An adult stories – The Boxer: Cathy by Paul_Chance,Paul_Chance Six weeks is not a lot of time to train, but when you’re training for a purpose, it is enough to make a difference, enough to pick up a skill or two, enough to perfect a move or a punch. I relayed what Kerry had told me to the coaches. I didn’t tell them where I had heard it or how I heard it, just what I was told. They sat down and looked at the Castlewood roster and talked it over with me. They wouldn’t agree to a fight with Frankie Jones. Frankie had fought in the Golden Gloves before turning semi-pro and he was a fast and vicious fighter with a record of 5-0. But, according to Coach Smith, it would be easy to force the bout. Castlewood only had two other fighters in my weight class. Schedule me with one of them and then, at the last minute, withdraw him due to injury or illness and substitute Frankie. I could then either withdraw or go up against a fighter who was significantly better than me.
I’ll be honest. I wasn’t interested in withdrawing. I’d had my first taste of fighting and my first and second taste of groupies and I was solidly hooked. So, after each night’s training session, we sat down with the tape and started working on a plan. Frankie was beautiful in the taped matches we watched. He had amazing form, great technical skills, and he was as fast and violent as a cheetah attack. He threw wicked combinations. He’d clearly dominated every fight to date, and he’d won two of them by knock-out. To say he was formidable was an understatement. Compared to him I looked like the ballet dancing hippos in that animated movie, the one with classical music. So, after much discussion, we just jumped straight to the point. The coaches penciled me in to fight Frankie in Castlewood.
Coach Smith took the lead when it came to training. Besides the physical training, he focused on two things; defensive tactics and how to break a combination. He figured my best shot was two-fold. First, don’t get my ass knocked out. Second, break the combinations. For a fighter, combinations mean speed and power. Because you learn and practice throwing specific sets of punches in combination you don’t have to think about what you’re doing, just fire off that combination as fast as you can. But, if you think of each combination as a locked door, if the other fighter can find the key, essentially a set of counterpunches and defensive moves, and then match those up, a combination can be rendered way less effective, even with the speed involved.
It was my crash-course in the strategy involved in the sweet science. We sat there, watched the tape, looked for the keys, and then practiced them relentlessly in the ring. I sparred with guys two weight classes above me, to get used to being hit and being hit hard. I sparred with guys in a weight class below me to get used to the speed. Weight classes are all about matching up fighters to make the bout as even as possible, to give the audience a good show. The general rule is smaller fighters hit faster and bigger fighters hit harder. I can attest to the truth of that general rule.
Within any rule there are exceptions, the little guys who punch above their weight, the big guys blessed with lightning speed. My friend John was one of the latter. He was big and he was fast. He settled in to being my primary sparring partner for the next month or so. He was a good sparring partner. He’d won his first match on a TKO, like I had, though his had happened in the second round. John had both talent and skill. Fortunately, he also had that strange quirk that makes some people natural teachers. He’d rock my world with a combination, then he’d slow it down, sometimes way down, so I could see what he was doing, get my brain wrapped around it, learn how to recognize it, then speed it back up while I learned how to survive the onslaught and maybe jam it up with the right movements or the right counterpunch. If I made a mistake, he’d hit me so hard I saw stars. I learned to keep my chin tucked in, so he didn’t just straight knock me out in the sparring ring.
Coach Smith gloved up and stepped into the ring with me as well. He’d been a successful fighter in his youth and even now was far better than I was. He had an encyclopedic knowledge of strategy and tactics. My nights were long hours of getting the crap knocked out of me by my friend and my coach. Often the coaches would be teaching the rest of the club using me as the crash test dummy. They tried to take the things they were showing me and show them to the rest of the club. I think in those six weeks leading up to the Castlewood fights we all grew leaps and bounds as boxers. It was hard training, and we took it seriously.
Outside of the ring, about once a week, Cindy or Kerry would catch me after training and give me their version of training, which hurt a hell of a lot less but was incredibly invigorating. Cindy was also hopping back and forth between me and John as the recipients of her lust. We didn’t compare notes or even acknowledge that we were fucking the same woman, but I suspect that sometimes it slipped into the ring. I noticed that, after Cindy spent the night with me, generally the next day John would knock me around a bit more in the ring. At that point though, I wasn’t going to stop fucking her and I needed the experience fighting someone who could out punch me, so it was all good.
