JiminQueens2's blog

Dad howled in agony as Mr. Anderson completed the Boston crab. I winced—both at my Dad’s pain, and at the thought of what I’d have to do if he gave up. “Keep fighting, Dad!!!” I cried. “Get out of there!”

Dad’s eyes were squeezed shut from pain; Mr. Anderson had him bent backwards almost in two! But then he opened them and his eyes locked with mine. I pleaded with him silently not to give up!

And he didn’t.

Dad began to kick his legs as hard as he could, back and forth, back and forth, and Mr. Anderson started to stagger. His grip on Dad’s legs became less solid, and finally, he lost Dad’s right leg altogether!

With his leg free, Dad kept kicking. His heel hit Mr. Anderson right in the small of the back, and Mr. Anderson let go of Dad’s other leg and sank to his hands and knees, holding his lower back and gasping in pain.

Dad got slowly to his feet…he wasn’t feeling too good, either. Anderson and I held our breath; we both knew, somehow, that the fight was going to be over one way or the other soon.

Dad turned around and saw Mr. Anderson pulling himself up onto his feet again. As soon as Mr. Anderson had turned to face him, Dad extended his left hand. Not to end the fight. Oh, no. Dad’s hand was up, and his fingers wiggling. “Mercy?” he challenged.

Mr. Anderson laughed, an ugly laugh that made me nervous, but didn’t seem to faze Dad at all. “You’re on,” he snarled.

Mr. Anderson took Dad’s left hand in his right, lacing his fingers alongside Dad’s. He slowly brought his own left hand up, his fingers spread, and Dad took it with his right.

And it was on!

Dad and Mr. Anderson came together, their meaty chests slapping against each other, their foreheads pressing against each other. Muscles were bulging in their arms and shoulders and back…and there was a lot more bulging in my singlet. My dick was screaming for release, and even if Dad lost and I had to…let’s not even talk about that…I was going to have to do something about it.

The sweat was pouring down their bodies, making their muscles stand out even more. I glanced over at Anderson; he was just as hard as I was, and a weird thought crossed my mind that it was too bad we hated each other so much.

“Come on, Dad!” I shouted—but he was far too absorbed in the fight to even acknowledge me...

“Get him, Dad!” I shouted. Dad flashed me a grin, but only a quick one; he had more important things on his mind. He dropped down to his knees and twisted his body, flipping Mr. Anderson over his side and down to the mat!

When I had Anderson in a similar position, he used pressure points on my knee to escape. Dad didn’t go for that kind of finesse. He extended his middle knuckles on his fists and drove them hard into Mr. Anderson’s legs, over and over again. At first, Mr. Anderson grunted with the impacts, but the grunts quickly turned to cries as Dad hammered at his legs.

Mr. Anderson finally let Dad go, but, still on his knees, grabbed Dad’s head and yanked him up to his knees. Before Dad could react, Mr. Anderson had thrown a hard right that smashed into Dad’s mouth and sent him back on his haunches!

By the time Dad managed to get his legs out from under him, Mr. Anderson had pounced on him. The two of them rolled back and forth across the mat like a couple of little kids, trying to wrestle the other one down and pounding his ribs with hard body shots!

Anderson and I were going crazy off the mat, cheering our respective dads on and jumping up and down with our enthusiasm. Inevitably, we’d bump into each other, and one of us would shove the other one away. The looks of pure venom we traded had us ready to hit the mat a second time!

We heard a huge grunt, and both of us immediately turned back to the mat. Someone—probably Mr. Anderson, because he was still on his back—had thrown the other man off of him, and they were now a couple of feet apart. Dad and Mr. Anderson slowly got back to their feet—but Dad was a hair faster.

He bull-rushed Mr. Anderson and drove him across the mat and into the wall, ramming his shoulder into Mr. Anderson’s gut when they hit. We could see spit flying from Mr. Anderson’s mouth from the impact. With Mr. Anderson pinned between him and the wall, Dad threw a couple of hooks into Mr. Anderson’s sides, and I could see Anderson wince with every single one.

But Dad was bending over, leaning into his shots. That’s a dangerous position. And Mr. Anderson took full advantage of it. He grabbed Dad’s head with both hands, and then drove his knee up, right into Dad’s face!

Dad fell backwards onto the mat, holding his face, clearly in trouble. I wanted to run onto the mat and defend him, but I knew that if I did, what Anderson and his father didn’t do to me, my dad would. This was his fight, and he would pretty much murder me if I jumped in just because he was in trouble.

Meanwhile, Mr. Anderson grabbed both of Dad’s legs and lifted them into the air. I winced as he kicked Dad right in the back of the thigh…and then he locked Dad’s legs under his arms…and began to step over Dad!!!

But I didn’t have time to worry about that. Mr. Anderson managed to get a leg between his body and Dad, and with a tremendous grunt flipped Dad over him! Dad landed flat on his back with a huge THUD!, but before I could do more than utter a horrified gasp, he’d rolled onto his stomach and gotten back into a fighting crouch, while Mr. Anderson did the same. The two men began to circle, their eyes wary, their hands up and ready.

“My father’s going to pound yours into the mat, Reynolds,” I heard Anderson say next to me.

I flushed. The last thing I needed was for Anderson to see the effect our fathers’ fight was having on me. I started to turn away, but he grabbed my arm and pulled me to face him. I involuntarily looked down…but before my eyes could get to the stain spreading on my singlet, they were caught and held by the stain on the front of Anderson’s singlet, and the fact that he was rock hard.

