Jack Mallory nodded to himself as he walked around the boxing ring. Everything looked to be in place for the night's match-up.
The gym was an old-fashioned kind of place. It smelled like rubbing liniment and old tobacco smoke, stale sweat and- maybe it was the imagination- the faintest tang of blood. No spinning classes or yoga were ever done here. No new age, feel-good-about-yourself bullshit. It was a fighter's gym.
There were medicine balls and free weights, jump ropes and speed bags. But tonight, all that was obscured in the shadows. Tonight, the only lights on were those that lit up the ring. And those shone like the sun. Begging for someone to fly too close and get scorched.
The table adjacent to the ring had the bell set up, and water bottles, and the kit for closing cuts. It looked like the scene of a real fight. All it needed was a real fighter.
As if in answer to Jack's musings, Hannah came through the door of the locker room.
Damn, but she was a hot piece of ass.
The blonde legal secretary stood five-six, weighed maybe a hundred and twenty. She wore a black spandex athletic bra and tight pink lycra running shorts. Her shoulder-blade length hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and she had the pink padded boxing helmet and her gloves already in place.
Jack had known the first time she walked in that she wasn't a fighter. In his thirty years as a trainer, he had trained a few - a very few - women who had it in them to be fighters, but Hannah wasn't one of them. It was in the tits and the ass. She had them.
The women who could really throw and take a punch, and keep throwing and taking them, they molded their bodies into steel. They had something to prove, and the fat all but melted off of them as they worked. A flat chest, a flat ass, hard abs, tight arms- that was some people's idea of feminine perfection, but not many.
Hannah was fit, but she was also curvy. Those tits were D-cups, or Jack was an astronaut. She wanted to think of herself as a boxer, but she didn't want to stop being a girl. She belonged in the sort of place where the guys stopped mid-rep on their weight machines to watch her go by.
But she had come to Jack instead.
So Jack made her jog. He made her skip rope. He made her do sit-ups, which she hated. He made her pump barbells. He taught her how to hit the light and heavy bags. He taught her the fundamentals of footwork. He taught her how to set up a combo, how to look for an opening.
And she did it. But she did it like a tourist. She wanted the easy way. She didn't carry through. She didn't want to get into a fighter's head space. She wanted to come to the gym and forget about work, but she didn't want her mind to go as far as really occupying the ring.
Worse, she didn't get it. If she had come in recognizing she was going to half-ass it, that she wasn't really going to be a fighter but just wanted a vaguely boxing-flavored aerobics routine, that would have been okay. Maybe she would have allowed Jack to convince her that she'd be better off at some chain gym where a row of TVs played music videos while middle-aged people walked on treadmills. But Hannah thought she was the real deal. Sugar Ray Leonard, George Foreman, and Rocky Fucking Balboa with two X chromosomes, squeezed into spandex. That somehow, inherent talent had allowed her to find the easy road.
The tits, the ass, they stayed right where they were. As she jogged toward the ring, Jack mused that she looked like a model for a boxing equipment ad. What she didn't look like was a boxer.
Well, Jack thought, too bad, pretty baby. You had a chance.
She grinned as she approached the ring, throwing little jabs.
"Hey, coach."
"Hey, yourself. Get in there and start practicing the one-twelve. Your opposition is going to be here soon."
With a jovial nod, Hannah ducked under the ropes. Her lycra-clad ass gave a little wiggle as she climbed onto the pad. Was it for his benefit? Nah, Jack thought, stifling a snort. She just does that kind of shit without thinking about it.
Then she was up and bouncing. Jab-jab-cross. Jab-jab-cross. He had taught her other combinations, more complex maneuvers. She'd do them for a while, and then she'd fall back on good old one-one-two. He used to watch her do them, and then tell her to change it up. One-two-three-two. Two-three-two. She couldn't remember them. He'd remind her, and remind her again. One time he yelled at her. Goddammit, if she couldn't remember them now, how was she going to keep them in her brain when it had been rattled by a couple of haymakers?
She'd started crying. Jesus. Fine. Show me your one-one-two. And your one-two. And your one-one-two again.
The loud knock of the bar on the men's locker room door announced the new arrivals. They wore boxing shorts and gloves, and even in distant silhouette, they looked dangerous.
Hector, the middleweight, was the real deal. Fast, long-lasting, hard-hitting. Six feet of anger and attitude - but he had learned to keep it all, and his mean streak, in the ring where it was useful.