Cindy and Kerry were different lovers. When I was with Cindy it was hard, primal, pounding sex. She didn’t have a soft mode. She wanted to be roughly taken, tossed around, and manhandled. She loved being bent over and taken from behind or mounted in doggy style. Though she was a good kisser, kissing and softness were aperitifs for her. Oral sex was always just prelude. It was all about the hard fuck. Other than light conversation she didn’t want to discuss anything. She just wanted to show up, get fucked hard, and go home. She didn’t care about where we fucked either — a closet, an empty room, the backseat of a car, bent over the hood on a country road, in the dirt by the lake, they were all fine with her.
Kerry on the other hand was more refined in her debaucheries. It was always at her small house in Crooksville, and it was always an overnight stay. I learned what a “scene” meant from her. She had scenarios, some elaborate, some simple, in mind whenever I was invited over. She’d lay out the scene, the position, or positions, and walk me through it, coaching me, giving me tips, teaching me. Some of them we’d play over across multiple sessions, just like sparring in the ring.
Where Cindy was just pure, primal, sex, Kerry was an education in sex. She was the science part of that other sweet science. Often, when we were done and laid there spooned together, on her bed, on the floor, on the couch, she’d tell me why we had done certain things. The emotions and sensations that accompanied the act. What it felt like to be lifted and then powered over a piece of furniture, both physical and psychological. How to put my hand around her throat, how to choke her by cutting off the blood flow or the air flow, how each of them felt, how to watch carefully and time them. The differences in the variations in oral sex. When she wanted me to take the lead and be forceful, when she wanted me to lean back and let her do all the work. Like John, she was a natural teacher, and I was grateful for every lesson.
Prior to her and Cindy, I’d only slept with two other women, both after a long period of courtship, and both vanilla, another term I learned from her. No fault of theirs, I had to admit I was also vanilla at the time. Now, I was on my way to all 31 flavors, courtesy of two powerfully sexual women. Just like I was learning in boxing, I was learning there was way more to sex then I had ever imagined.
I learned one very powerful lesson from Kerry, one night, after we’d fucked, a particularly rough session, and were curled up on the couch watching a late-night cable movie and eating chocolate eclairs. For some reason, the conversation had turned to Cindy. I think Kerry had been answering a question I’d asked about the “why” of something Cindy had done, and she turned the conversation.
“You know she’s fucking John, right?”
I nodded. “I know.”
“How do you feel about that?”
“To be honest,” I told her, “I don’t really think about it. It’s between them.”
“Good,” she said, “but, be aware he doesn’t feel the same way. I know he’s your friend, but he’s falling for Cindy. He’s cool with it for now, mainly because Cindy put him in his place. But he’s not the kind of guy who’s naturally cool with it, and she’s getting inside his brain. At some point, you’re going to have work it out with him.”
I hadn’t really thought about it. I’d just assumed he was cool with it all, the whole “to the victor go the spoils” thing. It gave me pause. Nestled on my shoulder she looked at me and smiled that half smile of hers.
“Ah, there goes the Cowboy brain, that’s good to see. In the ring or in bed, never stop paying attention and thinking about the things you see. Everything in life is a fight of some sort.”
I nodded.
“I’ve also got some good news for you, while you’re contemplating that.”
“Okay.”
“Frankie is not taking the bout with you as seriously as you are. The Castlewood Club has watched the tapes and they think it’s in the bag already. They’re confident he’s that much better than you based on what they’ve seen, so his training regimen is straight up and straight forward, strength and conditioning, perfecting the skills he already has.”
My brain whirred on that for a moment.
“How do you know this?” I asked.
Kerry just laughed.
“How do you think I know it?”
My brain fired then.
“You’re fucking him?”
She nodded, her smile blossoming to its full brilliance.
“Bonus points for the Cowboy.” She said, sliding her hand onto my cock. “How do you feel about that?”
I thought about it for a few moments, thought of the wonderful and wet things we’d just done, imagined her doing them with the guy who was scheduled to kick my ass in a few weeks. My cock twitched under her hand.
“Oh,” she said, “Now that is the proper response, Cowboy. When it comes to groupies, don’t ever forget what we are. We’re fucking whoever we want, whenever we want. Either you’re cool with that, either it turns you on, or you need to be a different line of work, because this world, our world, will break you if it gets a chance.”
She unzipped my blue jeans and pulled my cock out, starting to stroke it slowly as it hardened.
“Pop quiz. What am I about to do to you.”
I thought about it for a few moments. Then, I leaned back on the couch.
“You’re going to make it up to me by worshipping my cock.”
She smiled again and let go of my cock long enough to pull her hair back.
