Can't Take It in the Belly

He gave me a classic four-punch bellyache. Sealed with a kick.

First a chop in the pit. No warning, just let fly a sidearm punch, and his hand's edge jutted into my bare belly. He chopped me high on my stomach. Totally winded me and froze me to the spot.

Bug-eyed and stunned, I watched in silent horror as his other fist served me up a belly-busting uppercut punch.

It was a real stomach-masher, a slug to drive the OOF! out of my gut and double me far over.

He pulled me upright again, rared back, and POW! - he let me have it. Right in the belly with his full-force fist. Drove me right back to the wall, and he caught me there as I arched myself away from the impact. Caught me good and hard with a bellyslammer. Pinned my belly-button to my spine and sent my breath on a long vacation. I was on my way to my knees before his fist left my gut.

My suffering and weakness drove me down to the ground, and I writhed there and grovelled on my belly.

I tried to rise and he caught me stretched out on my side, sucking for air, and gave me a contemptuous kick with his boot to my belly.

I scrolled in the sand helplessly, mouthing a winded, silent "O!"

OOF! Right in the Belly!

So I dashed up behind the barkeep and grabbed his elbow. I got it, but despite my advantage in height and weight, he shook me off easily. When I went for him again, he was ready. He backed into me as I lurched forward, and jammed his elbow right where he knew my belly would be.

I took the brunt of the blow in my upper stomach. Intense, overwhelming bellyache exploded in my core. And his punch kicked the wind out of me and left me too stunned to take another breath. My last word was UURFF!

The beefy little beast was warming to his task. His elbow-shot to my stomach had shocked me dumb and I stood like a martyr bound to a stake, wide open, helpless, and unfit for torture. Not the kind of man who hardens himself against pain and takes pride in his physical endurance. No, nothing but a softbelly.

He turned and rose from the crouch in which he delivered his elbow to my gut. The sound of my bellyaching told my tormentor he could take his time with his next move. This pot belly wasn't going anywhere.

My shirts always fit tight, and in my initial struggle with him it had bunched up around my chest. So I was as bare-bellied as Britney Spears when he started beating me up, and I stayed like that until the end. I must have looked like I was asking for it, like I was offering my belly-button for a bulls-eye. He looked at me, looked at my bare midriff, and punched me right in my belly.

I had just manage to suck a breath into my body in the aftermath of his stomach-buster elbow jab, but that breath came right back out of me as a lusty OOOUPHFF! when his fist hit my belly. It felt as big as a bowling ball in me and it seemed to explode me. I staggered back, arms flailing and hit my back against the wall. I instantly folded far forward, bent double, with both hands pressed up into the fold of my body, cradling the place my belly used to be before he socked it into the Twilight Zone.

"Stand up, you potbellied wimp!" he said as he grabbed me by my ponytail and jerked my body upright against the wall. My hands instinctively flew to my hair. I felt like my body was still deeply caved in the middle from his punch, but now I had my belly stuck out again.

He made something of the occasion. From close range he hit me with a one-two bellybuster combo: a straight jab followed by a wicked hook, both of them right on the belly.

OOOF! ... UUUH!

I crumpled like tinfoil and started rocking and foot-shuffling, doing the bellyache dance with both hands gripping my punched gut and moaning and sobbing as I stand and suffer.

He grabs my shirt, wheels me around and lets my own momentum throw me back against the wall.

I hit it with a smack and rebound into the hallway, my back arched in pain. And there's my bare belly again, like a hanging curve ball over home plate. He steps into the swing and plants a rocksolid fist in my exposed belly.

OOOOOOUPH!

I flop to my knees like a marionette with snapped strings. One slug in the belly took all the starch and strength out of me. Just one punch put me on my knees with a howling bellyache.

Hands glued to my belly-button I rock on my knees, moans and sobs my only words. But my body says it all. I can't take it in the belly. I'm nothing but a potbellied wimp. Humiliated, I raise my hands to him, speechlessly pleading for mercy. But he just laughs and drills his boot into my belly. Stomach-kicked, I tumble to the floor and writhe there, rolling and kicking and lost in my bellypunch suffering.

I'm in tears from getting my pathetic gut stomped by his fist. With all the breath kicked out of me, and a roaring bellyache crippling me, I can only crawl, not run, toward the door. But I need to get my body away from him, and those horrid fists. I've got myself on my feet, and I stagger into the barroom. Both hands grip my punched belly, and no power in me can budge them from tenderly cradling my stomach.

I had all the grace and dignity of a plucked chicken. He caught me by the hair at the end of the bar. "Leaving so soon, Potbelly? I don't think so. Get back here so I can give you the belly-beating you deserve!"

His fist felt like a sledgehammer as it hit me, with the driving weight of his full body leaned into it, right smack in the belly.

He forced sound out of me like a crude squeezebox. He stole my voice when he stuck his hand in my belly. And he made it say stupid, humiliating things I never would let myself say, like "OOF, UUH, OOMPH, OOOAAH, ... Oh, my belly! Right in my belly! No, please, not in the belly, please not in my bel–OOUFF!!"

I've got my back to the waitress in the hallway, watching, but she knows he just punched me in the stomach because she can see the look of victory on his face and she can see the flesh ripple on my loins and hips.