Gordon, the heavyweight, was a fucking tank. He would follow a man relentlessly around the ring, trading the occasional hit, taking everything there was to give, letting his opponent tire himself out. That unfortunate would never understand just how hard Gordon could actually hit until Gordon was ready.
Gordon didn't win on points. He won by knockout.
Both men were ready to move on to the big time. Hannah never would be. So she could be their stepping stone.
"Heck? You're up."
Hannah started to look nervous as Hector climbed smoothly into the ring.
"Hey, ah, what's the deal, Coach?" The blonde piped up. "I thought maybe I was doing some sparring tonight? Or at least going up against someone more, ah, you know..."
That was a perfectly reasonable complaint. Hector had six inches on Hannah, and the accompanying reach. Also forty pounds, much of the difference made of muscle. If it were a bout, it never would have gone. If it were a sparring match, it still would have raised eyebrows.
But this wasn't a bout.
"What," Jack snapped. "You've come all this way, and now you're afraid you're going to get hurt or something? Are you a boxer or not?"
Hannah jogged in place. "Yes, Coach."
"I said, ARE YOU A FIGHTER?"
She slapped her gloves together. "YES, COACH!"
No you're not. You poor little thing.
Turning to the table next to the ring, he pulled back the hammer and rang the bell.
Hector raised his gloves and started to move. Hannah did the same.
To someone who only watched boxing movies, and maybe the occasional match behind a drink at a bar, their movements looked very similar. Hannah was lighter on her feet, as was to be expected with her smaller frame. Hector kept a little lower in his stance, his eyes wary, shifting back and forth.
To Jack, it was like watching someone's pet bunny mistake a stray cat for a playmate.
Hannah's footwork was repetitive and predictable. She moved without awareness of her place in the ring, her proximity to corners or ropes where she might get trapped. She moved inside of Hector's reach multiple times, feinting punches, never recognizing her own exposure.
For his part, Hector managed not to smirk. He gave her a couple of light taps on the helmet, threw a few more directly into her raised guard, never pressing. He'd back off easily whenever she started swinging in earnest, even letting her tap him once in the abdomen.
By contrast, Hannah was smiling. She really thought she was in the game.
Then Hector gave her a left to the helmet. A real one.
The blonde half-spun as she staggered backwards, bouncing off the ropes. A follow-up right hook caught her on the rebound, and she dropped to the mat on her hip.
"Huhhhh... Whoa...!" Hannah whispered, her gloves tugging against the sides of the helmet.
"Up, Hannah." Jack snapped.
"I... I don't know what-"
"You going out on the first half-serious punch you've taken? On your fucking helmet? Tell me that I haven't been wasting my time, Hannah."
"Shouldn't- shouldn't I have my mouth guard in, or something? I mean-"
"Hector isn't even wearing a helmet. You want I should put lead weights in your gloves, while we're at it?"
"I..."
"Get the hell up!"
So she did. She reached out to touch gloves with Hector; he slammed his down on hers. Hannah took a step back, her expression aghast.
"Fight."
Now Hector was moving like a predator. He peppered Hannah's helmet with soft jabs, circling, keeping her in the sweet spot where his greater reach made all the difference. What remained of the blonde's confidence evaporated. She took swing after swing that never connected. And still Hector waited, playing with her, the knocks to the head keeping her perpetually off balance but none anything close to a finisher.
Then it happened. Trying to move in, to close the distance, the predictability of Hannah's footwork and the weakness of her guard left her open as she tried to settle into her familiar one-one-two.
Hector stepped inside her jab and brought his right up into her stomach with a solid thud.
"HuWUFFFFFFF...!"
Hannah's defense fell apart as she shambled back, bending hard at the waist, arms stretched out in shock. Her gloved left hand waved feebly in a call-it-off motion. Jack noticed with irritation that she had neglected to remove the gold ring in her belly button.
Pursuing, Hector shimmied left and right, lining up his shot before driving another uppercut into her breadbasket. With a gasp, Hannah dropped down on her elbows and knees.
Jack watched her tight lycra shorts shift as she crawled. Yeah, wiggle that ass now, bitch.
"Cuhhh... Cuhhh... Can't breathe...!" Hannah wheezed.
"Get your ass up, you fucking cunt." Jack sneered.
Hannah's eyes went wide as she stared at her trainer, still fighting to try to draw breath.
