by Belly Boy
You walk past me in the hallway. My head turns as my eyes follow you. "Nice bikini," I say.
You stop, turn and walk back to me, slowly, looking me in the eye.
"Thank you," you purr. "I'm wearing it tonight. In the ring."
I guess my mouth must have opened, but I said nothing.
"Oh, didn't I tell you? I agreed to referee the fight. Your fight."
Now this was no simple boxing match. This was bare-fisted belly-whomping. It was basically basement pro wrestling, just brawling and clutching, but punches to the stomach were allowed -- in fact, encouraged. It basically came down to one guy trying to catch the other with a bellypunch and knock the breath out of him for a 10-count.
The referee, of course, could completely throw a fight one way or the other. And it was customary for one of the wives or girlfriends of the Belly Fight Club members to serve as referee.
It was her prerogative to set the attire of the fighters, as well as choose her own, and to set the prize for victory and the penalty for failure.
So this announcement, naturally, left me as speechless as I'd be after a good hard judo chop in the pit of my belly. oouff!
"Did they ask you?" I finally manage to say.
"No, I volunteered," you say brightly. "I wasn't going to pass up a chance to watch you get your belly whomped. I want the best view in the house to watch you get punched in the stomach."
I swallowed hard. My heart was pounding. "And you're wearing that?" I whispered.
"You can't keep your eyes off me, can you?" you laugh. "My poor belly-button slave. And so you stand there in lust, like a slack-jawed buffoon, while he socks you with a good, stiff uppercut punch smack in the belly."
You draw closer to me as you speak, and my back is to the wall. My stomach leans toward you and your hand strokes it as you look me in the eye and lay it on the line to me.
"And I get to watch you go completely to pieces. Your manhood is on the line. It's a real fight. You know how I like to lead them. I take your cock in my hand. I take his cock in my other hand. I look you both in the eye, in turn, and explain my rules. And I tell you I will have my pleasure with the winner while the loser must be bound to a chair, watching it all go down, and comiplain loudly about his belly-ache and confess himself nothing but a stomach-sissy."
You laugh again. I open my mouth to speak, but quickly you curl your hand into a slim fist and jam the knuckles of it straight into my bare belly.
I grunt -- uuuhh!! -- and bend forward, one hand gingerly touching my soft belly. And I breathlessly mouth the words "my belly" as you continue your lesson.
"Folded over and bellyaching. What a wimp. Like a little punk who ate too much ice cream."
Then you change the topic, but not by much.
"Why did you challenge him? You've seen his arm muscles. And you know his reputation as a fighter. He's going to go right for your pot belly. And you know you can't take a punch in the bread-basket. How many stomach-slammers do you think it will take till you're doubled over and aching, clutching your punched belly? Two? Or one?
"You remember that fight you got into with that guy I told you had grabbed my ass? You were so pitiful. You stood out there pot-bellied in the hot sun. You grabbed him by the collar, but he just rammed his fist into your stomach. Repeatedly. By the time you doubled up in agony, he had humiliated your belly.
"Or the one where you took on my cousin, who was so protective of me? You actually got a few hits in that time. But then in the second round he found your soft belly. Didn't he? I wonder who whispered to him to do that.
"How about the time you got your belly busted in that "tough man" competition at the country and western roadhouse? You should have beaten that guy easily. But you remember what happened? Same thing. He found your pot belly with his fist. And it was all over for you."
Later that night, when finally you say "TEN! He's OUT!" I'm down on my knees, hands on my stomach, bent over, with a belly full of ache, moaning out my humiliation. But my humiliation has just begun.
Within a few minutes I'm on my feet again, my back to a pillar, and my arms pulled back behind me and tied tightly together behind the pillar. I stand shirtless, stomach exposed, as your hands explore the beaten softness of my belly.
Then one hand goes lower and pulls me sharply erect, and my cock obeys your tug, and you feel the velvety weight of me in your grip. You tease the tip of my cock around the rim of your belly-button, and you smirk at me. "Is this what you wanted?"
Then you beckon to the fighter who just beat me and has earned the right to be your erotic servant for the evening. Before you take your pleasure of him, you will drain your pleasure from me. You look me in the eye, but addressing him you say, "punch him! Right in his belly!"
He obeys, and with a solid SMACK his fist belts me in the stomach right in front of you as you keep a tight grip on my cock.
The force of his fist drives a loud belly-grunt from my lips. My reflexes and the impact of the punch fold my body over, but the rope won't let me and I only jerk halfway over and stall there, leaning forward, belly arched, suffering, a target more ripe than ever.
"Give it to him again!" you say lustily. "Sock him in the stummik!"
He does. An uppercut into my helpless stomach. That oh-so-vulnerable pot belly.
You coo and caress him, switching handily from my cock to his, you purr and curl his fingers into a fist as I hang there and suffer my bellyache. You tell him you'll mark the spot that you wants him to aim for.
You walk to me and order me to stand upright and stick my belly out. I do as commanded. You lean down and plant a single kiss right in the middle of my stomach, near the top of the slope of my pot belly. You step back and smile, admiring her lipstick print.
"I bought this color with that in mind," you tell me. "You paid for it, by the way."