My boxer knows

[MuscleWomanBR]

My boxer knows

I like waking up alone in bed. In fact, I love it! More than love, it turns me on so much... My dick gets hard, and I feel an intense urge to jerk off. But the best part is not masturbating. Because she knows. She knows everything. Damn, she knows! So I lie there in bed, hard, waiting for her to come back all sweaty.

Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Never fails. Rain or cold. She gets out of bed quietly so as not to wake me, and I pretend I'm still asleep. Six in the morning sharp. Never fails. What discipline! That also turns me on so much... Just feeling her getting out of bed so carefully makes my dick hard.

Then I wait two hours. That's right: she runs for two hours! Two hours running in a park near our house. Ten kilometers! She runs ten kilometers in two hours with those strong, long legs, wearing those side-slit shorts to make it easier to move. I have a fetish for those shorts, and she knows. Sometimes I go to the drawer where she keeps them and take one out to smell, caress, press against my face. And I imagine her beautiful, perky, muscular ass, as strong as those legs, filling those shorts... Under the shorts, her panties. Always white. Always the same style. Speedo. Like those swimmer briefs, you know? Pure cotton. It has to be 100% cotton. I'm obsessed with that style! She knows, of course. I also smell, squeeze, bite, and rub them on my face, imagining where those panties have been. What a privilege! I'm even jealous of them, going where only I should be allowed to go and rub...

But I get my revenge on the shorts and panties because she comes back all sweaty, standing at the doorway, hands on her hips, still breathing heavily, that beautiful straight dark hair tied in a ponytail, her breasts hidden under a sports bra that also kills me with envy and jealousy... Then she says something like, "Wake up, sleepyhead." Or "Good morning, my love." Or "Time to get up, love." Or simply "Love." But when she says, "Your boxer is back," I know the sex will be wild. We always have sex when she comes back from her run. In fact, we have sex almost every day. With its ups and downs. I won't lie. It's always good, but it's not always amazing. But when she says, "Your boxer is back," I know her desire is through the roof.

And then... Well, then she pounces on me like a beast. In fact, she is a beast. She becomes a beast! Once she came back so ferocious that she didn't even have the patience to take off her clothes: she just ripped everything off, growling like a lioness, tearing off the sheets and ripping my boxers to shove my rock-hard dick into her mouth... And with such hunger! Wow! I had to make a huge effort not to cum because that was just the beginning. The beginning until the knockout.

Knockout. She's a boxer. No, not a professional. But she's a boxer. First and foremost, a boxer. When people ask me what my wife is or does, I feel like saying, almost drooling with desire: "Boxer. My wife is a boxer." It turns me on to say "Boxer." It turns me on to say: "My wife boxes. And she's not a professional. She boxes because she loves it. My wife is a boxer because she loves boxing." Do you think that's crazy? Then you don't understand me. When people say, "That woman is a fighter," everyone thinks that person is hardworking, that she faces all kinds of difficulties to survive or just live. Mine, no. Mine is a boxer. Because she loves it. And because she loves me. Of course, I don't tell anyone that. That she loves me, yes. But not that I get turned on by her boxing, by me being the husband of a... boxer!

She knows. She knows everything. That's why she doesn't just box.

It's funny how we met. I lie about it. In fact, we both lie. Because if we told the truth, no one would believe it. She saved me, you see? It starts there. How does a woman save a man? Immediately, everyone thinks she pulled the guy out of drugs, crime, poverty, or illness. It was none of that. I'm a white, middle-class guy with a decent salary. I've never been through any real hardship. She saved me from a robbery. A serious robbery. The guy was armed, ready to kill me. He was going to kill me, yes. It was close. So I'm not exaggerating when I say she saved my life.

I already knew her. By sight. We didn't talk. But we flirted discreetly. We went to the same gym. She, more than me, of course. I always thought she was beautiful. An athlete's body, you know? It was more than just a nice, lean, "fit" body. But it wasn't like those steroid-pumped women with biceps half a meter long... No, it wasn't that either. It was like a middle ground. There aren't just buff and toned women. There's a whole range of gradations between the extremes, right? She was more like an MMA fighter, like Cris Cyborg. But prettier, you know? And taller. Almost six feet. More elegant. Muscular but not exaggerated. A strong, solid, sculpted body. What a woman! She looked like a bundle of muscles. Pure lean mass... And that energy! She did her exercises with such discipline and grit that... Man! I'd get hard just seeing her walk into the gym, wearing those really short shorts and a tank top. She was afraid to show off that amazing body... Well, many times I ran to the gym bathroom to jerk off because that woman drove me crazy! I was capable of grabbing that hottie right there if I didn't jerk off...