"You wanted to box? Well, guess what, princess: boxing is pain. And the performance you've been putting on in there, I don't see that you have it to be a decent punching bag, let alone a boxer. You want someone to feel sorry for you, you never shoulda come in here. Now get your fucking feet under you, 'cuz you're pissing me off!"
A tear spilled from one blue eye. Slowly, Hannah managed to regain her breathing, rise to her feet.
Jack snorted. "Fight."
She was hurt, humiliated, and angry. It gave her a second wind. Some fights, some fighters, it might have been a turning point. Tonight, it was just the breaking point.
Hector went right back to circling her. She charged at him; he took a punch on his gloves, turned away from another, spun past her. Now he went from jabs to hooks, slowly but inevitably steering her back towards the corner. She attempted another charge and got a right cross to the bridge of the helmet for it.
And then she had her back against the padding of the ring corner. Punches rained down on her helmet, steady, measured, rhythmic: right, left, right, left. She raised her hands to protect her face, and Hector zeroed in on the pink blotch on her abdomen. Thud. Thud. Thud.
A bead of blood trickled down her navel from where the punches tore that stupid ring. Hannah blubbered behind her gloves, helpless, and Hector started putting more shoulder into the blows to her belly.
After three more punches, Hannah started to slide down in the corner. And then Gordon was there, outside the ring, behind her. He hooked his arms around her armpits and lifted her back to standing. Red-faced, sobbing, Hannah looked across the ring to where Jack stood, leaning against the top rope, arms folded under his chin.
"C-Coach...?!"
Gordon and Hector, they were going to be something. But you had to be sure. Sometimes a fighter seemed to have all the fundamentals, but they didn't have the killer instinct. They weren't willing to press, to risk hurting the other guy. To keep hammering on the same spot until a weal became a cut, a bruised rib became a broken one. They had to be willing to take what they wanted, even if they had to climb over a bloody, broken husk to get there.
And participating in a major felony? That had a way of making sure a pro fighter never forgot his trainer, and kept sending in his cut.
"I've got some bad news for you, Hannah. Hector and Gordon, here? They're boxers. They are going places. They are the stately, first-class battleships, ready to make their launch out to sea and consume the world."
"And you? You're just the champagne bottle broken against their hull."
Hector demonstrated Jack's point with another uppercut to her belly.
"BUUHHHH!"
Gasping for air, Hannah squeaked.
"H-helllp..." She wheezed. "Someone... help me...!"
"You've got to love an after-hours session on a third-floor walk-up in a bad part of town," Jack mused. "You could scream your fucking head off. No one's going to hear."
Hector delivered another left, grinding it into her soft belly, then a right. Gordon hauled her up as she started to fold.
"That's it, Heck." Jack urged. "Work that body. Pile it on."
Pum-PUM! Pum-PUM! Pum-Pum-PUM!
Saliva sprayed from Hannah's mouth as Hector hammered her stomach. Snot rattled in her nose as she struggled to breathe.
"Don't hold back. It's showtime."
That uppercut, that beautiful, devastating uppercut, cleaved through her yielding gut. Hannah felt bile rise in her mouth.
Again. Her tailbone slamming back against the corner. Sweat pouring off of her. The hardness of the arms around her shoulders, hoisting her up to take another.
And it came, smashing through her vitals. Hannah retched, yellow acid pouring over her chin.
"Press her. Show me what you can do."
Hector's gloved fist slammed into her solar plexus, caving it in, her skin tightening against her rib cage, another surge of fluid from her battered stomach spurting from between her lips. Then at the low-slung waistband, slamming her ass against the corner, her bowels and womb cramping with the attack.
Heck slapped his gloves against her tightly bound breasts. Without a word, Gordon shifted to hold her arms with a single one of his own, pulling off his glove and undoing the catches of Hannah's athletic bra, pulling the snug synthetic fabric from her body and allowing her fantastic bosom to spill free. Her pink nipples jutted arrogantly out as her breasts swung, like the bulls-eyes of targets.
"Everything's on the menu tonight, gents. Give 'em some pain."
Hector's glove smashed into her breast, and Hannah managed to find enough breath to let out a pained, whistling shriek. The pummeled orb jerked across her chest, swinging back pendulously with a new patch of pink across her fair skin.
Bouncing on his feet, Hector began going at the delicate swells like a heavy bag. Right and left, making Hannah's tits swing and bounce on her chest. Punch after punch, ringing into her soft, feminine flesh.
