LEGENDARY BELLYBEATING

And I'm not just talking about a few biffs to the stomach in the course of a back-and-forth fight. I'm imagining the legendary bellybeating. The ultimate male humiliation. The thing a weak boy like me dreaded. A string of punches in my belly that went on so long, so sadistically, that the point was made in the minds of everyone watching, that here was this man being helplessly fucked by this other man, by the fist that vioilates his belly over and over and which he is too weak and soft to refuse. That makes him bleat like a sheep.

And god forbid SHE should see you like that. See that happen to you. See you get a bellybeating. She'll never forget it. You'll be zero to her. "A boy who can't even protect his own belly; how's he ever going to protect me?"

"I don't think I'll ever look at your bare belly again and not see his fist stuffed into it. I'm sorry, that's just set for life. You and that belly. You going OOF! OOF! OOF! Over and over. How can any woman take you seriously
now?"

"So I got beat up. Lots of guys ..."

"It wasn't what he did to you, dear. It's how he did it. Pow, pow, pow, five, six in a row. Punches. Right in your belly. And obviously you were winded and gone from the first one, but he kept punching you, driving home his point like a battering ram into your already soft and beaten belly. A point made not to you, but to the world, to his real rivals, to anyone watching, as testimony of his brute power and merciless cruelty."

FINISHED

At last Tim lets me drop to my knees. He needs time to catch his own breath and rest the muscles of his arm, which have been pumping like machine pistons.


He lets me moan on my knees for half a minute, then he reaches down and grabs me by the hair. He hauls me to my feet and lands a sharp judo chop to my belly.


"UUMMMPPPPHHH." I flop to knees, gasping as my deflated lungs suck air and ache burns in my belly.

Tim reaches down and pulls me to my feet by the arms. "Say 'I have a soft belly,' " Tim hisses. I hesitate. Out of the corner of my eyes I see the girls watching. Tim drops his right hand to waist-level, snaps it into a fist and drives it into my stomach.

"H-OOOOOOOO!!" I wail as I fall to the sand and roll onto my side, clutching my stomach with both arms. Tim looks down at me, grabs me by the hair and pulls me back up.

"Say it!" he demanded.

"I ... got ... a ... uuuuhhh! ... a ... soft belly!" I gasp. He winds up and plants a punch in the meat of my stomach. The soft belly absorbs Tim's fist, and he lets me drop to the sand and writhe.


Tim stands over me, breath coming hard, eyes aglint. He kicks me in the belly. With a sharp "UUH!" I take the boot to my gut and tighten up in my curl.

SIXTEEN

I never suspected it would be Ann. She seemed so shy and conservative and awkward in herself, like I was. I didn't even think she owned a bikini, or a bare-midriff top. I knew her parents probably never would let her wear it if she did. And she was a "good girl."

But I should have known better. I was young and a fool. I didn't realize the girl of my dreams would be behaving exactly as Ann was now: confused and ashamed of the powerful, weird desires she felt, and being very shy about everything associated with it.

Later I knew her for the delightful bellypunch vixen she really always was. We spent many an hour watching TV together, picking through the right shows to see what we sought. But this was before all that.

Then, I thought the girls who would love bellypunching were exactly the bellyflaunts, and the tough sluts who hung around bullies. But they couldn't have cared less about the scene I craved. Yet still, then, I fixed all my dreams on them.

Ann just kind of snuck up on me. She and I were friends. We were among the geeky "good' kids. One day we were lying on the grass and she reached up for something above her head, and it made her shirt ride up and I had a fantastic, close-up stare at a delicious belly-button. It was a sudden jolt, being face to face with a goddess' navel like that, unawares, and it overwhelmed me. I lunged out and kissed it firmly with my lips.

Ann squealed and jerked away. I realized she'd been deeply insulted and was furious with me. A little more angry than the situation warranted, I thought, even though I had been a perv. And I apologized for it. But she didn't seem to let it go, though she stopped scolding me about it. And there was a whole lot of emotion going on in her eyes besides fury.

It all came together for me a few weeks later, at the height of summer, when she invited me to go swimming with her and her sister. She directed me to a remote spot on the river. Then her sister showed up with two goons from the football team who clearly weren't there to hang out with me and go swimming.

My heart raced. Could this be it? Did Ann set me up for a bellybeating, or just a beating? I took no precautions. I made sure I got both. I was surly and cringing in just the right measure to excite their contempt. I made repeated references to my stolen belly-kiss, just to focus Ann and them on it.

And then when the girls stepped back and the guys started jostling me, the only thought in my head was to keep my belly soft, unprotected, and thrust out.

And I got it. Oh, I got it. The first punch caught me after Guy had pushed me toward his friend, and I was off balance and bent forward. Instead of catching me by the arms and roughing me up some more, as they had been doing, the friend swung his fist up and under me. As it happened he caught me right in my stomach and winded me at once. I felt stunned and frozen.