“For what it’s worth Cowboy, you cock is way better than his.”
Then, she leaned forward and wrapped her lips around the swollen head. I closed my eyes and let her take it into her mouth and slowly slide down the shaft. I did nothing for the next thirty minutes, just sat there and enjoyed it as she sucked and licked my cock, edging me for the whole time, until at last I exploded in her mouth and watched her swallow every drop of cum.
For a few weeks at least I was in one of those tiny corners of paradise we’re fortunate to stumble into in this life. However, like in the ring, sooner or later you must come out of the corner. That’s the whole point of it.
The Castlewood event was a big one, running parallel to their county fair, five full days of bouts involving half a dozen clubs. There were three solid days of undercard fights, then two days of title fights in every weight class. I fought Frankie on Tuesday evening at 8:00 PM, a good time for an undercard bout. Both clubs showed up in strength to watch the bout. Frankie drew his strong core of fans and my club showed up to see how I would do.
I’d love to tell you it was a stunning victory for the underdog, but it wasn’t. It’s one thing to watch a fighter on tape. It’s another thing to climb into the ring with him. Frankie was fast, lightning fast. He threw wicked combinations at impossible speeds. He came out of the corner in the first round and nearly ended the fight right there. The first two minutes of the fight he just simply knocked me around and I did everything I could not to get knocked out. At about the two-minute mark I pulled a standing eight count from the referee, who was rightfully concerned. It gave me what I needed to make it through the first round, a brief respite from the blizzard of punches.
When the second round opened, I’d tightened up my defense and started punching my way out of his combinations. Not effectively, but at least I was throwing and landing a few punches. He pretty much had control of the tempo of the round all the way through, but I picked up a few points and tried a few different things, some of which worked. He was fighting high, meaning he kept his hands up at about eye level. I was able to crowd in and land a few body blows, catch him with a couple of hooks to the abdomen, pop him with a few jabs. He just kept pouring it on. The bell was a welcome relief.
Between the second and third rounds my head cleared. I’d been in a fog since that first flurry of punches at the start of the first round. I could see two places where he was opening himself up that we hadn’t seen in the tapes. With him fighting with his hands high, I could trade a few solid body blows for every combination he threw. Then, with him coming out so fast and strong, I could sense his speed was waning a little. So, I went to work.
He’d come in high and hard. I’d tucked my chin, shoulder in, and worked his body. I was basically letting him batter my head around in exchange for a few solid shots to his body. With about forty-five seconds left in the third round I got a moment that brought the crowd to its feet. We’d spent the first part of the round in a steady exchange, him high and fast scoring two or three points with each combination, me scoring one or two points with those hooks to the body. Then, as he moved in to exchange punches again, he dropped his hands, pulling his elbows down in anticipation of my hooks to the body. That’s what I was waiting for. I fired out high and fast; jab, cross, jab and snapped his head back, surprising him. Then he made his first and only real mistake in the fight. I could see it in his eyes, he got angry. I slipped back, weaved through a fast but sloppy combination set and popped him twice with a left hook to the side of the head, a punch I hadn’t thrown through the whole fight because I’d never seen an opportunity. He stopped. Just a split second, and I pumped a right cross from my toes straight into his chin. It surprised him and rocked him back and he tucked his chin and pulled his hands up to cover his head. A purely defensive move to give him time to recover.
Which he did of course. When he came out, he was calm again and spent the last thirty seconds of the round knocking me around while all I could do was cover up and not get knocked out. The blessed bell took us back to our corners and brought the bout to a close. The referees put their heads together, compared notes, and then called us back to the center of the ring. There was only one surprise there. The round was decided on points. The first and second round went to Frankie by a clear half a dozen points in each out. Trust me, it felt way more lopsided than that. The third round went to me by one point, which brought a weird sound from the crowd, half groaning, and half cheering. The bout went to Frankie on points, as it should have in my opinion.
The aftermath of the fight was mostly a blur. The crowd loved it, so the noise was a constant roaring. I’d taken a pounding, so I was a bit punch drunk, which added to that sense of floating that overtakes you after a good fight. I’d done a good job of protecting my head, but at the expense of my arms and shoulders. In the locker room the physical trainers went straight to the ice, so I spent a good thirty minutes sitting there, wrapped up like some sort of Siberian mummy, equal parts ace bandage and cold.
By the time I came out of the locker room the evenings matches were over. My friend John was waiting for me. His fight was scheduled for the next day, so he had just watched the bouts. He shook his head when he saw me.
“Damn boy, you would have thought you were some kind of demented pinata the way he was punching you.”
