Carrie gets mean by David H. M. Carrie Caraway, a young and beautiful fitness model, doesn't back down when a thug challenges her to a fight in a boxing ring. Author's note: Please respect copyright restraints. Her name is Carrie Caraway. She's young, only 21, 5'10 1/2", 145 pounds with blond hair and pale green eyes. She has wide shoulders and slim almost boyish hips. Carrie is a Los Angeles fitness model so you can imagine how beautiful she is. Her chest size is 35C. We had to know that to fit her for a breast protector before we could let her climb into a boxing ring. Carrie is a nice girl; she charms with her personality as much as with her great looks. I'm David Malloy. I help out Tony Conley who runs a gym on North Highland in Hollywood. The big sign over the front door reads: NO NONESENSE SCHOOL OF SELF-DEFENSE. BOXING AND GRAPPLING. LEARN HOW TO FIGHT. WOMEN WELCOME. Tony boxed middleweight and moved from Ireland to the U.S. 15 years ago after he married an American girl. I'm 30, an over-the-hill kickboxer, light-heavie, with a first degree, Shodan, black belt in judo. Carrie came in about six months ago with an ugly shiner, a present from her ex-boyfriend who happens to be a cop. "I don't want anyone to do this to me again," Carrie explained, pointing to her black eye. No one we ever had works out with more determination than Carrie. She's here at least three and often four or five times a week for two or three hours. She does three miles of roadwork every morning, lifts the weights, skips rope, hits the heavy bag and the speed bag, spars whenever we want her to. Tony believes that sparring is the only way to gauge a fighter's progress. Tony wants Carrie to spar again with this black girl who gave her a good test the last time they boxed. "No more girls," Carrie says. "I want a guy and if he's bigger than me that's okay." A man gave Carrie that black eye. A man is who she has to fight. I might as well tell you that I have the hots for Carrie big time and I don't want her getting hurt. I don't want that beautiful face of hers disfigured like my face is, nose bent from being broken twice, eyebrows lumpy with scar tissue from catching the damaging punches thrown by a man. When word got out that Carrie asked to fight a man the trouble started. There's a thug named Yorkin who works out in the gym, at most once a week. He's a bouncer somewhere, my age, 6'2" or 6'3", at least 250. Yorkin came on to Carrie, I can't fault him for that, and she turned him down flat which pissed him off and then a rumor started that Carrie is dating a girl, some sharp U.C.L.A. coed. Yorkin told me he he saw them together, Carrie and this girl, holding hands, strolling on Santa Monica Boulevard, and that infuriated him. It doesn't bother me if Carrrie goes both ways. I like her too much and besides,it's her right,her choice who she dates. Who can blame her for giving up on men after what her last boyfriend did to her? A few weeks ago Carrie came into the gym directly from a modeling shoot. She looked fantastic in high heels and a lime green mini. I admit I couldn't stop gawking at her chest, at her rounded boobs boldly pushing on the material of her dress. Before Carrie got into the woman's lockereroom Yorkin swaggered over to her. "When you get up the balls to box a man make sure it's me," he bellowed. "I'd like nothing better than to kick your ass." Carrie seemed startled. She dropped back a step and lifted her shoulders. I could tell she was mad just by the way her nipples stuck out. In a soft controlled voice Carrie said, "Whenever Tony gives us ring time, you're on." Know one thing, Yorkin is a mean dude, a street fighter who fought in a tough guy contest. He has a shaved head, tattoos,and a big beer gut. He punches hard, especially with his right hand. As for Carrie,she has skills. She can bob and weave, slip and slide. She throws cute combinations, but she's a girl; that's her drawback. The question is, can she take on a man who outweighs her by 100 pounds, and can she withstand the punches from his heavy fists? Tony gave them a two week cooling off period. In that time, instead of changing her mind, Carrie quit running and gained ten pounds hoping to add power. I doubt ten more pounds will help her much. I fear for Carrie, fear that Yorkin, who hates her, for sure because he couldn't get