I was about to drop down, but he grabbed me then and hauled me up and turned me and pushed me toward Guy. I saw Guy set up his punch and I did nothing to stop it or duck it. I let him swing his fist right into the middle of my bare belly. For Ann, for the primal sexual energy of her, for my need for all that into me. I took it in the belly for her.

FANTASIES

I.

I spend time at a college gym, trying in vain to put some strength and tone in my soft body. The guy who is in charge of the gym is a real bruiser, and he asks me if I want to help him teach a class. I say, "sure."

It turns out he's giving a fighting clinic to a group of pretty undergraduate girls. He's teaching them self-defense tactics. And his focus is on body-blows. And I'm the pot-bellied loser wimp who's going to help him demonstrate.

He brings me out and tells me to take my shirt off. I do. Then he tells me to lunge at him in a particular way. I do, and he deftly ducks or blocks my attack and responds with a devastating uppercut punch or elbow jab or judo chop right in the curve of my bare soft stomach.

Each shot totally devastates me. I stand doubled over, or fall to my knees, suffering, gasping, groaning. As I'm trying to pull myself together, he's explaining to the girls who are standing around in their spandex workout gear, what he did to me and why it worked. The girls ask questions, he answers.

Then when he's finished and I'm standing up straight again, he gives me another order, another way to lunge for him and pay for it with a belly-ache.

II.

I imagine a professional wrestling fund-raiser event at an exclusive all-girls school. The real wrestlers roll into town and set up the ring. I am there because I am dating one of the students who is organizing the event. I stand around, useless, and the muscular men begin to mock me. I stand up for myself, and they quickly challenge me to meet them that night, in the ring, in front of the whole school, as part of the show. I have no choice but to agree.

In the ring, I get completely belly-beaten in front of the school. After a long stomach-beating, my opponent carries my limp body out of the ring, and lays me belly-up in the doorway of the arena, so the girls, as they leave, have to step over -- or on -- my bare beaten pot belly as they do so.

MODIFIED

... from another's story:

When I came back, there was this guy talking to her. Of course Kim got approached a lot, and I almost expected it if I left her alone. But this was no ordinary rival. This was a tall black guy, and I could see his muscled torso bulging through his T-shirt. He obviously spent a lot of time at the gym. Now I’m no weed, but I’m not a tough guy either, and don’t have much experience with real fights. I was used to guys chasing Kim, and knew how to play it cool and friendly.

So I came over and just said “hi,” expecting that once he realized we were together, he’d back off. He didn’t. Instead he glanced dismissively in my direction, sneered, and carried on talking to my lady. What’s more, as he did so, he put his hand on her arm. I was clearly no match for this guy if it came to blows. But I had to do something. I said, as neutrally as I could: “hey, that’s my wife, you know?” and took her other arm, protectively.

But he didn’t back off. He let go of Kim, and stood to face me, his legs set square apart. “Yeah? Well she is one beautiful lady. So what the hell is she doing with you?”

To be honest I was terrified of getting into a fight with this guy in a strange bar, and I just wanted us to leave. I thought Kim would want that too. “I don’t want any trouble, let’s just leave honey,” I said, and started to walk away with her hand in mine.

But Kim didn’t follow as I’d expected. She held back. In that second I stopped, turned around and looked her straight in the face. In her eyes I saw hesitation, confusion, and a twinge of excitement. It was almost as if she wanted to see me get into a fight.

The big guy seized his moment. He walked straight up to me and pushed me hard in the chest with both of his large hands. I let go of my wife’s arm as I flew to the floor, and heard a sharp intake of breath from her. This guy was strong, and, with my wife watching, I knew I was going to have to stand up for myself. I picked myself up and ran straight at him, swinging a fist towards his broad jaw. But he stepped to one side, almost lazily, and slammed a heavy fist into my stomach. THUD! "OOUFF!!" A small sound escaped from Kim again. I fell to the ground, on my hands and knees, winded and wanting to retch.

My wife stood close by, her feet in my line of vision – pretty slender toes, nails painted pale pink, protruded from her sexy strappy shoes. But she didn’t bend down to help me or try to stop the fight. She didn't say anything. She just stood there, startled, and I noticed that her breathing was heavy.

By this time the patrons of the bar had cleared a space. I thought that bouncers or someone else might help me at this point, but no – people we standing round watching. It must be that type of bar. I crawled away and managed to get to my feet. The guy stood there next to my gorgeous wife, smiling and thumbing towards her.

“I beat your wimp belly right in front of your wife. If you want her, come back and get more. So she can watch me punch her husband’s soft belly all over this room.”

Kim’s eyes were wide, and she had a half-smile. The guy raised his fists, and mocked me with his grin. From the way he was holding himself, he’d spent time in a boxing ring. But I had no choice. I put my fists up too, and he closed in. ....