I laughed.
“I felt like a freaking pinata. I kept expecting to burst open and discover I was made of candy.”
We kept joking in that vein as we headed out to his car. The club had a cluster of rooms at the local hotel, but John had heard of a post-fight party at some local’s house, and we’d been invited to stop by for a beer, so we headed over there. As much as I would have liked to go back to the hotel and climb into a soft bed, I knew that would be a mistake. I could already feel that I was going to hurt tomorrow, once I stiffened up, so I wanted to keep moving around as best I could, for as long as I could.
Now, here is how guys resolve issues.
We were in the car trying to find the house party and the conversation went like this.
“Hey, John, got a question for you.”
“Sure.”
“This whole Cindy thing, it is going to cause a problem?”
“I thought about kicking your ass, but I figured what the fuck. Coach says keep your head on straight, so I’m going to let it go. It is what it is. Not a problem for me. As long as it’s not a problem for you.”
“I’m good. If you change your mind, let me know and we’ll sort it out again. Preferably at some point in the future when I can lift my arms over my shoulders. Otherwise, I’ll have to pummel you with little dinosaur arms.”
I raised my arms at the elbows, about as far as I could without pain and flopped them from side to side.
John laughed and that was that. Guy conflict resolution 101. Shrug it off. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. It worked this time, and it didn’t.
We found the house party at a split-level ranch style house in one of the nicer parts of Castlewood. There were about twenty cars parked in front and down both sides of the street, so we found a spot, pulled in and got out, walking up the street. You could hear the bass thumping away and the sounds of conversation and laughter. It was a sizeable crowd, maybe a hundred people, spread through the house and out into the back yard.
Inside was a bustling crowd, full of conversation and laughter. To my surprise there were two big, burly, bouncers at the door, checking ID’s. Though John and I were outsiders, we were quickly accepted and embraced, midwestern hospitality at its finest. Somewhere in the crowd I lost John, but found my way into the downstairs den, where I was leaning against the wall, sipping a beer, and talking about boxing with a couple of locals. I kept rotating my shoulders and shaking my arms out because I could feel the stiffness coming on.
She caught my eye when she came down the stairs. She was short, barely five foot tall, and I’d describe her body as “small and round”. She was well-proportioned, with all the curves in all the right places, and you could tell by the way she moved, light and fast, that she knew it. She had short hair, honey blonde and curly, a sensuous smile, and big green steal-your-heart eyes. She was wearing a snug fitting pair of terry cloth shorts in bright blue and a white State University wife-beater, through which you could see the bright red outline of her bra. I must have been staring because suddenly she stopped, put her hand on her hip, and stared back at me.
I shrugged and made the universal “busted” gesture, putting my little dinosaur arms out in front of me and turning my palms up as I gave what I hoped was a sheepish look. She mirrored my gesture and then worked her way across the floor to where I was standing, weaving gracefully through the crowd.
She stopped in front of me and made a show of sizing me up, toes to the tip of my head. I returned the look over, then smiled and extended my hand. Because of the volume of the music, I had to lean in close to be heard. She smelled of fresh apples, wholesome and delicious. I was pretty sure I smelled of soap, sweat, and beer.
“My friends call me Cowboy.” I told her, as she slipped her small hand into mine.
“Cathy. Do you always stare Cowboy?”
“I think anytime you walked into the room, the answer would be yes.”
She laughed.
“Good answer. You’re the boy who fought Frankie tonight?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Oh, I like that. It was a good fight.”
She stepped in close to me and placed her hand, palm flat, onto my abdomen. She slowly rotated it in a circle, feeling the muscle beneath my shirt. She made a small murmuring should, like the sound a person would make when petting their favorite animal.
“That was quite a beating. How are you feeling?”
“All considered, pretty good, but I am going to be worthless tomorrow once I stiffen up.”
“No light flares? Ringing in the ears? Headache?”
I shook my head, “No, I took most of the punishment on my arms and shoulders.”
She eased up on her tiptoes, her lithe body straining and gestured to beckon me down. I bent down and she put her lips next to my ear.
“Do you have a fuck in you? I figured since Castlewood gave you a beating last night, at least Castlewood could show its appreciation by giving you a nice piece of ass, since you’re not getting any medals for that performance.”
I leaned back and looked into her eyes. She blinked innocently and smiled. I still wasn’t used to women just flat out asking me to fuck them.
“I reckon that’d be a fair trade.”
