Ring Girl, Part One
By Sonofjack, sonofjackwell@gmail.com
Two heavyweight boxers learn not to mess with the ring girl.


So this whole thing started when I agreed to be a ring girl for this big
boxing match that was coming up. A friend of mine that I knew when I used to
work occasionally as a model had been after me to be a ring girl for a long
time. I hadn't done any modeling for over a year when this I agreed to this
gig, but I still had all the right assets.

I don't want to sound like I'm bragging, but I've got a smokin' hot body, and
I know it. I mean, is a sparrow bragging when it says it can fly? My
measurements are 36-23-34 and my boobs are double-D. And it's not just that my
boobs are big, but they're very round and full and they bounce in a very
pleasing way. I also have a tight round ass and long, shapely legs.

My luxurious long blonde hair also tends to bounce when I walk with my
naturally cheerful stride. My perfect oval face, my luminous sky blue eyes, my
cute button nose and my lush lips... let's just say that I have found that
most men respond in a VERY positive way.

I'm considered a little on the short side to be a fashion model, but I was
successful nonetheless. Back in the day I was described as "five feet four
inches of feminine, physical perfection." I have an amazing, tight smokin' hot
body and an almost otherworldly beautiful face, and, like I said, I knew it.

But for the last year, I've been saving all that and sharing it with only one
man. That man was my boyfriend Wilbur. It's true that Wilbur is only 5'2" with
thin spindly arms, a sunken chest and a cute little pot belly. He also wears
thick glass and has thin, stringy hair. Most women don't find him very
attractive, but to me, he was the most beautiful man in the world.

The feel of his hot breath between my big, firm boobs, the caress of his
delicate, girly hands cupping my perfect ass, the taste of the one or two
drops of cum he manages to ejaculate when he orgasms... these things made my
toes curl and my heart flutter. Wilbur made me feel like a woman the way no
other man had ever made me feel.

I asked Wilbur if it was okay for me to take this ring girl gig, and he gave
me permission. Actually, his exact words were "I guess; I don't really care.
I've got bigger things to worry about." I should have known not to bother him
at such a crucial time. The new season of Doctor Who was set to begin, and he
had a big RPG tournament coming up.

This fight I was going to work was supposed to be some kind of big deal. The
guy who hired me told me that this match would "unify" the heavyweight
championship. He explained to me that there were two different champions from
two different sanctioning organizations who were going to fight to decide
which one of them was the real heavyweight champion.

"So when this fight is over there will only be one heavyweight champion?" I
asked.

"Well, no," he explained, "Because there are still two other sanctioning
bodies, and they each have their own heavyweight champs as well."

Sports are so stupid.

As per our agreement, I stipulated that I would be the only ring girl for this
fight because I didn't want to share the spotlight. I further stipulated that
I would be free to choose my own ring girl attire. My friend agreed to these
things because, as I said, he'd been working on me for some time.

I was given a thousand dollar wardrobe budget which I used to buy the five
sexiest, skimpiest bikinis I could find. If I was going to do this, I wanted
to draw as much attention to my awesome, smokin' hot boobs and ass as I could.
I wanted every one of the thousands in attendance and the millions watching
around the world (both men and women) to lust after the sexy body that only my
precious Wilby-Poo gets to enjoy. It was the least I could do for Wilbur to
show my appreciation.

The night of the big event, I put on the sexiest, skimpiest bikini first
because I understand that sometimes these fights don't last the full fifteen
rounds. The job itself wasn't difficult. All I had to do was walk around the
ring holding up a card with the number of the round on it and look gorgeous
doing it. The looking gorgeous part was easy.

So they introduced the fighters and stuff, and the fighters were standing in
their corners waiting for Round One to begin. It was time for me to strut my
stuff. So I walked around the ring making sure to put a little extra sass in
my shay. It seemed to go over really well because the crowd went really wild,
so I decided to make another lap.

As I walked past one of the two fighters a second time he made an
ungentlemanly remark. He said, "Why don't you quit shaking your ass so we can
get on with it?"

I stopped and said, "I beg your pardon."

"You heard me," he said with a sneer.

I gestured at the roaring crowd. "They seem to like it."

"What do you expect when you dress like that?" he asked.

"What's wrong with the way I'm dressed?"

"For one thing it's objectifying to women," he said. "Don't you know that you
can look sexy and still leave a little to the imagination?"

Again, I gestured to the crowd. "I'm sure that they're imagining quite a bit."

"Let's just get on with it. And by the way, you've been holding up the wrong
card." I looked at the card in my hand, and sure enough it had the number
twelve on it. "You had one job to do, and you couldn't even do that right, you
stupid bimbo!"