And, of course, she also can hear me blurt out my humiliating belly-grunt, my forced confession of inadequacy. The punch drives me back, and, off balance, I windmill my arms out and lean forward, which is right where he wants me. A real skilled fighter will do that to you. Not only does each punch torture your belly and ravish your pride, each one sets you up for the next shot, leaves you particularly exposed to it.

And now I was nothing but a human punching bag, a belly wide open for fists. He hooked them up into the curve of my upper stomach, and each one lifted my feet off the floor with the power of their thrust. The waitress told me later he gave me seven bellyslammers in that position – she remembered each distinctly – I would have guessed it was 70. Then he pulled me upright, with my back stretched back against the bar. Aware of the girl watching him, he paused, slowed, and swaggered.

"Are you ready for this, bellywimp?" He said, menacing my belly-button with his free fist. I had no breath to answer him. He didn't care. He was showing off for her, tormenting me to impress her with his dominance

BELLY PUNCH HUMILIATION FORUM

It would be lovely if there could be a sustainable Belly Punching Forum as a virtual watering hole. It could work only if pictures and videos were forbidden. Copyright issues bring down every open one, and those that remain are limited to individual producers. Which leaves us without the Belly Punching forum. As for the special subset of "men who get off on suffering a punch in the belly in front of a woman" (and the women who love them), we are probably too few to have enough semi-public members at any one time to sustain a forum. So a belly-punching blog will have to do.

BIKERS vs. BELLY

He had a belly that begged to be slugged, and he had a bad habit of showing it off. It's like he was asking for it. And he had a mouth that didn't know when to quit. And now 10 biker-gang toughs had him in the clear California sunlight outside their clubhouse, ready to deal him a bad belly-ache.

He's in black boots, tight jeans, and he's shirtless, with only a short black-leather vest open in front.

They're around him in a ragged ring, roughing him up. He staggers stupidly from a shove; one of them grabs his shoulder, spins him around. As he stands astonished the thug hauls off with his fist and whomps him in the belly.

"OOF!" Lips rounded out in a belly-button O announce his ache. Eyes go wide with the panic of feeling all the breath socked out of him and knuckles deep in his stomach. With first touch of a fist on his belly he's broken. Can't fake it. Can't hide it. Total humiliation. He's sobbing, staggering, gasping, cradling his poor punched belly. A punch in his gut stole his voice and everything else.

A different biker rips him upright, throws him back to the clubhouse wall, and holds him there by the neck. "You're the pussy who likes to belly-ache about us, eh? I'll give you something to BELLY-ache about!" and with that the thug slams a fist into his stomach.

He had no air left to lose. His whole body looked like it wanted to explode out of him -- bug-eyed, tongue pushed out, fingers flared. And the middle of him crumpled in, T-boned by a fist.

The bully swung him around to face the rest of them and held him there for all to enjoy the sight of him looking down, gasping, at his own exposed belly, the fist-mark pink on his stomach. His mouth is tragic, and he has that comical look in his eyes like he was being eaten from inside.

Then the bruiser shoves him and he drops to his knees in full windedness, with a fist-mark branded on his belly.

But their hands grip him and pull him. They're just beginning to have their fun. His face is wide-eyed, mouth twisted in the supreme effort to draw a breath into his stunned body.

The one who started it rudely hammers another punch to his belly. With a sour "UUH!" belly-boy instantly folds over, cradling his stomach, gasping at the ground and mooing out a low, loud bellyache.

They pluck him upright again. He stands stiff and winded, with agony in his face. They shove him around the circle, twice. He, unresisting, staggering. His mind is one punch behind reality. Flapping arms like a flightless bird, he blunders belly-first into every fist ready to greets him.

The moment he got punched in the stomach his whole body would go limp. The way he took it you'd think he got hit in the belly with a wrecking ball. And his face would burst into the most comical OOF-expression. His eyes would go crossed and bug out. His cheeks puffed, like he was stuck saying the letter O. You could really see the wind get knocked out of him.

Then he'd jack-knife forward and double up around the bellyache, with his hands pressed up under his belly and his mouth gasping at the floor. Or he'd stagger and stand breathless, feet shuffling in the bellypunch dance, while the shock of pain possesses him.

Either way he would be a man who had totally lost himself. Every punch in the stomach doubles him over or drops him to his knees gasping and cradling a bellyache.

"Hold him up," the beater demands.

Two of them grab him from behind by the arms and hair and vest and rudely pull him upright, arms away from his body, bread-basket arched out.

"Punching bag!" the beater declares, as he shoves a jab into his victim's stomach. The bare belly blurts out an "OOF!" His clenching reflex lifts his knee and bends his upper body forward, straining in their grip on his arms. His hands, pinned to his sides, claw at the air. He can't protect his midriff, and now the beater swings a full-armed uppercut into the pit of his belly. The upward force of it high in the belly rockets his body upright, wide-eyed in agony, and poses him as a perfect punching-bag target for the next fist. It's a knuckle-jab to the stomach that pins his belly-button to his spine.

They made him dance a belly-dance there. How? First they stood him up on a chair back against the back porch rail, tied his arms back to it, then kicked the chair away. The stress of being held up by his arms got to him at once and he began kicking the air and found his voice again. But they quickly silenced him with a round of punches to the belly. Watching the reaction on his face looked like he swallowed a fistful of cherry bombs and now they were blowing up in his belly one by one. Held up and helpless, he just dangled there OOF-ing while they pounded out a fist-beat on his stomach. They called that a "belly-dance."