Dazed, sick, and hurting, Hannah allowed herself to believe for a moment that the torment was over when Hector paused. That she was merely being hazed, or bullied to intimidate her into giving up at the gym, a surrender she would have been eager to extend. Instead, he removed his gloves to lay into her breasts with his wrapped fists, removing the thin cushion between bone and mammary to better savor the cruel beating.
"Do some damage, Hector. Make her take it."
There was no mercy on the face of the man who raised his fists again to pummel the helpless woman. He transitioned from hooks to jabs and crosses, straight into her nipples, spiking the nubs into her flesh with each relentless blow.
Jack was hard. He hadn't felt so hard in years, watching the pretty legal clerk take it in those big, soft tits. His own fist pounded the mat as he watched her globes pitch and jiggle, watched the rising bursts of pink and purple as blood vessels burst under her skin; watched her aureolae darken as her swollen nipples were driven through their sensitive rings like nails.
"Smash them," he whispered, gritting his teeth. "Fuck up those tits. God dammit, fuck those funbags up..."
Hannah grunted and whimpered, sobbing desperately, breathlessly as Hector mauled her breasts. She had never endured such pain, let alone to her sensitive bosom; never come anything close. A former lover who had thought to pinch her nipple had been unceremoniously shown the door. She enjoyed being a curvaceous woman, the way men's eyes followed her, the awe in the eyes of a lucky few who had gotten to see her breasts dance as she rode them.
But at that moment, she wished that puberty had been stingy.
A catastrophic combination slammed her breasts into her ribcage, and Hannah gathered enough air in her lungs to emit a piercing wail; Hector rewarded the sound with another breath-crushing fist to her belly, and then an uppercut that lifted her mottled right breast high, only to slam painfully down under its own weight, the tissue a mass of agony.
Then his rough hands were under her shorts' waistband, under the waist of the lace underwear she wore beneath. The clinging synthetic fabric wrenched apart in his grasp, tore, painfully cut into her thighs before it gave up its fight and ripped apart completely, leaving Hannah ridiculously clad only in her helmet, gloves, and athletic shoes.
"No-" Hannah pleaded. There was pepper spray in her bag back in the locker room. She had thought that boxing meant she would stop needing such precautions; she had never imagined she might wish she had them in the gym itself. "No, please, don't-"
Rape was on her mind. And then Hector's fist slammed against her neatly fringed vulva, and the imminent reality was something worse. Her throat locked around her words as the pain spiked through her brain.
Her body jerked uselessly in Gordon's grip; her thighs locked together. Hector kicked her feet and shins, her calves and ankles, forcing her legs apart, and delivered another punch to her groin.
Her earlier humiliation had given her strength; her second wind burned through, she had almost nothing left to resist his brutal intentions. A few perfunctory punches to her thighs, and her legs remained open, her sex exposed. His knuckles pounded down against her clitoral hood, and her entire body arched, flopping fishlike in Gordon's hold. Then a blow to the pelvic bone, smashing her back down, dominating her. Her most intimate places were subject to his violence; the message was clear, primal. Her labia succumb to his fists, folding inward wetly as he punched her sex, once, twice, a third, heated, swollen and aching.
Now her sex was sore and weeping; now he could use her. Conquered beyond resistance, he would fuck her. His cock was an iron bar as he tugged down his shorts. His hands reached under her, between her legs, lifting her thighs and hooking her knees around the middle ropes on either side. He could feel the heat of her bruised body, the smell of sweat and vomit as he pressed close.
Then he rammed himself inside of her.
Her body bucked in its confinement, squeezing him. He pierced her hard, hammering her body back against the corner. Gordon grinned, pulling back on her shoulders, tilting her battered breasts up at Hector as he pistoned between her bruised thighs.
"Pour it into her, Heck." Jack exhorted. "She's in the ring - fuck her like you'd break her."
Her beaten pussy clenched around him like a fist. Mercilessly, he drove into her aching sex, his cock a weapon seeking to beat her inside. Every thrust was another punch, her belly straining, her breasts heaving, her throat tight, tendons rigid. Beneath the shadows of her helmet, sweat and tears ran down her face; her hair had torn loose of its barrettes and draped limply across her brow.
The head of his cock thumped against her cervix, and her hips flexed upward as the cramping pain wracked her body. Enraged that any part of her body would defy him, his hands tightened around her thighs. He lunged forward, pulling her against him, mashing the head of his cock against the muscular entrance to her womb. The tight ring was designed to keep a growing infant contained for nine months, but Hector was persistent. He punished her feminine channel, bruising her cervix, battering it, her keening and writhing against him evidence that he was making headway. Relentlessly, he smashed into her, thrusting inside her farther than she could go.