“Yeah,” he said, following my look, “me, too.”

Out of the corner of my eye I saw our fathers throw themselves at each other again, but my attention was on Anderson. “Well, you’re fucking dreaming,” I said, “because my father’s going to turn yours into cole slaw.”

“Wanna bet?” Anderson shot back.

“Absolutely!”

An evil glint came into Anderson’s eye. “Fine,” he said. “Whoever’s father loses has to take care of the other one.” And he let his gaze drift downward, where both of us still had raging wood.

I stared at him. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

He shrugged dismissively. “You’re eighteen. I’m eighteen. And I want to see you on your fucking knees.”

A shout of pain made us both look sharply at the mat. Dad had Mr. Anderson in a headlock and was cranking it for all he was worth.

“Fine,” I said. “Shake on it.”

I extended my hand. Anderson, with a now slightly nervous glance at the mat, took it and squeezed it a lot harder than was necessary. I squeezed back; no way was I going to give him an inch.

And then Anderson pulled me close to him so that his mouth was right next to my ear, and whispered, in a low growl, “And believe me, asshole—I’m going to make you choke once my father kicks your father’s fat ass.”

They came together with a terrific SLAP! of muscle on muscle, their arms locked around each others’ heads and shoulders. Some part of me noted, “Oh, that’s a collar and elbow tie-up,” but the rest of me was intent on the fight. I’d never seen my dad in action before, and I was surprised to feel that the wood I’d sprouted on the mat was still there—and centered on the fact that Dad was fighting another man.

Dad and Mr. Anderson were scuffling back and forth, first one driving the other one back a couple of feet, and then the other getting the ground back and gaining some of his own, but neither able to get the upper hand. Grunts and the occasional curse word filled the air. Finally, as if by mutual consent, they broke off the collar and elbow and stood there with their arms at their sides and their chests heaving, glaring at each other.

“That all you have?” Mr. Anderson growled.

“Come find out.”

He did. Dad and Mr. Anderson went at each other again, this time their fists up and ready to strike. Sharp jabs flicked back and forth between the two of them, some of them missing, but most of them hitting the mark. Within a few minutes, both of their faces were red from the impact. But then Dad threw one that was just a hair too hard—and Mr. Anderson caught his arm before he could pull it back.

Mr. Anderson yanked, hard, and Dad was pulled right into a solid shot to the gut that doubled him over. My heart leaped up into my throat as Mr. Anderson grabbed Dad’s head with both arms and threw a couple of Thai boxing-style knee smashes. I could see Dad’s legs getting a little wobbly—and when Mr. Anderson lifted Dad’s head and threw a right cross, Dad spun around before dropping to his hands and knees, breathing heavily.

Mr. Anderson strutted over to where Dad was down, his hands on his hips, a mocking smile on his face. Anger flared inside me; I wanted to get on the mat and pop him right in the mouth, but I knew that Dad would kill me if I interfered. Mr. Anderson bent over and asked, “How you feeling, there, Reynolds?”

Dad didn’t respond.

Not with words, anyway.

His hands shot out and grabbed Mr. Anderson by the ankles. With a tremendous yank, Dad pulled Mr. Anderson off of his feet and down to the mat, and before I could blink twice, he was on top of him, hammering Mr. Anderson’s face with his fists.

All of a sudden, I felt something wet on my trunks. I looked down, and was shocked to find a slowly spreading stain across the front. I couldn’t believe it. I was friggin’ leaking over my dad having a fight!

I risked a glance out of the corner of my eye. Dad was lying on top of Mr. Anderson, holding him in a tight nelson, while Mr. Anderson was trying to reach me and his son. One of his arms was stretched in our direction, but there was nothing he could do, because Dad had him down and wasn’t going to let him up anytime soon. Mr. Anderson was cursing hot enough to blister the paint off the walls, but as long as Dad had him in the nelson, that was all he was going to be able to do.

I smirked. If he felt that he needed to save his son’s ass, then it was only a matter of time before…

And it wasn’t that much time at all. Anderson’s free arm tapped on my forearm, signaling that I’d kicked his ass one last time – and this time, it had been in a real fight, not just a stupid wrestling match.

I rolled us back over so that he was on his stomach, and then let him go. I got to my feet, using his body to push myself up, and stood over him, hands on my hips, looking down at him, letting my sweat drop off to land on his prone body.

He’d rolled over and gotten up into a sitting position, rubbing his throat. He looked up at me, pure hatred in his eyes. I smirked, but didn’t say anything—what was there to say? Besides “loser”, “little bitch”, and a whole lot of other things to describe the pathetic sack of garbage at my feet.

Dad let Mr. Anderson go and sprang to his feet, rushing over to me and grabbing me in a rough bear hug as he lifted me off my feet. “I’ve never been more proud of you than I am right now!” he crowed.

Meanwhile, Mr. Anderson was helping his son up off the mat, supporting him when it was obvious that I’d beaten his ass so badly he couldn’t even stand on his own two feet without someone helping him and I could just barely hear him mutter, “I’m going to make his father pay for this…”

I strode—yeah, yeah, with a little strut, what the fuck do you care?—off the mat; Anderson finally managed to pull his shit together and dragged himself off the mat in my wake. My dad, barefoot but still wearing his jeans, peeled off his shirt and tossed it to one side. Mr. Anderson had already taken off his shirt and was standing on the other side of the mat, his eyes alight with barely-checked fury.

“Rules?” he growled.

“Are you kidding?” Dad snorted.

“Fine.”

And Dad and Mr. Anderson lunged for each other.