But it never went beyond that. A few exchanged glances, some discreet smiles. And that's it. I'd stare at that body I could never touch. I had to settle for that. Or else I'd fantasize about possibilities to console myself. Maybe she had a boyfriend. Or was even married. What man wouldn't want to date that woman? Or what woman wouldn't give an arm to fuck her? Is she a lesbian? When I thought that, I even went soft. It was a way to justify my frustration for something I hadn't even tried. Out of pure cowardice.

Until it happened.

The gym was downtown. That's right, the city is São Paulo. The biggest city in South America. Full of problems. One of them is safety. I confess I'm not paranoid about it, even though I know we're always at risk. But I don't like to live in a constant state of panic. Of course, I take some precautions. But I never overdid it. That's why I left my car parked on a little street behind the gym. Some people told me not to do that, to pay for parking next to the gym—which charges an arm and a leg for an hour. I refused to spend a fortune on parking because the state can't guarantee my safety or the safety of my property, etc., etc., etc.

Well, here the story gets very predictable. It's the typical dumb Hollywood or Netflix action movie plot. I don't know how people fall for this nonsense... But here we go! The dark, deserted street, you walking with your gym bag slung over your shoulder, distracted and tired after an hour of working out that left a nice feeling in your body. Then you're opening your car door when, out of nowhere, an armed robber—really!—demands you hand over everything, including your car keys. You're still processing the completely unexpected and violent approach, you feel the gun's muzzle digging into your ribs, you see the guy isn't joking, when suddenly... she appears! Yes, she appeared out of nowhere too, and surprised the guy from behind, first with a chokehold and then with a flurry of punches that didn't even give him time to react. It all happened so fast... Suddenly she was on top of the robber, pounding his face. He was going to be unrecognizable. Worse, she was going to kill him! I had to step in to stop her. "Enough! Enough!" I shouted. "You're going to kill him!" Of course, the guy was screaming too. And so was she: "Son of a bitch! Son of a bitch!" Soon people showed up and helped me pull her off the guy, who by then was already unconscious. Yes, it took three or four men to get her off the robber. She wasn't a woman... She was a beast! Then the police showed up, and there's a whole story about a court case where she was acquitted, etc., etc., etc. Self-defense. I paid for the defense. Well, not me. A good lawyer friend did it for free. But she doesn't need to know that...

Of course, we started dating! Well, it wasn't that obvious. It was slower than I wanted, with a lot of hesitation on her part. I didn't understand why. It seemed like she had some resistance or fear. I thought she thought I was repulsed by how violent she had been with the robber, by what she had done, with so much violence. Yes, I was scared, but... Well, I'll explain that later. Until one day I decided to be honest: "Why are you avoiding me?" The question didn't surprise her. "Because every man always ends up walking away from anything serious with me." I was indignant. "I'm not 'every man.'" She looked deep into my eyes, with those killer brown eyes that only made me more turned on. "And I'm not just any woman." I already knew that. She paused dramatically, making me think the worst: a serious transmissible disease, involvement with some criminal organization, being part of a billion-dollar corruption scheme, international human organ trafficking... "I'm a boxer." The revelation seemed a bit unusual, but it relieved me. "It's not what you're thinking." I was thinking she was a professional fighter—which was rare, but not absurd. There was even a successful movie about it that won an Oscar and everything. "I'm a boxer because I love fighting. Boxing organizes my life. It's not work, family, or religion. It's boxing."

I was trying to understand exactly what this woman meant. The words were easy to understand, but what was behind them? "I like having the body I have. And I only train with men because you guys think only you have the right to the power and strength I seek, understand?" No, I didn't understand. Was this some new crazy kind of feminism? "You think I'm crazy, don't you?" Of course, I didn't have the courage to say anything. She adjusted herself in the chair and assumed a professorial position to explain this, let's say, "philosophy" of hers, which I'll summarize in the next paragraph.

Boxing is a philosophy of life for her. A philosophy of the body. The fighting, strong body. I'll try to simplify it. She would only feel free and complete if she knew how to fight and be strong, understand? Literally. That is, she would only feel like a free, emancipated woman, in control of her own life, if she knew how to fight and built a strong body. Strong, really. With muscles and strength to do what is normally expected only of men, that is, with the strength of her own hands, arms, and legs, lift, twist, pull, push, run—usually, for women, always convinced that muscles and physical strength are "men's things." "So, you like lifting weights and throwing punches," I summarized. She laughed. Bingo!