her into bed, will severely injure her, smash her up so she'll never look good again. Tony and I try to talk Carrie out of it but it's no use; she tells us she isn't backing down. So there they are, Yorkin wearing cut-off bright red sweats and a red muscle shirt, Carrie in black shorts that cling to her slim hips and gorgeous ass, and a padded black halter. She has her pretty blond hair tied in a pony that flops over the black head gear she's using. Yorkin,his head gear is red, is anxious to destroy Carrie, that's the word he uses. "I'll destroy you, bitch," he sneers loudly from across the ring. Tony and I know that things will probably get nasty in that ring but both Carrie and Yorkin want it. We set the fight for five one minute rounds but I don't expect Carrie to make it past twenty or thirty seconds. It's crazy Carrie doing this, a beautiful girl like her, a model. No telling what she'll look like when Yorkin gets finished with her. I'm the referee. The stare down is scary, their noses almost touching, Yorkin glaring at Carrie, his hard unshaved face crimson, the veins in his thick neck popping, Carrie giving it right back to him. She looks taller that 5'10 1/2" and for an instant, seeing how straight and strong she looks,I think she might have a chance and then I know I'm only wishing. I make them tap their gold 12- ounce boxing gloves as a show of sportmansship but Yorkin smacks Carrie's gloves full force causing her to rock on her heels. ROUND ONE Yorkin charges across the ring like a madman trying to rattle Carrie right off. He's throwing wild sloppy windmill-like punches like those you see in barroom brawls or tough guy contests. Adroitly Carrie slips the punches aimed at her head but catches some solid blows on her slender but well-muscled arms. I know Carrie can take arm hits as long as there aren't too many of them. I devised a drill where I whack a fighter's arms with a padded baseball bat to let them experience the shock. One hard punch on Carrie's left bicep knocks her off balance. She ducks to let a looping right whiz over her head, then dances out of Yorkin's punching range and takes a deep breath. The smooth suntanned flesh on Carrie's arms is spotted red from Yorkin's powerful shots. Already a tone has been set. Yorkin wants to fight close, inside. He wants to maul Carrie who wants to punch and slip away. Yorkin is a sledgehammer, Carrie a scalpel. Yorkin rushes forward again, lunging, swinging wildly even before Carrie is close enough for him to connect. He leaves himself wide open fighting like that, obviously he has no fear of Carrie, and Carrie takes advantage by snapping his head back with a crisp left jab. That punch momentarily stops Yorkin and gives Carrie a chance to straight right him hard in his big belly. Yorkin makes and "oaf" sound and his gloves come down. Carrie has gotten his attention but she gets too excited and swings wildly giving Yorkin an opening. Yorkin punches Carrie in the chest, on her left breast. She winces and staggers backwards. Even with padding under her halter that punch on that sensitive area of her body had to hurt her. Carrie braces herself for the inevitable attack and tries to cover up, elbows tucked in, gloves shielding her face, as Yorkin charges, punching more recklessly than ever. Carrie amazingly spins away to the side, I said she can move, and lands a hard left hook to Yorkin's jaw. That hook Carrie landed is one of the best punches I've ever seen in all my years watching fights. If Carrie had more power she'd have knocked him down. Regardless, she stuns him, I know that because he leans or falls into her, his eyes rolling. I know right then that for all his size and savage appearance Yorkin can't take a punch. Yorkin's reaction to a blow to the jaw is common. Few people can withstand a hit. Ther's no excercise you can do to strengthen your chin. They haven't fought a minute and already Yorkin is gasping. Carrie is breathing heavily also. Her breasts heave as she tries to swallow air. No activity takes more out of a person faster than boxing. Yorkin is holding his gloves barely above his belt line. He uses his weight to force Carrie into the ropes. Carrie spends a lot of energy trying to push him off. Yorkin tries to rake Carrie's eyes with the laces of his gloves. She retaliates by kneeing him in the groin but the