I'm not usually one to lose my temper, but something about the way he called
me a "stupid bimbo" and laughed at me made me mad. Plus, I was embarrassed
about the mistake I'd made. Whatever the combination was, I just felt a
fireball of anger inside and I reached out and slapped that rude boxer across
the face.

Normally, whenever I lash out in anger like this, I'm very careful. I'm a lot
stronger than I look, and I don't want to seriously injure anyone. I must have
gotten careless this time however because this boxer was so much bigger than I
was. He was at least eight inches taller, and he must have weighed more than
twice what I weighed. Also, he got punched in the face by some of the toughest
men alive for a living. I thought that he could take it.

I didn't use my fist. I only slapped him with the flat of my hand. However,
instead of using one tenth of my natural strength like I usually would, I must
have used closed to 25% of my power because my slap lifted him completely over
the ropes. He landed in the eighteenth row, and he was unconscious.

That's when all hell broke loose! His opponent who was even bigger by a few
inches and ten of fifteen ponds came running up to me and said, "What did you
do you crazy bitch?!"

Now, in retrospect, I could see how he might have been upset. I mean after
all, he was hoping to become the unified heavyweight champion or something. He
could hardly hope to become that now since I knocked out the man he was
supposed to fight before the official fight even began.

However, at the time all I could hear was the ungentlemanly name he'd called
me. "Don't you dare call me a B-word," I scolded him. Now in hindsight, I
probably should not have said what I said next. "Unless you'd like me to give
you some of what I gave that fellow in the eighteenth row!"

"Don't tempt me, bitch!" he threatened.

I gasped, "Oh! You said it again!"

"I have a good mind to knock YOU out!" he said.

"I'd like to see you try!" I said.

We went back and forth like that a few more times. I'm afraid that I kept
provoking him until finally he let me have it with a powerful right cross
across my face. That is to say, I understand that he had a reputation for
having a powerful right cross. Most of the experts who analyzed the fight
beforehand predicted that he would knock his opponent out using what they
called his "devastating right haymaker".

I hardly felt it. When he saw that, he let go with a combination of four or
five quick punches to my boobs and my midsection. He hit me so hard that if he
hadn't been wearing his boxing gloves, he might have done serious damage to
his hands. To me they felt like love taps.

"You would dare lay hands on a woman?" I asked outraged.

"Uh, I'm sorry?" he said.

I'm ashamed to say that I was in no mood to hear his apology. Instead, I
pulled back my hand, and this time using my fist I hit him with about 27.5% of
my power. My punch lifted him off the floor around seven feet into the air. He
landed on the other side of the ring with a broken jaw. He was knocked out, of
course.

After being interviewed on ESPN, CNN, MSNBC and FOX News (where for some
reason they tried to get me to endorse the Republican Party - Ew!) I went home
to my precious Wilbur.

I ran in to our home all excited. "Did you see me on TV tonight, sweetheart?"

"That was tonight?" he asked.

"You mean... you... didn't watch?" I asked. I was devastated. Several punches
from a heavyweight boxing champion didn't affect me at all, but this really
hurt.

"Sorry," he said dismissively. "I got into an online debate between two guys
who were arguing who drew the Silver Surfer better, Jack Kirby or Moebius."

"Whose side were you on?" I asked. Normally I would care about something like
this, but if Wilbur was interested in it, then so was I.

"Neither! Geez! I told you six months ago that as far as I was concerned the
ONLY artist who draws the Silver Surfer right is the late great John Buscema!"

"Oh. I'm sorry," I told my temperamental sweetie.

"I just wish you'd do a better job of remembering the things that are
important to me," he pouted. He went over and sulked in his favorite chair. I
went over and picked him up and sat back down with him in my lap.

"I'm sorry, Wilby-Poo. I'll try to do better. Would you let me make it up to
you?"

"I don't see how," he said.

"How about if I undress both of us, pick you up and give you a midair titty
fuck with my round, firm boobs and finish you off by letting you cum in my
mouth?" I suggest.

"Well... that might help," he agreed.

After finishing up and licking the tip of Wilbur's sweet baby gherkin, I
thanked him for forgiving me and I carried him to bed. I spent the rest of the
night holding him in my strong arms. As always before we went to bed I put my
phone on silent so that I don't disturb Wilbur's sleep. The next morning after
I scrubbed Wilbur's back and jerked him off in the shower, made him breakfast
and washed the dishes, I checked my phone.

There were forty-seven messages on my voicemail.

(To be continued)

__________________________________

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