Babette the boxer
by Diana the Valkyrie


I wasn't always a boxer. I wasn't much good at school, although I did enjoy some of the sports, but
academically I was D minus. So when I left, I got a job as a server at Burger Queen. The difference
between that and the more familiar Burger King? Was the staff. We had to wear a kind of uniform,
and if you weren't reasonably young, reasonably pretty and very nubile, then you wouldn't be a
Burgerette. Oh, I almost forgot. My name is Babette,

OK, I wasn't much good at math, but the tills did the sums for you, and I more than filled out the
other requirements.

Of course, they paid peanuts. Minimum wage is $7.25, but somehow, after deductions for uniform,
deductions for lateness and deductions for scutage (I never did find out what that was), and then
withholding tax (I pay for your police service) I usually took home about $200 each week. And my
rent took nearly all of that, leaving nothing for food (but I could gobble up the leftovers) and very
little for hair products, makeup, underwear and bangles.

Surely I could do better? It was nice, flirting with the customers, but fluttering eyelashes don't pay
no bills, and I'd heard that waitresses were paid just as badly, but at least could hope for a tip.
So I handed in my Burger Queen crown, and set off for pastures new.

I wandered, lonely as a daffodil, until I found a place with a "Waitress wanted" sign in the window.

"That's me," I thought, and sashayed in to ask the owner for a job. "Experience?" he asked. "Burger
Queen" I told him, but from the way he was staring at my boobs, I knew I had this licked, and I was
right. He offered me $7.25 per hour  ...  minimum wage again, but at least he wasn't going to charge
me for scutage, whatever that is.

The other waitress was a nice redhead called Mavis, and she showed me the ropes. "The main thing
is, be nice to the customers, so they leave you a nice tip."

And that was all the training I got, because I already knew how to put on a nice smile, and waggle
my hips a bit, and shimmy my top, and to lean low over the table so the guy could get a good
facefull of tits. And, sure enough, although the wages were paltry, the tips were good, and I could
slip them into my bag without Uncle Sam getting his greedy hands on them to waste on the salaries
of tax collectors.

The guys seemed to like my costume, and I really liked some of the guys. And some of them were
rather dishy. Especially one, who became a regular, tipped well, and told me that he was a boxer.

A boxer?" I asked. "You mean, you get into a ring and people punch you in the face?" "Not if I can
help it," he laughed, "anyway, it's mostly boxercise." "What's that?" I asked. "It's mostly about
exercise, and it's mostly young women, like yourself. I hold up a padded board, and they punch
that. There's also punching bags, and skipping, and  ... " "I used to skip," I interrupted, "but I can't
really do that now, because, well, there  ... " and I looked down at where he was looking. "Not a
problem," he said. "You should wear a sports bra."

And that was how I found myself wearing boxing gloves and standing in a boxing ring, wondering
what to do next. I didn't know the rules, I didn't know the does and don'ts, I was pig-ignorant of
what came next, so when some guy ducked into the ring, I just walked over to him and hit him in
the head as hard as I could. I mean, isn't that what boxers are supposed to do? And he went down.
He sort of crumpled up, folded in half, and dropped to the canvas.
"You hit him too hard," said the referee.

"Oh. Sorry" I said, "I didn't mean to knock him down. I mean, I'm just a girl, and he's a big strong
man, so how come he went down so easily?" "You hit him too hard," repeated the referee.
So I apologised again, and climbed out of the ring. My first go at boxercise had ended in a disaster.
Maybe I need to concentrate on being a waitress.

I went back to the restaurant and told Mavis about my little adventure. And Mavis told me that she
was leaving this place anyway, the pay and tips were better working at a bar, and she'd found a job
a a barmaid. "What's the dosh?" I asked. So she explained. "Customers buy you a drink, and you
take the money for that, but what you actually drink is from a box of orange juice, so you get to
keep the money as a tip. It's a lot better than waitressing."
Sounds good. So I dolled myself up a bit, because a barmaid has to look really smashing, and
presented myself at the "Ferret and Firkin" as a potential barmaid.

A bit of rouge on the cheeks, a pair of nice bronze vambraces, reminiscent of Wonder Woman (of
whom I'm a huge fan), a skirt that left nothing to the imagination and a top that showed even more,
and I applied to the landlord of the Ferret and he hired me immediately.
Meanwhile, I'd been thinking about the boxercise and where I'd gone wrong. Obviously it's like
professional wrestling, it's all acting and no-one is supposed to get hurt. So I went back to the
boxing gym and asked if I could have another go.

"Pretty please," I said, "and I think I understand things better now, so I promise that I won't hit as
hard as I can". And I smiled my biggest bedroom smile, which I've found often gets me what I
want, and yes, they let me have another go.

And the smile did the trick  ...  who could resist my bedroom smile? Not anyone that I've met. So I
was back in the ring, and they guy was holding up his gloves in front of his face, but I'd learned my
lesson, and didn't aim for his head. I was still giving him the old bedroom smile, and that probably
distracted him a bit. So, I gave him a one-two; left hook to the ribs then right hook, followed by
number three which was a straight right to the gut. The blows to the ribs must have distracted him
even more, and he wasn't ready for the gut punch. He said "Whoosh", bent double, then slowly
sank to the canvas. Oops, I've done it again.


Read the rest of the story on https://www.amysconquest.com