the soy sauce, boys, we’re having Chinese. I might even break her twice to make sure she doesn’t ever go anywhere. I’ll need a new workout bitch to bang, because Gerry doesn’t look like she’ll be around much longer.
She does the pantomime thing like holding a ball in front of her, then her hands turning her mental ball upside down. Let her have her fun. I look down and my cock is so fucking solid I could hammer it through a wall. I could hammer it through her.
She hops into the air with a nice little spin kick, drops like a snowflake with her little flat chink tits swaying, tiny brown nipple nubs pointing up at the lights, and makes her invisible ball again and sways back soft as shit on her heels, arching her back like a sleek cat with faraway eyes and perfect balance, everything in place. Sweet kid.
The microphone drops down to the arena, just like in the old boxing matches. This is the only place you ever see an old-fashioned microphone anymore. The three-legged stool. The drop mike. All tradition. The religion of the masculine. The temple of the fuck. The Killing Floor where souls die. The girl stops what she’s doing and walks to her corner slowly, arrogant as a bull fighter. I watch her wiggle that narrow little chink ba dink-a-dink as she goes. The referee in black dress pants and a red and white zebra stripe shirt comes out of nowhere while I’m staring at the kid’s ass, some old fuck I’ve seen i
n matches somewhere. He yanks the dangling mike out of the air.
“Good evening from the Boston Brigham Sports Arena.” The crowd bites the cheese. Cheering, fuck time. “The title match of the evening. In the north corner, the challenger, and lightweight South East Asian Full Contact Division World Champion, and All Asian Dim Mak Union leader, undefeated – Tiger Lee! Tiger Lee!”
The crowd goes nuts. The air stinks with the hot chow mein breath of thousands and thousands of chink men who are baying for sex, every man gay or straight in this place wants that little woman hot and heavy on the futon mat right now. They’d sell their mothers to do her.
“In the south corner, the Sexual Federation Combat Consolidated middleweight and Western Regional Union champion, for three years undefeated, undisputed champion of the world – Mack Daddy! Mack Daddy!”
I stand up, wave my arms for the crowd and they go effing mother krunk over me, sweet fuckin’ A, full-time mother. Those are my people out there. The women, giving me the look, the way the men were checking on Tiger Lee. The Boston Brigham Sports Arena sits 22,000 plus the broadcasting, and every woman in the place wants her feet up in the air and my rock-hard dong banging them bad right at this moment. Talk about glory? Baseball? Football? Fuck that. The fucking president can’t touch nothing like what I got. There ain’t nothing can touch this. Nothing. This is male glory. This is dick glory. This is the ultimate warrior glory. Every man wants to be me right now. And they’re right to want that. I am the god. I am the stud.
There’s none of this touch gloves shake hands shit when the ref brings us within striking distance in the centre of the mat, still talking his referee smack at us. Tiger Lee is looking into my eyes, trying to bore a hole into me and I’m doing the same thing, looking right at her. The ref is talking but nobody’s listening because the real battle is being fought right now.
“Chink chick,” I whisper at her. “Chink chick. Fucking little chink chick.” I make smoochy lips at her.
She’s scowling at me. Think you can out-scowl me, bitch? I’m reading you. I’m not thinking about you. I’m just playing notes on your keys, blowing notes on your holes, listening to see how you’re tuned, what will make you sing me an opera when I’ve got you on your back, bitch. I got your number. You’re going down on me chink yellow bitch smooth as green tea ice-cream, and I’m gonna make you love it, sweet thing, when I take you home tonight on a dog chain to suck my dong all night till I tell you to stop. Fuck! You little chink bitch! Fuck you little girl!
She’s suspending her breath, big mistake, drives up blood pressure. That means her heartbeat will be accelerating right now, sending hot blood to the clitoral bulb and descending clitoral yoke. Is she a fucking amateur? Is she stupid? These are kid stuff, Junior League mistakes. Sinuses congesting. Slight flush around her aureoles. Capillary dilation. Rise in basal temp. Any second now.
Her eyes jink away, a fraction of a second. There it is.
That’s it. Nailed you. Busted your cherry. Right then. Bingo bango. It’s over. Wham bam thank you ma’am. I’ve got you, bitch. I’ve got your tits in my lips. I’ve got your ass in my hands. I got your cunt nailed to my bedpost. I own you, bitch. I own you right now. Just spread ’em and get this over so we go back to my crib and get it right. Don’t waste my time.
I glance at her corner. Her corner lady, some old chink, looks like she didn’t see it. This match is fucking over. All but the fucking part, it’s over. I won. Stud wins every time.
Referee steps away. Bell rings. Ref waves his arms.
She stands her ground, but holds her shoulders in an uncertain way. Is she shook? Or playing games? I can’t figure her out. I can’t see how she got this far in the game by being so dumb, so out of control. She just stands there making me guess. No defence stance, no fist or posing. She stands like she’s waiting for a damn bus. Or the fucking Chinese national anthem.