cup he has on saves him. Carrie covers her chin with her gloves so he can't get her with anuppercut so he starts working on her breasts with his sharp elbows. Both are drenched with sweat. Yorkin's shirt and shorts have darkened to almost maroon. Beads of moisture drip from Carrie's forehead; she is blinking her eyes furiously to clear her vision. Carrie tosses her head back and sweat streams from her blond pony. To get Yorkin off of her Carrie finally head butts him in the nose. He curls his lips and backs away. Now that she has some punching room Carrie lands a short straight stinging right to his mouth. Carrie's technique is excellent. She learned her lessons well. Yorkin lunges at her but she skillfully slips off the ropes and away leaving Yorkin alone and off balance. He has to grab the ropes to keep from falling through. They were like two animals in that corner and I have to say Carrie might have gotten the best of that dirty exchange. She's not all sweetness, there's plenty of mean mixed in. Beautiful Carrie getting mean, that is what is unfolding. Tony rings the bell ending the round. In Carrie's corner the black girl who Carrie was supposed to spar with throws cold water from a plastic bottle over Carrie's head. There's a little knot on Carrie's right eyebrow just beneath the leather head gear from the contact she made with Yorkin's face. Fortunately for Carrie it is only a knot and not a gash. No blood. Carrie is taking big gulps of air. Some of the bruises on her bare arms are turning purple. Yorkin hits hard. I imagine that Carrie's left breast is plenty sore also. "You're doing real good, girl," I hear the black girl say. She pulls the halter away from Carrie's chest and pours water into the soft cleavage. "How's that feel?" Carrie forces a weak smile but her eyes are flashing. I can feel the excitement that must be roaring like a blast furnace inside of her. Carrie is not afraid. She can't wait for the next round to start. Carrie takes a swig of water, rolls it around in her mouth, and spits the water into a bucket. Again I look for blood but gratefully don't see any and then I remember that Yorkin hasn't caught her with anything to the face or mouth yet. The black girl shoves Carrie's mouthpiece in as Carrie stands. Carrie rolls her shoulders to get loose. Her body seems as taut as steel. Little wonder, all the excercising she does. Across from her Yorkin raises his right fist malevolently. He probably expected this fight to be over by now, expected Carrie to be busted up and unconscious. In truth, we all did. ROUND TWO Yorkin uese his charging tactics again and one of his wild punches gets through Carrie's upraised gloves and glances off her head above her left ear. Even with head gear Carrie has to be seeing lights flashing. Her body reels, her legs buckle, and she seems about to go down. Just as I feared, anything Yorkin connects with, being that Carrie is a girl, could be destructive. A drill I use for Carrie is for each of us to stand on opposite ends of a short towel. Carrie isn't allowed to step back or step to the side. She must dodge my barage of head punches by ducking or moving her head side to side. Yorkin senses that Carrie is hurt and throws another punch that grazes Carrie's chin. Somehow Carrie moves her head in time or Yorkin would have cracked her jaw. Still, I am waiting for Carrie to fall. Only some inner force, the will of a warrior, is keeping her up. Carrie crouches and covers as Yorkin wings a right cross, the best punch he's thrown so far, that strikes only air. Carrie is directly in front of him, dazed to the point where her legs aren't quite functioning, and Yorkin can't hit her. I see an invisible towel between them on the canvas. Carrie slips away and circles him. Her legs are working, her eyes seem clear, she seems okay, she must be in incredible shape to rally so quickly. It is apparent to me that Carrie is a special female. Carrie slips to the side with Yorkin stumbling after her, his footwork is awful. Yorkin is off balance when Carries slides in and gets him with a right uppercut flush on his chin. Carrie follows with a nifty combination of punches, a left hook to his jaw and a straight right that smashes into his nose. Yorkin makes a gagging noise and spits out his mouthpiece. Carrie nails him with a straight right to his