“Good.” She said, then reached down and stuck her fingers under my belt and turned and walked away, pulling me after her by the belt buckle, to the cheers and laughter of the crowd. I played it up a little by glancing around the room, shrugging my shoulders, and obediently following her.
She led me from the basement den into a small hallway, which was lined with two doors on each side. She tried the first door on the left, opened it, peeked inside, then closed it. We moved down the hall to the second door on the left, her still pulling me by the belt. She opened the door, peeked inside, and then pushed it wider and pulled me in after her. I stepped through the door and closed it behind me.
She turned and hopped up into my arms, wrapping her legs around my hips and her arms around my neck, pulling my head down to kiss her. She was strong, stronger than I expected. Her grip was like being caught in a small vice as she dug her heels into my hips and pressed herself tight against me. My hands naturally fell to her tight ass, each cheek filling a hand, feeling the muscles beneath them pulse as she slowly ground against me. I leaned back against the door and kissed her deeply. Her kisses were lush and deep and wet. Her tongue darted in and out of my mouth.
I carried her across the room like that, finding my way toward the double bed set against the far wall. When I felt my knees bump into the edge I just gently tipped over and came down on top of her. Half lying, half sitting we quickly undressed. She released the vice grip of her thighs, found the buckle of my belt, and quicky stripped it off and laid the belt aside. I grabbed the hem of her State College shirt and pulled it off over her head. She did the same with my t-shirt and we moved back into the embrace, kissing while she reached behind, unclasped her red bra, and tossed it aside. Then, chest to chest we laid back down on the bed and kissed again, long, and deep, but with a rising hunger.
I hooked my fingers into her shorts and pulled them down over her hips. Her panties were the same red as her bra. I tossed the shorts aside. She pushed my jeans down over my hips, my underwear going with them. As I wiggled out of them, she sat up, hooked her thumbs under the waistband of her panties and skimmed them down across her well-formed legs, then tossed them over to join her bra on the floor. As I pulled my legs out of my jeans, she leaned across and grabbed my belt, which she’d left on the edge of the bed.
“Tie my hands.” She said, “Above my head, like this.” She raised her arms above her head, and I quickly wrapped her wrists in the soft brown leather, then pulled it snug. I wrapped the long remainder around my fist and then, as we laid back down, used it to stretch her arms out over her head. As her arms stretched her out, her breasts rose, and I leaned down and took one of her nipples in my mouth, tonguing it to hardness. She had beautiful breasts, small but full, and gorgeous honey brown nipples. I moved back and forth, kissing and tonguing each one wetly, all the while holding her pinned to the bed by her outstretched and tied arms. She squirmed and wriggled about beneath me, vocalizing a soft, whimpering moan. Her voice was high, which put all the emphasis on the whimpering sound.
My cock hardened rapidly, stretching out to its full length, sliding against the warm silkiness of her thighs. She spread her legs and I maneuvered between them. Because of the difference in our height, it was easy to hold her pinned by her tied wrists while I reached down with my other hand and slipped two fingers into her. She let out a hissing moan as I penetrated her. She was already dripping wet and squirming as I slowly rotated my fingers within her and then plunged them in and out. Her moans were soft and small as I could feel her cunt wrapping around my fingers.
I pulled them out and placed the head of my cock between her lips. Because of that size difference my cock looked bigger than it had ever been, the head a swollen plum pushing her lips open. I rose over her, still holding her arms stretched over her head. Her legs wrapped up around me, positioning herself below. I looked down into those beautiful green eyes and eased forward into her.
I felt her stretching open as my head made its way inside. Her moan turned to a whimper, and she wiggled her hips, stretching open around the head. I eased forward an inch or so, drawing another whimpering moan from her. Then, I hovered over her for a moment, moving my cock in small strokes, as I felt her opening wider. I kept up the small strokes, each time easing a bit more of my cock into her. She gasped and whimpered again each time I pushed a little deeper into her. When I had about four inches of cock in her, I paused to kind of roll my hips and stretch her a little wider. She was moaning constantly, her eyes closing. She was small and tight and moving cock inside of her was difficult at first, until she adjusted and stretched open.
I gave the belt a small, sharp jerk, and her eyes snapped open. I let my weight go and let my mass push my cock all the way into her in one long stroke. She had her first orgasm them, letting out a high-pitched little cry as her eyes rolled up so I could only see the smallest sliver of her iris. I could feel her body shuddering beneath me, her legs, wrapped around me, quivering. I held her there for a few minutes, letting the orgasm run through her body, until the shuttering settled down. I almost came because it was the first time I’d ever had a woman orgasm just from the initial penetration, which was sexy as all hell.