FRAGMENTS

Bellywimp Fool

The 'happily-married' housewife came home with her husband on her arm and they walked right into a house burglary in progress in their living room! Then she got to stand there helplessly while the lone thief, who looked like a kid of 14, made a bellywimp fool of her husband by pounding his belly with punches. Seems the local thug had just "happened to drop by" to raid her jewel box. And, when discovered, bellywhomp her man.


... It seems the wife and the punch-thug have been seen together lately in intimate conversation ....

Femme Fatale

My woman is the belly-bait, to lure me with her navel, to goad me, the soft-bellied wimp boy, into a fight I know I must lose, and which I do lose, by a belly-beating.


She knows the words "what's wrong, can't you take it in the belly?" will compel him to stagger back out there and take more punches to his stomach, in a hopeless need to prove to her that he can.

TRAPPED

I was trapped. "Sure," I said, almost breathlessly. The girls abruptly broke up their tight circle and dispersed to the eight-points of an invisible "ring" in the sand with Tim and I as its center. They clapped and cheered like pom-pom girls.


And it all suddenly took on the atmosphere of ritual. The boister of a second before hardened into cold order. The girls, too young to have unlearned their instincts, realize they are witnessing the ancient act, old and essential as life, of one male of the pack displaying the inferiority of another. Saner heads do not prevail. In a crowd of 8 or 10 adults, one would have stepped forward and put a stop to two males about to fight with their fists. But not one teen-age girl would. Not one in 200. Because they understand the animalistic power of this scene, which has been acted out for their sake for millions of years. They watched, detached but closely attentive, like the herd of does watching two bucks lock horns.

"What rules?" I asked feebly.

For an answer Tim quick-steps toward me, unbends his elbow, and sinks a solid fist plump into my stomach. "There's no rules in a belly-beating," he laughs.


I hear my mouth utter a guttural "OOUFF!" I feel the shock and pain of being violated, then something swells rapidly inside me like a balloon, an ache that crowds out everything.


He whomps me with another belly-slammer. No breath is left to lose, so the voice that comes out of me makes an empty sound like "ullll." The next thing I know my eyes are trying to focus on my fingers, which are splayed on the dark sand. I'm down on my knees, head hanging, mouth limp and wet, sucking air. My belly is a heavy, cold knot. Tim stands over me and begins to taunt me.

No one did anything. The girls watching may despise the bully who punched me, and she may be warmly sympathetic to my suffering, but make no mistake, she will never be able to see me again without envisioning the sight of me twitching and helpless and vulnerable, clutching my punched belly. And it will make her distant toward me.


It's worse than a punch in the face: then at least you can will yourself not to cry. A fist to the gut rips out your ability to curb your reaction. At least it did to me. I did the slow, rhythmic, violent dance of the belly-whomped. A stasis between the in-sucking force, which folded me in on myself, and the out-thrusting spasms of a diaphragm trying to breathe -- the brain screams a command to the stunned diaphragm: "expand!" and the whole body resonates with it.


I felt the futile kicking of my feet (as though the basic fear-instinct of "Run!" had somehow been the only part of my brain unaffected by the pain of the punch). It turned me into a fool: puffy, suffering, jerky, softbodied anybody's bully-meat. No one who ever saw me that way could forget it.

GIRL TALK

by Belly Boy



So is D--- really going to challenge "Ironfist?"

Uh-huh. I so want to watch that go down.

Pot-bellied D---?

Uh-huh, and it's all because of me. All because of my pretty belly-button. He said he'd do anything -- swore he'd do anything --- if I let him kiss my belly-button.

So this was what you told him to do! You witch!

Oh I totally set this up, just so we could have some fun. I picked "Ironfist" especially, and I even wrote him a secret admirer note, anonymous, cooing about how I'd luuuuuuv to see him show off with some belly-slammers.

GODDESS

by Belly Boy

BEFORE

You want to see my belly-button, don't you? Perv. Freak. You want to stare at my belly-button? Fuck off. I'm in a different class than you. You're a wimp.

Tell you what, bellywimp. You want to see my belly-button? Then go fight my brother. Then I'll stand up and put my hands on my hips and punch my belly out so you can worship my belly-button. But only after you take 20 punches from my boyfriend. I already told him how hot it would make me to see him hit you right in the belly. Go challenge him.

AFTER

What's the matter? Can't stand up straight? I loved watching you get beat up. And I enjoyed it even more because I knew the only reason you were out there, soft-bellied wimp, was because I told you to do it. Ordered you to go out and pick a fight with a man twice as tough and skilled as you will ever be. Told you it was the only way to get a look at my belly-button. Yeah I knew you were going to get punched out. I told him all about your weak belly, your soft belly. And I told him to punch you in the belly for me. Knowing it was for me turned me on. And yeah I told you you could worship my bellybutton if you fought him, but I'm having second thoughts about that now, so fuck off.