face. Suddenly and unexpectedly Carrie seems in charge. There must be a hundred people crowded around the ring watching and none of them, me included, can believe what is happening. A moment ago Carrie appeared to be on the verge of being knocked out. It seems inmpossible that this beautiful young female can be out fighting a goon like Yorkin. Yorkin looks wobbly. His eyes are dull. His arms are hanging uselessly at his sides. He tries to fall into Carrie to smother her so she can't punch. Carrie places her gloves on his chest and tries shoving him back. I see the muscles in her wide firm shoulders rippling. Yorkin is so exhausted he can hardly stand. Carrie manages to land a short uppercut that snaps his head up and back. My heart is pounding. I'm waiting,praying, for Yorkin to go down. If Carrie hits him again I know he's finished but instead she stops punching, drops her gloves, and looks pleading at me as if saying that she isn't sure she wants to hurt him. That pause gives Yorkin time to regroup. He is alert enough to swing at Carrie with a clubbing right hand and she barely gets her gloves up. Yorkin's punch thuds against Carrie's upraised gloves and the leather crashes into Carrie's face knocking her backwards. Yorkin's next punch zings under Carrie's spread elbows and strikes her flat stomach. Carrie makes a hissing sound and bends over, her knees rubbery. Carrie has a little cut on the bridge of her nose. I see a trickle of blood. Her eyes might even be cloudy. She is half here, half somewhere else. I ask myself, should I step in and save her by stopping the fight? Yorkin, no doubt thinking that Carrie is done, takes a moment to drink air before he finishes her, if he can build up to it. He seems exhausted. He is having trouble breathing. Large drops of sweat from his chin splatter the canvas below him. Carrie seems furious, at herself probably, for not taking him out when she had the opportunity. I am wrong about her eyes. They are clear. She surprises Yorkin by rushing forward and landing a hard right to his mouth just as Tony rings the bell ending the round. Even though the bell rang Carrie doesn't want to stop. I see a hot glow, that meanness I alluded to burning inside her and showing in her eyes, that is unnerving. She connects with a left hook to Yorkin's ribs and he grimaces and turns his back to her. Carrie is like a lumberjack cutting down a big tree. I pull her away realizing that Yorkin is no match for her unless he lands a huge right hand which he is capable of doing. In the corner the black girl admonishes Carrie. "You had the dude knocked out, why'd you stop?" Carrrie is too out of breath to respond. I see Carrie peering across the ring at Yorkin who slumps on his stool, his head down. His corner man fans him with a large white towel. Abandoning modesty, Carrie gestures with her gloves for the corner girl to lift her halter to give her breasts, which must be throbbing, air. What we all see next is a bare set of bruised and swollen tits and luscious jutting nipples. As tough as she is, Carrie is all female, that's for certain. That moment of freedom is what Carrie needed to alleviate the pain. The corner girl covers Carrie and dabs petroleum jelly on the little cut on her nose. ROUND THREE This time it is Carrie who charges heedlessly forward. Yorkin waits for her, lurking a few steps from his corner, out of gas, or so it seems, letting Carrie come to him, luring her in possibly, hoping to land that one decisive punch. Carrie starts jab jab jab. She is so quick that he is unable to block the punches. Regardless of where he puts his gloves Carrie's punches get through. He clinches by working his arms under Carrie's armpits. Carrie tries to shove him away but he is holding on with all his strength, leaning on her with his 250 pounds. Carrie can bench press her weight and leg press 350 and that ability is keeping her body from bending. Before I can break them Carrie uses a hip throw to get him off of her. Going down Yorkin grabs Carrie's left leg tripping her and she topples on top of him. They try to wrestle but it is difficult to grip with boxing gloves. They roll on the cavas and it seems that Carrie might be winning this part of the fight too, she is on top, an elbow digging into his throat, trying to apply a choke hold. "This is boxing," I holler, pulling