Then I pulled my cock all the way back until just the head was nestled between her pussy lips. Her eyes popped open, wild, and questioning, almost fearful that I was going to pull out. I smiled and dropped back down on her, once again letting my mass plunge my cock the full length into her. She gave out that high pitched cry again and her eyes started to roll up. I pulled the belt as tight as I could, straining her shoulders, while with my other hand I reached down, found her hip, and pinned her small frame under me. I pulled my cock all the way back and then plunged back into her, slow on the back stroke, hard on the downstroke. She only lasted ten, maybe twelve more strokes like that and she was whimpering and crying out, louder and louder. I held her down tightly as she shuddered her way through her second orgasm, my cock buried inside of her again. Once again I fought off the urge to cum then and there.
This time, I pulled my cock all the way out of her with a slurping pop. Her eyes fluttered open to stare at me, filled with that wildness and questioning fear. I grabbed her by the hip and flipped her over onto her stomach, keeping her arms stretched out above her. With that free hand I lifted her up onto her knees. From behind, I moved my cock back to the now dripping mouth of her cunt, still gaping open and then plunged back into her from behind. I got a firm grasp on her hip again and started to fuck her in that position, this time without subtlety, just hard, driving thrusts. Her lithe body was curled beneath me, her her chest pressed down onto her thighs, her ass sticking out and up. I closed my eyes and concentrated on fucking her with a hard, pounding, rhythm. I could hear the wet sound of my cock going in and out, the sound of my hips slapping her ass, and feel my balls, swinging up and slapping into her. She was hot, wet, and oh so very tight. Each time I drove back into her it felt like the first time. The walls of her cunt put a constant pressure on the shaft of my cock, gleaming with wetness, plunging in and out.
I finally let go of the belt that had kept her arms stretched out above her head, but she just left them there, like an acolyte bowing before a temple. I reached around and grabbed her by the throat, lifting her head and pulling it all the way back, until, bent over her, I was looking down into those brilliant green eyes, at her face, and at her mouth, wide open in an extended gasping cry. I held her like that while I continued pounding her from behind, staring down into her eyes. This time, when they rolled upwards, they completely vanished behind her lids, so all I could see was the whites of her eyes. Saliva was running out of her open mouth, down her chin and over my hand, drooling insensibly.
When she came, I came, the jets of cum pulsing into her, matching the pulsing of her pussy, wrapped tightly around my cock. Every muscle of her lithe little body was tensed and taut. Her whimpering wail filled the room as she convulsed in shuddering, quivering waves. I let out an animal groan of my own, bending my head down to kiss her open mouth as I filled her with cum from behind. We kind of heaved back and forth together as we both crashed through our orgasms until, finally, exhausted, I tipped to the side and fell onto the bed next to her, pulling her tightly to my chest as I did so. My cock, still softly pulsating, stayed inside of her as we lay there, drenched in sweat, shattered in the aftermath of our orgasms.
As I lay there, holding her, coming back into my own body, I realized I’d managed to completely forget the battering I’d taken just a few hours before. I was marveling at that as she wiggled around a bit, my cock finally sliding out of her, when suddenly the room erupted with the sound of applause and cheers. We both snapped up and looked toward the door, which was wide open. About a dozen smiling, cheering faces were crowded together peering into the room. Cathy tried to cover herself, and thinking quickly I grabbed one of the pillows bunched at the end of the bed and handed it to her. It was a large pillow and by hugging it to her chest she managed to cover most of her body, her face pressed down into the pillow as a deep red blush spread over her. I grabbed a second pillow and tossed it toward the crowd in the door. There was a lot of laughter and they all started to back away.
My friend John, a smile on his face, leaned in and grabbed the door handle and pulled the door shut. I could see Cindy peeking around him, a huge smile on her face. The last thing I saw was her giving me a big “thumbs up” sign. Then the door pulled shut and Cathy and I lay back down on the bed, and started laughing together.
As we snuggled together, relaxing with each other, enjoying the aftermath, she placed a hand on my chest and rubbed it lightly through the sweat gathered there. She lifted her hand to her mouth and ran her tongue over her palm.
“Well Cowboy,” she said, “If Castlewood gave out medals for fucking, I’d make sure you got one.”
“That’s a medal I’d wear with pride.” I said, “If you’re how Castlewood rewards the losers, I really want to know how what they give to the winners.”
Little did I know at the time I said it that, in a few months, I would know the answer.