Jack vs Ellie - Start

The bell rang.

Ellie was hopping on her tiptoes, her gloves raised, in a perfect, textbook stance. She looked enthusiastic, full of life—just like I used to look before I knocked everyone out all too easily.

I raised my gloves. I tried to look menacing and serious.

She threw a jab. I raised my glove too late, let it graze my guard, and didn’t return the blow. She threw another jab, followed by a cross hook: a short combination she’d already mastered perfectly.

I blocked the first one and let the hook go through, taking the blow on my shoulder. It didn’t hurt at all, but I grunted anyway, took half a step back, and her eyes lit up.

“I got you!”

“Lucky” I said, feigning concern.

She stepped forward again, throwing the same combination, this time faster. I dodged the jab, raised my guard for the cross, but let my elbow drop just enough for her hook to slip through and graze my ribs. Not enough to hurt me. Just enough to count. Just enough to make her smile.

"Two for two," she said, circling around me. Her hips swayed with every step, her stars-and-stripes bikini reflecting the gym lights, and I followed her movements half a second behind, my eyes fixed on the curve of her waist, the tautness of her bare legs, the way her white hair bounced with every playful movement. I didn’t know where to look, and every time I set my eyes on her—wherever she was—my cock throbbed with excitement.

“You’re not even looking at my gloves,” she teased, and landed another jab on my guard. “Bad habit, coach.”

“I can’t help it,” I admitted, lowering my hands just enough to invite her closer. “You distract me.”

She blushed—reddish beneath the glitter—and her next punch came faster, less controlled. I let it whiz past my guard, felt the wind brush my cheek, and countered with a weak jab that barely hit her guard.

She noticed.

“Why aren’t you attacking?”

“I’m waiting for an opening.”

“Liar.” She feinted left, then came in from the right with a hook I’d seen coming from a mile away. I could have dodged it; I could have responded with a body shot that would have doubled her over. Instead, I raised my guard too late, let it hit hard on my forearm, and staggered sideway against the ropes as if she’d pushed me there.

Ellie straightened up, surprised, then thrilled.

“I’m really doing this,” she whispered to herself. “I’m making him back up.”

“You’ve got talent,” I said, and it was true, despite the charade I was putting on.

She capitalized on her advantage—or what she thought was her advantage—by unleashing a flurry of jabs and crosses that I barely managed to block, in an almost theatrical way, letting my gloves get pushed aside, showing her openings that weren’t really there. I turned with every impact, grunted at just the right moments, and made her feel every punch as if it were a decisive blow.

Meanwhile, I was studying her. The flush on her cheeks that highlighted her freckles. The way her breathing grew heavier—not from exertion but from excitement. The way her eyes kept drifting over my chest, my arms, and the obvious bulge in my shorts that I made no effort to hide.

She threw a half-hearted hook. I ducked to avoid it, with theatrical slowness, and then I stepped forward— entering her guard— our bodies were pressed against each other, near the ropes, my hips against hers. She was breathless. I let my bulge make her feel how turned on I was, how she was completely “overwhelming” me.

“You’re too fast,” I lied, my hoarse voice against her ear. “I can’t keep up with you.”

“It’s…” She swallowed, her gloved hands resting on my chest, not pushing me away. “It’s because you’re not focusing. You’re looking at me instead of my gloves.”

“I can’t help it.”

I took a step back, giving her a chance to catch her breath, and she attacked me with renewed determination. A real combination this time: a series of jabs at my guard to weaken it, followed by short crosses to push my massive arms away; finally, she tried a uppercut to the chest, which would have hit my solar plexus squarely. I took the blow on my elbow instead, and let it push me back. Then I bent forward, showed her I was reeling, made her believe she was actually hurting me.

She followed up with another uppercut, this time to my chin, which I absorbed by leaning forward, catching it with my shoulder and making a grunt that sounded like pain instead of what it really was: barely suppressed excitement —She was trying to knock me out for real.

“I got you again,” she said, out of breath and beaming, thinking she’d almost knocked me out.

I raised my guard and backed up closer to the ropes. “You’re doing well,” I agreed.

She circled around me, now more confident, her footwork as fluid as I’d taught her, but with something extra: an instinctive grace that made my cock throb just watching her move. She threw a jab. I blocked it. She threw another, and this time I dropped my guard completely, letting it graze my chin with a soft thud that made her tense up; instinctively, she finished the combination, hitting me in the liver with a hook that made me crumple and an uppercut that shut my mouth and made my teeth clatter against my mouthguard.

I made my legs tremble, feigning weakness, and staggered backward bouncing off the ropes to stay up.

“Did I-… are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” I said, shaking my head as if I were dazed. “It’s just that… you’re too good. I can’t think straight,” I said, more excited than worried, my eyes still fixed on her curves rather than on how to defend myself.

She bit her lip as understanding flashed in those dark blue eyes. She didn’t grasp the truth, but she understood something that satisfied her even more: that she was beating me not only technically, but also sexually. That her mere presence was enough to disarm a veteran with ten years of experience.

“Poor Jack,” she whispered, and now there was mischief in those words; she knew she had the upper hand. “Aren’t you used to fighting a girl in a bikini?”

“Not when she’s as beautiful as you.”

She stepped closer again, and this time there was swagger in her movements. She landed jabs on my chest and shoulders, slipping past my guard with speed—small blows that wouldn’t even leave a bruise on a child, but which she considered effective because I reacted to each one as if it were a devastating blow, retreating behind my guard. She threw a cross that I let graze my cheek; I twisted my body and clung to the ropes.

“You’re mine,” she declared, stepping closer.

“I hope so,” I answered in instinct, keeping my voice low.

She pressed herself on me, her gloves on either side of my head against the ropes, trapping me in a clinch that felt more like an embrace. Her thigh slid between mine, pushing me upward with just enough pressure on my balls to make me moan.

“You’re really turned on,” she observed, her voice ragged with her own arousal. “Because I’m beating you. Because I’m better than you.”

“Maybe…,” I whispered, unable to muster the strength, letting my hips sway helplessly against her thigh and my legs tremble with weakness and pleasure. “I can’t… I can’t concentrate with you this close.”

She smiled, mischievously and triumphantly, and her gloved hand slid between us to grip my cock through my shorts. Not as roughly as my usual opponents did. Curious. Possessive. Her thumb stroked me along my entire length while her other gloved hand continued to tap my chest and push me against the ropes, holding me in place.

It was an almost surreal sight—such a petite woman holding such a much larger man at bay—but that was exactly what was happening.

“What a big, strong man,” she teased, rubbing my cock through my shorts, making me feel the friction of the glove as her thumb caressed the wet tip that was spreading across my shorts. “And yet just a few months of training is enough to make you this helpless.”

I moaned, letting my knees give way slightly, pressing myself harder against her thigh and panting softly into her ear. “It’s your technique… it comes naturally to you.”

She laughed, a bright, smug laugh, and rubbed her hip against me in a slow, circular motion. Her free glove caressed my chest, slid down my shoulder, and tapped my chin with feigned seriousness, as if threatening a knockout punch.

“You’re not even trying to get away,” she observed, her dark blue eyes sparkling with mischief. “It’s as if you want me to hold you here.”

“Maybe that’s exactly it,” I whispered, taking in her eyes, her smile, her prefume. I was mesmerized.

She suddenly pulled away, stepping back with a smirk. “You’d better get your act together, Coach, or the next time you let your guard down, it’ll be your last.”