The mucosal plug snapped, and Hannah's cervix began to turn inward. It was like the pain of twelve hours of childbirth, concentrated and distilled into each moment when his thrusts reached their apex.
"No...!" Hannah screamed. "No no no no no N-AAAAAAAUUUUGGHHHHHHHH-!"
The head of Hector's cock breached her cervix and slammed into her uterus.
It was tighter than anything Hector could have imagined. Determined to intensify her suffering, he jerked back, feeling her contract, and forced himself through her cervix again.
Her eyes rolled back, saliva pouring from her open mouth as her entire body began to quiver. Cradling her lower back with one arm, Hector slammed his other fist down on her shivering belly. Hannah rewarded him with an involuntary spasm inside as he pulled back and breached her uterus a third time.
Her soft gut was such a contrast to the incredible tightness inside of her. To his fists, she yielded; to his cock, her body still struggled its losing fight.
"Oh, God..." Hector gasped, the first vocalization he had made that night. He pumped inside of her womb, his fist coming down on her abdomen in an almost reflexive, spasmatic ecstasy. He was going to come. He pulled back one last time, and stabbed through her, through her beaten sex, her battered ring, determined to punch into the back of her uterus.
His cock rocked inside of her as he spurted his semen within her fertile chamber, each buck of the rigid member feeling to Hannah like a contraction of labor. Her body continued to shake like a live wire as he held tight to her, forcing her to accept every last dredge of his jizzum deep inside of her.
When he finally withdrew, it felt as though it might rip her womb apart.
"Guhhhh..." A deep groan escaped Hannah's slack lips as he let go, her legs dipping, white and red fluid oozing from her sex. Her thighs shook as she struggled to pull her legs out from the ropes, trembled unsteadily beneath her as she put her feet down on the mat.
Jack rang the bell. Hector waved a fist in the air before bending down to scoop up his discarded gloves.
"Don't take off just yet, Heck," Jack ordered, licking his lips. "Gordon? It's your turn."
Hannah fell to her knees as Gordon released her, gazing listlessly across the ring.
"Why...?" She whispered. Jack snorted, ignoring her plea.
"Hector, take off her helmet."
With a smirk, Hector bent down and undid the chin catch, lifting Hannah's helmet and tossing it out of the ring. Her bangs fell about her face in a messy spray, sweat pouring down her brow.
"Get her on her feet."
Hector seized her around the waist, lifting her out of the corner and onto her shaking legs. Her flailing arms reached out to grab hold of his shoulders, their positions now reversed with Hannah trying to hold Hector to her, not just for balance but to somehow hold off what was to come, the "fight" that was actually a massacre.
With spiteful ease, Hector knocked her gloved hands from his shoulders and pushed her away as Gordon climbed into the ring.
There was no longer the slightest question as to whether this was a contest. Gordon was fresh, nearly six and a half feet of mahogany muscle, slamming his gloves together in eagerness. Hannah was now nude but her shoes and gloves, her ample body on display, a cruel exhibition of bruised and battered feminine flesh from her breasts to her thighs. Hector's semen still dripped between her legs as she tottered.
Hector climbed out to occupy Gordon's former place in the corner, looking on with sadistic satisfaction.
Jack rang the bell, and the tank closed on the rabbit.
Hannah raised her gloves to protect her face, but Gordon's left hook connecting with her guard still flung her half-way across the ring. The follow-up right smashed into her cheek, and blood and spit burst from her mouth as she went down.
Grabbing one of the water bottles from the table, Jack circled to where Hannah lay almost at the ropes. He poured water into her face, and she coughed and spluttered, whimpering.
"Get up and take it, you little bitch."
Hector reached through and pushed up her shoulders; from there, even gloved, Gordon was able to pull he to her feet. Hannah raised her hands, but there was clearly nothing there to even feign self-protection.
"Fight." Jack spat.
Gordon clipped her under the chin, and she fell backwards into the ropes. With a feral grin, Gordon hammered his right fist into her swollen breast: POM. POM. POM. Hannah's bared teeth shone white and pink.
The globe shook and flattened as the heavyweight assailed the bruised flesh, over and over again, a relentless barrage of savagery on the defenseless, sensitive swell. POM. POM. POM. POM. POM. POM. POM.