Here's the explanation I owe you. I like muscular, athletic, strong women. If you're reading this, it's because you like it too, right? So you understand me. You understand why my dick got hard just seeing that goddess walk into the gym. The other men didn't care. At least they didn't have the same desire for her as I did. They were more interested in the big-assed, thick-thighed, big-breasted women with exaggeratedly feminine curves. Not that she was flat as a board. No. But her breasts weren't big. And they weren't small either. They were just right, you know? Guys are obsessed with huge breasts. That's not my thing. With her ass and thighs, the same thing. What really mattered to me was the muscle. Wow! She was so defined, ripped, toned... I don't even know what to call that kind of body that seems to have no body fat and is all muscle! It looked like she worked out every muscle that could exist in the human body. I think you could study anatomy on those deltoids, biceps, triceps, abs... Abs! Man, that was a genuine six-pack, harder than pure steel! I was obsessed with those abs! In that gym, there was nothing like that, not even among the men. And the weights she lifted, pulled, and pushed, groaning and sweating, almost made me cum in my shorts. Sometimes I had to stop my workout and distance myself from her to avoid embarrassment: my dick turned into a log, fighting to get out of my boxers. She didn't overdo the groans: the weights were huge! At least for me, they were unthinkable: 95 kilos on the deadlift, which she repeated about five times. But what impressed me the most and turned me on was seeing the marks for the bicep exercises: 25 kilos! While the guys were looking at ass and tits, I was looking at the biceps—my big fetish. Then I'd see that well-defined muscle contract, measuring about 30 centimeters in circumference. I know that's small for a lot of people who are into hypertrophy. Not for me. It seems like the number that really gets fetishists excited is 40 centimeters. Hers were proportional, like her breasts. And above all, strong. Very strong. And they were part of an entirely muscular, proportional body, without excess. It looked like she had been sculpted.

Now here's an erotic detail you might not share with me: when she told me she was a boxer, and that it organized her life, I almost had a stroke. Because my fetish isn't just about admiring or adoring the muscle of an athletic woman. Between you and me, I don't find it amusing to just feel biceps, triceps, quads, traps, abs... I think it's kind of ridiculous to stand there with that dumbfounded look, squeezing legs and arms like... Well, never mind. To each their own fetish. What matters is that mine included fighting. No, I don't like fighting or being beaten or smothered by a woman's muscular ass or thighs. I like fighters. Women who practice martial arts, you know? I even came up with a name for this aspect of my fetish: "operative strength." I know it's a bit silly, but it's the best way I found to explain what turns me on about muscular women—or "athletic," as I prefer to call them, to avoid the FBB stereotype.

So, I like women whose strength manifests beyond muscles, you know? It's not just "demonstration" or "feats of strength," but something that goes beyond weightlifting and push-ups. To sum it up in a few words: I'm turned on by athletic women who practice fighting. Now you understand why I almost had a stroke when that goddess told me she was a boxer? She didn't just say she "trains boxing." She is a boxer. That is, she made boxing a philosophy of life. Can you understand what that means for someone with my fetish? I was so happy I couldn't contain myself! So happy that I was completely paralyzed, looking at her with frozen eyes and a silly smile on my face. Her expression was one of confusion. Then she started to get irritated. "What's so funny?" she finally asked.

Here it's all predictable too, and I'll spare you the details: I told her everything you already know, and we got married.

And here I am, in bed, hard, waiting for my boxer to come back from her 10-kilometer morning run, maintaining that body that drives me completely crazy. And she does too. She also goes crazy with my craziness. The meeting was so perfect that I'm absolutely sure there's no marriage like ours anywhere on planet Earth. What man would have the courage to marry a woman who says boxing is her philosophy of life? Well, I not only had the courage, and a lot of it, but I also encouraged her. I think that's what made her fall in love with me. I'm far, very far from being the most handsome man in the world, but I think I have my own beauty and even a special charm. She definitely thinks the same. But that's not what attracted her. What made her completely crazy about me was knowing that I want her exactly as she is: athletic, strong, and... a boxer!

When we started dating for real, she soon took me to the gym where she trained boxing. It was a completely different place from where she worked out. It was in a distant neighborhood, on the outskirts of the city. I found it strange when we took the road to one of the poorest neighborhoods in São Paulo. "But where are you taking me?" I asked after half an hour of driving. "Calm down, babe, we're almost there." I loved being called "babe" by her. Then we stopped in front of a warehouse on a busy street. The place looked a bit run-down. It seemed like a very old gym, but neglected. The old iron gate creaked as we entered. Inside, the typical sounds of a boxing gym: punches, jumps, shouts, groans. She walked in naturally, with her gym bag slung over her shoulder, greeting everyone. She hugged and kissed a few.

She was the only woman. The only one. There must have been a dozen men, most of them shirtless. But none dared to cast a lustful or lecherous glance at that beautiful woman wearing black leggings and a sports top under a tight yellow tank top. I guess her arms were intimidating. Soon I found out that wasn't the case. Or rather, it was. But not because of their size or definition.