Carrie off. It seems odd, me protecting a bouncer, a street fighter, from a 155 pound girl. Once they are both on their feet Carrie stays directly and dangerously in front of Yorkin as she had done earlier but this time she is lucid. She sets up, knees slightly flexed,left boxing shoe a bit in front of the right.In that flatfooted stance Carrie can throw more damaging punches but she is where Yorkin wants her, right in front of him and not moving. Yorkin pushes out a right hand that Carrie easily parries. I see disdain in her eyes, then she begins throwing, lefts and rights to his face and belly, to his face again. I can't count the punches, they come so fast, upstairs, downstairs. Carrie looks so smooth and so strong. Yorkin isn't in her class. He's stunned but he won't go down; he must be tough to take this kind of punishment, and his legs don't seem to be there so he can't run. The best he can manage is to slap feebly at her with his big right fist. Yorkin retreats into a corner and Carrie is on him. He jams his back against the metal ring post and is so weary that he can't hold his big arms up. Carrie is hitting him the way she would hit a defenseless 80-pound leather bag. Her punches go thump thump thump. Suddenly Carrie seems spent. She is less than three feet from Yorkkin now and she drops her hands, they must feel really heavy, like cement blocks. Try holding your hands up for as long as you can until your arm muscles scream and you'll know how Carrie felt then. I've seen this lots of times before, a fighter all at once losing stamina. Carrie's chest rises and falls as she drinks air. Her mouth is wide open; her breath is raspy through her teeth and mouth guard. Carrie uses here boxing gloves to hitch up her shorts, they are loose on her hips and soggy and heavy with sweat. Her skin gleams as if she'd been swimming in mineral oil. She is so cut. I am mesmerized gazing at her. I can't imagine any athlete being more suberb that she. How could any client not want her for a fitness modeling job. As Carrie brings her gloves up Yorkin lurches at her with a straight right. Carrie is too guick. She shuffles to the side and rips a vicious left hook to his gut. Yorkin stumbles forward into danger and Carrie hammers him on the back part of his head gear with an overhead right. That punch turns him enough that Carrie can drill him with a left hook square on his nose. Yorkin gropes for the top rope, misses, and sags to one knee. The impossible has happened; Carrie has knocked him down. I push Carrie away and she leaps jubiantly into the air. As I turn to count, Yorkin is already climbing the ropes. Carrie's gleeful expression turns to a grim girlish pout. Yorkin stands and shakes his head frantically to clear the blur. It's pathetic the way he looks, eyes puffy, blood leaking from his nose and mouth. Carrie is taking him apart. Tony rings the bell ending the round. Carrie sinks onto the stool in her corner seemingly enervated. The corner girl pours a bottle of water over Carrie's head to revive her. The water baths Carrie's hair, chest, lap, and legs and puddles at her feet making a dark spot on the canvas. Carrie's legs quiver slightly, a sign of dehydratrion, and then she begins shaking her right fist in anguish. "I hurt my hand," I hear Carrie say. "It's buzzing like hell." "You still look a lot better than he does," the corner girl retorts. "I can't believe you're doing this to that man." "I don't know if I have anything left," Carrie says as the corner girl shoves in Carriie's mouthpiece. That remark from Carrie about not having anything left worries me. Once fatigue takes hold there is no remedy. I read agony in Carrie's eyes. ROUND FOUR Carrie approaches Yorkin cautiously, stalking him almost, pinning him in his corner. She feints a left jab and he cringes. She feints with her right shoulder and he cringes again. Carrie is taunting him, showing him how much in control she is. He's terrified now, there's no doubt of that, terrified of being hit. Carrie's fists must stab like daggers. The accumulation off all the punches Carrie has landed has whittled him. Carrie rocks him with a stiff left jab and moves quickly half a step to the side in case he tries to counter. When he doesn't she leans in and nails him with another left jab, this one a lot more solid. I'm waiting for Carrie to