From across the ring, Jack could hear the snap as one of Hannah's ribs broke. Heard the blonde scream in agony, then choke as Gordon pounded his left into her out-thrust belly. A second crushing blow to her gut, and she folded, crumpling to the mat.
Gordon's arms closed around her waist, lifting her. She staggered sideways as he released her, breathless, moaning, still unable to rise from her stooped posture.
Jack rubbed the front of his pants, gritting his teeth. "Fight."
Gordon took up a slow, easy bounce, circling Hannah as she wheezed and whimpered. He threw a mocking punch at her buttock, and she stumbled sideways.
She was whispering. Jack leaned forward, trying to hear.
"...please. please, help me. make it stop. someone make it stop..."
Finally, Gordon stopped dead in front of her.
"Look at me, you little piece of shit," he rumbled.
Tears pouring down her cheeks, Hannah slowly, agonizingly stood straight to look up at the monster looming above her.
Gordon's gloves slammed together.
"Here it comes, bitch."
His jab shattered her nose. Blood streamed down over her lips.
"BLUuuuhhh-!"
She fell backwards into the ropes, and Gordon was on her. Her vision went white and purple as his gloves slammed into her temples. She heard a high-pitched whistle as a hook crashed into her ear. A second, entirely gratuitous blow to the nose; blood was running down her throat. Everywhere, a sea of pain, mounting and inescapable.
A left to the cheek, and a right to the mouth. She swallowed one of her own molars.
A hook to the jaw, and she was grateful, so grateful, to be spilling past him as her sight swam and doubled, falling on her face, another blaze of agony as her breasts and face hit the mat but cool comfort that the padded surface was there, holding her whole body, supporting her. Over. Please. Please.
Please. No more.
"You gonna fuck the bitch, Gordon?" Jack snarled.
It wasn't really a question, more a command, but the heavyweight nodded, pulling off his gloves. The trainer strode purposefully into the shadows, coming back with a hard, forty pound medicine ball. The sphere depressed the ring mat where he set it down, rolling it towards Hannah's limp form.
"Put that under her belly. I want to see you fuck her up the ass."
Hannah gave a strangled moan with the announcement, writhing, trying to crawl away. She only made it a few inches, leaving a smear of red where her nose continued to course. Gordon easily grabbed her once more underneath the shoulders, lifting her to knee-height and dragging her, legs trailing, across the mat.
He dropped her on the medicine ball; its unyielding weight smashed into her battered guts. Blood and bile mixed in the blonde's mouth, and she sobbed helplessly. Suspended by the ball, her hips lifted, pushing up her magnificently curved backside.
The heavyweight doffed his trunks. His erect cock had to be a foot long. Jack's eyes widened, then closed into slits as he looked down at the half-moons of the blonde's upraised ass, a cold, mean smile crossing his face.
"Force it into her, Gordon. Slam it into her guts. Every fuckin' inch. I want you to make her bleed."
Gordon took up a position like a runner's start, arched over the suffering woman's limp frame. Hannah wriggled weakly beneath him as the head of his cock pressed against her pussy, then lifted, sliding up to push against the tiny, dry hole of her anus.
"Nuuhyunnnhuennuh..." Hannah whimpered, squirming desperately. Gordon's hand clamped down on her lower back, his other hand adjusting his anatomy, and he pushed his hips forward.
The legal secretary's dazed eyes went wide. "Unnhhhhuh...?!"
Jack undid his pants, reaching inside to grasp his turgid anatomy.
"Rip her asshole. Rip her ass apart!"
Gordon bounced atop Hannah, pausing with each dip, the head of his mammoth member pressing further and further into her straining asshole.
"Nunnghhh- Nunnnh- Uhhh...! Uhhhh!... Uh-uhhhh....!"
And then, Hannah's body stretched... and a moment later, tore.
"AUUUUUUUUUUGGHHHH...!!!!"
Jack was masturbating furiously.
"To the root! Make her take it alllll...!"
Gordon pulled back, her tight, torn anus clinging to his cock, then surged back into Hannah's magnificent ass. It was all but impossible to make the woman's rectal channel accommodate him, but like Hector, he was a boxer: what didn't make way for him, he had tendency to pulverize.
"Bounce that... ass! Put your weight into it..."
The curves of her rectum straightened for his cock, and where the channel could not give, it tore. She was bleeding for him, for him and his frenzied coach, urging him on.