As she changed and warmed up for sparring, I chatted with the coach, who greeted us with a somewhat enigmatic expression. He seemed surprised or startled. This time, however, there was nothing predictable at first. Unlike the old, pot-bellied coach from foreign boxing movies, in front of me stood what could have been a competitor: a broad-shouldered guy with big biceps, in his early 30s, brown-skinned, masculine, with short curly hair and a thick beard... the kind of sexy guy who'd be a hit anywhere. He started wrapping his hands with the bandages boxers use under their gloves. He was wearing shorts, boxing shoes, and a very tight shirt. Now he seemed to look at me with a mocking malice, like, "I know what you're here for, man." I wondered if he shared the same fetish as me.

Soon he was warming up too, while I wandered around the gym. The walls were covered in old, dusty photos, maybe from the 1960s to the 1980s, of former fighters and students, and old posters advertising fights. Everything was very dirty. The walls were worn and marked, crying out for a fresh coat of paint. The equipment was no less old and worn out. There was no air conditioning. The heat was almost unbearable. I couldn't understand how she, an apparently typical middle-class white woman from São Paulo, had chosen this poor, decaying gym in a peripheral neighborhood, frequented only by men—almost all of them Black. I was impressed by what seemed to be a complete lack of prejudice.

Later, I found out the answer was stepping into the ring at that very moment: she and the coach were about to spar. It seemed like the match was highly anticipated or at least deeply respected, because everyone stopped to watch. I know you already guessed it: it was a massacre. Yes, she massacred her own coach. Up until then, I knew nothing about boxing. My biggest fetish was, and still is, Japanese martial arts. But when I saw my boxer demolishing her coach, I simply fell in love with the sport. That day, however, all I understood was that she punched the guy in every possible direction, with insane speed and a force that would have surely broken all his bones if they hadn't been well-protected by vests, shin guards, and helmets. From what I witnessed, I was certain she would have killed the mugger if they hadn't pulled her off him.

Of course, that night ended with a wild, sweaty, leather-scented romp. And while we were at it, all I could do was repeat, like a madman: "Boxer... Boxer... Boxer..." Man, that woman did whatever she wanted with me! I don't know where she found all that energy. I thought she'd left it all in the ring, on that poor coach. But no, she was like a power plant. As soon as we got to her place, she started taking off my clothes and hers, pushing me against the wall. I'd never had sex like that, standing up, with the woman taking the lead, controlling the movements, adjusting herself to fit me in... Then I realized she'd pushed me under a pull-up bar. The woman had a pull-up bar in her living room! Obviously, I went crazy over all of that... I never imagined a woman could do something like that, even in my wildest fantasies. With her hands on the bar and her body pressing mine against the wall, she aligned our hips and... went to town! My rock-hard cock went all in while I felt the muscles she'd tightened even more while beating up the coach. We never have enough words to describe an orgasm. Maybe because describing it is impossible. I'd rather not even try to describe that one, because it would diminish its magnitude, its intensity, its wonder, its delight... But in that moment, I understood what she was: a woman who didn't depend on men, or their permission, to feel pleasure. If my orgasm was indescribable, hers was twice that, if you know what I mean.

When we relaxed, still standing, hugging, sweating buckets, and enjoying the post-orgasmic haze, she whispered in my ear: "The coach was my boyfriend." I looked at her with a mix of shock, disbelief, and confusion. What was she trying to tell me? "Today I settled the score with him." I'll skip the description of my reactions and insecurities, the fragmented sentences, my machismo trying to assert itself, and get straight to what matters.

It's easy to assume they met because of boxing. It's not important to say how. But he told her he'd inherited the gym from his father, who'd gotten it from his grandfather, and so on. Since they were dating, she started training there. Of course, no one took my boxer seriously. And the coach didn't care at all about the "philosophy of boxing." He wanted a fit, white, "rich" girl to show off to the gym's students, have plenty of sex with the toned white girl, and then, once satisfied, give her the boot. In fact, within a few months, he was already seeing someone else. Obviously, he had no idea who he was dealing with. The sparring match I witnessed was the fulfillment of a promise: she said she'd make him kiss the canvas of his own ring in front of his students. The guy didn't believe she could do it, and when she showed up, he was sure he'd beat her. Poor guy, he really didn't know who he was dealing with.

How could I not fall for this woman? How could I not get hard, waiting for that body in bed, knowing what it's capable of? My boxer knows.

[MuscleWomanBR]

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[Dona Fell Friz]

Welcome back! 

[MuscleWomanBR]

It's always good to have your encouragement. Thank you! I've started a series of short stories. We'll see.

[MuscleWomanBR]

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