follow with a straight right but she keeps her right glove tucked on her chin as a guard. Her right hand must be seriously injured, a broken bone perhaps. I want to stop the fight but if I did I'd be declaring Yorkin the winner. Poor beautiful Carie I think. How can she fight with one hand? I wonder if Yorkin realizes his advantage. Or does he fear she is setting him up by feigning injury, a time-worn ring trick. Can he be that afraid of her not to risk finding out. As Carrie moves in Yorkin suddenly lunges toward her and wraps his big arms around her, high on her shoulders. Yorkin drives Carrie back a step in an attempt to body slam her. His grip is lax. Carrie spins to the side, gets free, and ferociously round kicks him just above his left knee. Carrie misses with a left hook; it zooms over Yorkin's head because he almost goes down from that fierce kick. Carrie moves out of range to catch her breath. I yell again, "Boxing boys and girls. No Wrestling. No kicking." Carrie bends forward, puts her gloves on her knees, and struggles to breath. Yorkin, breathing raggedly, swaying side to side, stays back and leans wearily against the ropes. I read the desperation and doubt that has crept into his eyes. Nothing he has tried on Carrie has worked. He can't punch her; she is too elusive. He can't wrestle her; she is too slick. He has to be thinking that Carrie is physically superior to him. He has to be admitting to himself that he can't beat this tall stunningly beautiful young woman. Even as Carrie moves toward him he cringes. He's afraid of her and Carrie has to pick up on that. Her green eyes sparkle. I'm willing for Yorkin to surrender but he doesn't. Too much male ego. He can't let a girl beat him in a fight. Possibly he believes he still might land a punch to stop her, to destroy her. That is his only chance. I know by that brightness in Carrie's eyes that she is getting off beating a tough guy like Yorkin. Carrie bores in, fakes with a right to his head and as his gloves feebly lift to protect his face she batters his ribs with a left hook, her signature punch. Immediately his gloves fall to his sides. He seems out on his feet, unable to lift his arms, unable to defend himself. Despair and hopelessness have replaced desperation and doubt. If I stop the fight now and raise Carrie's hand her victory will be incomplete. I have to let this play itself out even at the risk of Carrie losing. Carrie flicks a short left jab that bangs into Yorkin's nose and Yorkin squeezes his eyes shut. Carrie has reduced this 250 pound thug to a sissy. She presses her body against his and uses her right glove to lift his chin so she can see his eyes. She is without fear of him. "Quit you brat or I'll hit you again." When he squirms Carrie digs a left hook into his side causing him to whimper. Only her body is holding him up. "Have you had enough?" Carrie demands. She seems intent on making his humiliation complete. "Yes," His voice is timid. "Yes, what?" "I've had enough. Please don't hit me anymore," he whines. Carrie's slim legs quake and tremble as if an electric current juiced her. I detect a rich ripe scent I can't immediately identify. Before I step in to officially stop the fight Carrie backs up enough to let Yorkin crumble. His arms wrap around her hips and hug here. Clinging to Carrie, who is slippery with sweat, he slides down her long legs. Carrie doesn't want him rubbing against her. She has to knee him in the face to force him to let go but not in time to keep him from dragging her shorts and plastic groin protector off her hips exposing her lovesly rounded ass, her delicious looking pussy, the neatly trimmed coppery hairs damp and shiny. Yorkin collapses helplessly at Carrie's feet and sprawls there, all of his bravado gone. Carrie stands over him, her beautiful face flushed and ummarked except for that tiny knot on her eyebrow and the little cut on the bridge of her nose. Those battle wounds only serve to make her more captivating. We watch in awe as she struggles to pull up her boxing shorts. I can't express how happy I feel. Now I realize that it isn't only sweat glistening on Carrie's pussy lips. When Yorkin whined surrender Carrie had an orgasm. Beating up men is a sexual turn-on for her. I have no doubt she can't wait to get into the ring with her next big and bad male opponent.