I’m so full of jizz and jazz, I’m so pumped I can’t stay in one spot. I feel like fucking anything that walks, or crawls, or stands at attention. Staying out of kicking range, a sharp eye on her hips and feet, I’m circling all around her, owning her personal space, winding her up like a clock spring. I love that cute little chink chick ass. The arena and the crowd and the cameras go away. It’s not about the money. It’s me and her. It’s intimate. No lover, no spouse, nobody gets more intimate than this woman and I are at this moment, because one of us is going to break the other. We are close like a fox and a rabbit are close, and I’m the fucking fox. We are the only living beings in the universe as I circle behind and she acts like I’m not here, not even turning her head, just waiting quietly. I make a sudden move, jabbing the air with my fist. Nothing doing. Is she high? Is she scared? Do I just throw her down on her back and go to work on her? This can’t be it.
I circle around her and she goes on standing with her hands at her sides. I make little jabs, hit-and-run little slaps at her skin to get a feel, a read off her. She’s calm. Empty. Skin feels empty. Fuck. Is she insulting me with this shit?
Slow, so slow, never turning to look at me, she lifts her hips just slightly, steps out just slightly. Lifts up her ass a fraction, just so. Passive. So, passive. So willing. Arches her back just slightly, lifting that ass. I can’t take my eyes off her ass. I can’t. It’s like . . . it’s like it’s just . . . so there.
God. Damn. She’s got a spooky ass on her. I . . . It’s like I never saw an ass before in my whole life. Like I never seen an ass until now. Oh sweet Jesus. That ass. I just . . . I just gotta have that ass . . .
I pounce without thinking it through, trying to grab her around and pin her arms so I can ram my dick up her ass till it bleeds and – she just drops like there’s eyes in the back of her head. Dips straight out of my arms like she’s greased and jumps behind me.
I spin on my toes – no one there. What the blue fuck – how?
I feel the breeze, the pressure wave before I feel the edge of the foot whack my temple just in front of my right ear with perfect violence. The arena spins and the mat hits my face. Jesus. I love this girl. Sincerely. I’m in love.
I somersault to my feet and already she’s on the move, a hop, a flying round house spin to nail with me with her other foot, shut me down just enough so she can pin me and go to work on my pleasure zones. I get my arm up just in time and the heel hits my elbow and for a few seconds my right arm goes numb. Her leg snaps back into a fighting stance, looks like shoto kan to me, and I make a loose little sideways jig just out of range, keeping my eyes on her eyes. You don’t watch the hands or feet. You watch the zone of the eyes. That’s where the action is. I keep my mind still, calm alert, my boner true, consulting with the jizz and the fizz, listening to my Inner Dick. No time to think how she got to me just now. This is one spooky bitch. The side of my head stings and my eye feels a little puffy but I’m OK. Not a big deal. It’s not like other kinds of fighting. You knock your opponent out, you completely defeat yourself. You want to take good care of them. You want him or her wide awake so they feel every horribly sweet thing you do to them right down to the bone.
She feints with a knee, but I never look away from her eyes. I don’t let myself think, just stay in the zone. Her right knee dips, which telegraphs a right fist coming at my chest; side-stepping I grab it behind the knuckles, my fingers digging into her palm, bending her fist back against her wrist, a simple Aikido bone lock – tenkai kotegeshi – twist the wrist, spin her around like a waltz, my hip in her belly – kube nagi – down with the arm and over my head she goes in a sweet ass over elbow, bam on her incredible ass.
I drop my right knee into the small of her back and yank her shoulders down, breaking her balance. I snake my right arm around in a flash, jamming the hollow of my inner elbow against her throat, centred exactly between her pert little chin and her clavicle forming a triangle with my bicep and forearm around her neck. Clasping my hands together behind her shoulder, I squeeze the sides of her throat with my arm, very hard.
Her feet are kic
king, panicking, trying to stand. That’s good, I want her to stand, set her up for what’s coming next. I rise from my knees, pulling her up with me, clenching my arm muscles tight around her neck, stopping the flow in her jugular and carotid artery. No blood is getting up to her brain anymore. Now she’s standing, trying to hook a foot behind mine and take me down but I just keep my knee in her back, easing her backwards, leaning her so her spine’s resting against my knee, never letting her get her balance.
Her arms are flopping, trying to get at me, but she’s slowing down.
That’s it little girl. You’re getting very sleepy. Relax. Go to sleep now. Don’t make a fuss. That’s a good girl. When you wake up with my dick inside you, you’re going to feel so much better. You’re going to be real fine sucking me off every night for the next ten years.
Her face is turning purple and her eyes are swelling closed. Her cheeks are puffing out like a Roland Kirk solo. All the fight’s drained out of her so it’s safe now to keep my right arm tight around her throat and reach around with my left hand, staying under her left arm to keep her from sucker punching me in the kidney, as I scoot my left hand around her left tit. This isn’t to cop a feel, I want to check her heartbeat. She’s beating about 138 per minute. Dropping. She’s sincerely going to sleep. She looks so sweet. 128 per minute. 110 beats a minute and her arms are hanging down and the wet little tip of her pink tongue is sticking out touching her lower lip in the cutest way. Looking over the top of her head I glance at her corner lady, just to make sure I’m not being faked. The old bat is waving her fist, yelling in Chinese or something to the referee to pull me off. She tells me all I need to know.
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