Now she could only grunt, the compression of her diaphragm and the devastating force behind every impalement of her bowels preventing the filling of her lungs. But every pain-wracked grunt was sweet music to Gordon. He was degrading her, despoiling her, destroying her. He was so much more powerful than the woman beneath him, and every wrenching, gut-splitting thrust between those gorgeous buttocks was a testament to his strength, his victory, his ability to take what he wanted and crush opposition.
"Go on, go on... Show me how hard you can hit! Break her ass!"
He leaned forward, his hand tangling in the back of her hair, her pony-tail holder slipping out. He crushed her face into the mat, hearing her choke on the flow from her nose as he levered his cock inside her, tearing her still further. Blood coated his cock, kinked his pubic hair. Her ass rippled as he slammed into it, and he struck those galloping buttocks, open hand, closed hand, reddening and bruising those lovely hindquarters as he reamed her apart. His palm and knuckles smacked and thumped against her ass as he used her.
"GUHH-huh-! GUHH-huh! GUHHH! GUHH! GUHHHH!"
Her ass was swollen and hot from beating; he felt it like a furnace when he drove home into her. His fist went up to the arched, sweat-sheened curve of her lower back. His shoulder pulled back, and he drove his knuckles into Hannah's kidney.
Her legs straightened convulsively behind her before flopping back to the mat as her nerve centers exploded.
"Fuck her! Fuck her up! Make her piss blood!"
Now Gordon brought his full weight to bear, slamming down into the prostrate woman, two hundred and fifty pounds spearing through her torn anus and piercing her guts, punching the unyielding ball into her beaten belly, raising both arms like a raptor in flight to drive his fists into her sides.
Hannah vomited, thin liquid and blood pooling at her face. Her bladder gave way. There was nothing but mounting, sickening, burning, ripping pain surging through her body, and the tiny shred of her mind that wasn't processing it- telling her to run, to fight, to protect herself, that she was going to die- desperately wished that she could pass out.
Gordon rode her. The more she hurt, the better each thrust became. There was hardly a woman who could take his full length willingly, and this one... this hot little blonde... He was deliberately giving her more, much more, than she could take. Feeling her bleed, and seize. Plunging into her like a weapon. Beating her down, and making her take it.
Jack climbed into the ring, his face burning like a fever, violence and lust engulfing him. He wouldn't remember crossing the ring. And then he was on his knees in front of Hannah, one hand pressing down between her shoulder blades, forcing her head against the mat, the other jerking desperately at his cock.
Holding her down. Watching that ass buck and shake. Watching Gordon pull back, coated in her blood, only to ram home into her again.
"As hard as you can, Gordon." Jack hissed. "Break her inside."
Her bleeding rectum clung to Gordon as he pulled back for another thrust, stabbing into her, flattening her ass, bouncing that beautifully curved flesh.
"HUUUwhuuuhhhh..."
That grunt, that exhausted, hurt-filled moan, as his cock smashed into her compressed guts. Helpless, knowing that another thrust would follow, that with every slam of his hips into her buttocks she was being injured in a way that she could not possibly recover from. Feeling his strength devastating her, wrenching her open, busting her apart.
Using her body like a thing, ruining her, just so he could come.
Deliberate. Violent. Pouring that fury into her from behind, up her ass, where she could not resist, where he could hurt her most easily, where her submission made her not his lover, not his woman, not even his slave, but his bitch.
Disposable. To be used without mercy, used until broken, and discarded.
"HUUUUhhhhhhhhh... Chhhxx HUUUUHhhhhngh... Chkkk HUUUUMMMNGH-..."
Jack gave out an ecstatic gasp as he came, spurting his semen into her hair, over the back of her neck. As his euphoria began to diminish, he seized Hannah by the hair of her scalp, dragging her head up to look at him as he sneered down at her.
"Beg him." He snarled. "Beg him not to come in your belly."
"HuuuNghhh...! Hunnnghhh... p-please..."
Gordon's thrusts began to increase in speed, slamming her hips forward, concussive bursts of power every bit the equal of his most brutal punches.
"Plead with him, whore. He's going to do it. He's going to ejaculate in your bloody guts. Beg!"
"plUNGGH-! plleaaNGHUHHH! please, don't HUNNNHHH-! don't come in my ass...!"
Jack smirked, looking up at Gordon. "Whaddya think, Gordon?"
Gordon's lips pulled away from his teeth. "HOLD HER DOWN!" he roared. "HOLD THE BITCH'S FACE DOWN!"
Jack turned her head so her broken nose faced the mat, and mashed her down, shoving her head and shoulders.
"Do it, big man. Make that ass into an open wound. Wreck her."
Gordon's fists slammed into Hannah's back as he snarled, spat, cursed, pounding her, pounding her. Boring deep into her viscera, penetrating her in places that were never meant to endure it.
It took three minutes, from the time Jack began forcing Hannah's head down into the mat, until Gordon finally spurt his jizzum into the woman's bowels. A full round in regular boxing; enough time to endure dozens of punches.
Jack was almost impressed she was still breathing when Gordon's tree-trunk of a dick emerged from the bloody cavern he had made of her butt. A full round with a heavyweight. In a way, Hannah had gone the distance. She flopped onto her back, coughing, tears streaming from her eyes, blood from her nose and mouth.
Jack drew Hector into the ring with a shift of his head as Gordon went looking for his trunks.
She was ghost-pale. It only served to emphasize the angry purple of her nipples and pussy, the mottled stream-bed of bruises all over her beautiful body. And it was still beautiful. A classical marble sculpture of a tragedy.
A medical professional would have told them that Hannah was less than an hour from death. Her broken rib, prodded out of place by her rape, had punctured a lung. Gordon's beating had succeeded in rupturing her kidneys and spleen. Her anus was split wide; her rectum and parts of her colon in shreds. Her vagina had multiple traumatic tears as well. Comparatively, the dislocation of her pelvis and the deep bruising of her uterus- though shockingly painful- would have been considered trivial.
Jack knew how to close cuts and shrink swelling. He had a sense when a fighter was about to go out, and knew when to stop a fight to come back and fight another day, to prevent his golden goose from ruining a promising career.
Hannah was way past all of that. But she was still breathing. And that was a problem.
"Congratulations, kid. You get to go one more round."
She couldn't stand. They ended up tying her shoulders to the ring ropes with jump ropes, hanging limp, defenseless. And then Hector and Gordon took turns.
Maybe it was the multiple concussion that finally did it. Or the blow that collapsed her rib cage, literally breaking her heart. Maybe it was the abdominal blow that made her void a flood of bleeding tissue and a loop of intestine.
In any case, by the time it was Hector's fourth turn, there was no longer any reason to put their fists to the poor blonde's body.
Gordon and Hector would drink over it later, slap each other on the back and say they were bad asses, they were stone-cold-killers.
Still later, they would drink more alone, when they couldn't sleep; when they looked in the mirror and the memory of it came back in a rush.
But both men would have long and exciting careers in the ring. After their baptism of blood, both men would size up their opponents, and when they rose from their corners, cold violence in their eyes, they would think the same thing:
You don't know what I'm capable of.
Jack sent them off to the showers before unlocking the janitor's closet next to his office. He got out the tarp to wrap up Hannah's body, and the disinfectant cleaner and mop, and set to work cleaning the ring of sweat and blood, vomit and semen and piss. It was the good thing about a boxing ring: it was designed to be easy to remove the residue of violence.
When it was done, he made the call to his friends in low places. They would drop the body across town, some place a nice girl should know better than to walk the streets at night alone. Shit like this happened all the time, in places far from Jack's gymnasium. Hector had had his juvenile record wiped; Gordon didn't have anything worse than a couple of misdemeanors, and both men had alibis. Chances were the case would be cold long before it came anywhere close.
There was a framed photo on the wall of the gym, near the door to the women's locker room. It showed a perky young redhead with an upturned nose and a sprinkle of freckles, a boxing helmet keeping her mussed hair pressed down, grinning as she posed with wrapped hands in a guard position.
Twenty-three years ago, Cindy's body had been found in a bad neighborhood. Everyone had been very sad. Sure, she wasn't much of a fighter, but she had had spunk. She had been like the gym's mascot.
Cody, Enrico, and Tony has been especially sad. Sad enough to send a chunk of every purse they won to Jack.
Jack lifted the photo from the wall, and carved an "H" in the plaster with his keys, below the "V" and the "B" and the "C" that had started it all.
Some day, someone else would own the gym, and they might find the letters. Even if they put two and two together, they were unlikely to think it anything more than a memento to the fallen. And by then, Jack expected to be long dead anyway.
In the end, they were all meat for the grinder. Some found glory on the way; others were sacrificed to the glory of others. You could learn to take advantage of it, or you could be surprised when you realized the slaughterhouse had come for you, but the final result was the same.
He gave one final glance at the crumpled bundle wrapped in the tarp, gave a two-fingered salute, and killed the ring lights.
