hundredand's blog

I like writing gut punching stories, usually with a father/son dynamic. They're completely unrealstic and extreme, but that's why it's a fantasy. Hope to find others into this kind of thing.

About two weeks had passed since the beating I received in my history class. Right now, all my friends were taking their ceremonious walk across the stage, taking their pictures with their fake diplomas. Right now, I was sitting on the couch, guzzling down my third beer.

Fuck this, seriously, fuck this. I should be done with school right now, if it wasn't for goddamned Mr. Dix....I dented the empty can I was holding as I thought about him. Looking over the bent metal, I reached a conclusion. Dix may have beaten me one time, but if I was able to challenge him again, take him down a few notches, he might let me pass the class without doing anything. I got up quickly, heading down into the basement where our makeshift gym was.

So my dad is a former MMA fighter, well, more of just a brawler, really. He had done a some underground cage fighting and had actually done pretty well It made him enough money to help him through college, at least. He liked it enough that he had a ring installed a few years ago to spar with his buddies. It was next to this that I found him, thumping his meaty fists into a sandbag. My dad is a big guy, about 6'2” 280lbs. Quite a bit bigger than my 5"9' 185lbs. Most of his weight was due to the bulging gut that stuck past his waistband, but could also be attributed to his big arms and legs which both bulged with muscle. I swallowed before calling out to him.

“Hey, dad.”

“Son,” my dad responded with a grunt, still working the bag.

“Um, I was wondering if you wanted to show me some fighting moves, just to help me out when me and my friends...uh...tussle.”

I couldn't tell him about the humiliating match I had with Dix, that could lead to all kinds of trouble. But dad looks back at me with a grin. His flushed cheeks and bleary eyes tell me he's drunk, and judging by the twelve cans of beer on the weight bench, he's really drunk. I hesitate as he rolls into the ring, slapping the ground as an indication that I should do the same. My dad wasn't a violent drunk, but I didn't know how it would go if he was given the chance to be.

“Come on son, I've always wanted to do this, why didn't you ask me sooner?”

I get up into the ring slowly. Dammit, he was too excited for me to back out. Oh well, just had to focus, this was about me learning, after all. I straighten up in front of him, my eyes level with his chin. He looks down at me with that stupid grin of his, pushing his big knuckles against my chin affectionately.

“You ever fought before, son?”

I look back at him, the corners of my mouth twitching as I try not to smile. “A bit, but I'm not very good.”

“Well, let's see if we can fix that, take your shirt off.”

I hesitate a second before I comply, about to leave myself in just my jean shorts and a belt. The bruises had healed by this time, but the slight gut I had made me self-conscious in front of my dad, he hadn't seen me shirtless in a while. Sure enough, as I lifted the shirt over my eyes-

“Little early to start on a paunch, eh son?”

I feel his fingers pinch the fat around my navel and my cheeks turn red as I nudge him away with my elbow.

“Hey, I had to bulk up for football. I was a defensive back, remember?” And a pretty damn good one, I fail to add.

My dad raises his eyebrows, but shrugs, “Meh, I suppose it's in the genes, not that bad anyways, I can still see your abs. Just a little bulgy, hehe.”

I glare at him, putting my hands on my hips, “You gonna teach me how to fight, or not?”

“Well, first of all, I wanna see how you fight. If it's a street fight anything goes, anything to put your opponent down. If I was fighting you...” He looks over my bulky form, and by that I mean just my gut, “ I'd immediately go for the keg.”

He jabs at my stomach with his right fist, his knuckles slapping dully against my bare belly. I whoofh softly at the unexpected blow, hands going from hips to middle. I bend forward a bit, grimacing. My dad stares for a second, then starts laughing.

“Really!? I barely hit you! are those even abs? Hahaha!”

I clench my teeth, anger building in my chest. Without warning, I lunge forward at him...I'm not even sure what I was trying to accomplish, I sort of just threw my chest forward in a burst of frustration and I realize that if I had landed, it would have been a sort of chest bump/head butt, which would have done jack shit considering my dad's size and weight, but the thing is, I didn't land....

Wump!

With a sort of lumbering gait, my dad steps towards me and loops a heavy, deep uppercut into my oncoming breadbasket.

My cheeks puff out in an air-chuffing 'hoohooomph!' sound as my stomach first meets the fist, lets the fist sink in, then folds over it; a familiar feeling. Though it seems to try it's best, my tank isn't quite able to swallow the fist whole, as Mr. Dix seemed to so easily make it do. Dix had pretty normal sized fists, my dad on the other hand had hams that were abnormally fucking large; I could feel the expanse between middle knuckles to top knuckles stretch from my navel to just under my ribcage. But I had the gut-wrenching feeling that with just a little more power he would be able to put it to the wrist, what with the help of my thick body and if he could catch me completely unprepared.... And believe you me, he could put out that power. His bicep was right in front of my bleary eyes, flexing just slightly under my considerable weight. He may be a lot slower, but my dad's stature allowed for much more powerful attacks.

“Oof,” my dad grunted in sympathy, looking me over with raised eyebrows, “gotcha good, eh son?”

I open my maw but only manage a small gurgle in response. My knees had gone completely weak at that point and I was slumped fully over his fist.

“Sorry boy, but you just kinda flopped your paunch on my fist, what was I supposed to do?”

Not put you fist there? I wanted to respond, but I'm too busy trying to push off his bicep with my hands, my guts gurgling in protest. Dad smirks at this.

“Been indulging in my cabinets, son? Looks like we might be able to turn this into a disciplinary lesson as well!” He exclaims as he feels the beer slosh against his knuckles. I finally manage to shove myself away from him, gasping as my diaphragm finally kicked in again. I stumble back and lean forward, one hand on my knee, the other clutching my middle.

“Let's keep going, I think I'm beginning to understand what's wrong with your fighting technique.”

He doesn't give me a chance to recover rushing at me like a bull. I choke in surprise and straighten back up, throwing an awkward chop at his shoulder as he approached. My dad shrugged that off easily, smirking.

“First problem, you don't know how to hit, you threw that with the limpest wrist I've ever seen.”

He pushes that arm up so high I'm lifted to my toes then steps in closer to me, putting my bicep close to our heads for inspection.

“You got good arms, but they're useless in a fight if you don't know how to use 'em. Try throwing something more stiff, like this!”

What follows is a heavy and incredibly stiff left uppercut. Because I was pretty much helpless at the time, my dad has a lot of time to set it up, stepping forward on one foot and looping in a slow, but thunderingly powerful punch. Right as his fist connects he lets go of my wrist, ensuring that my belly was stretched out and proudly presented to receive what was to come.

“Hoooouullph!”

The blow sinks in deep, real deep, the fist landing just below my navel and continuing to sink in so that my belly button, along with the trail of dark hair under it, elongates and dips into the sink-hole that my father had formed in my flesh, fat, abs, and organs. In my subconsciousness, I realize that although the punch was extremely hard, it didn't knock me back at all, in fact it seemed I just sort of melted onto his fist. Unlike Dix, whose punches were quick and almost stung, my father had a way of just powering past my abs with slow determination, sending vibrations through my insides and shaking me to my core. The punch angles up after a moment, pushing everything in my belly up towards my chest, crunching my stomach organ as well. A split second later, I finally react, my abs tightening around the fist in a too-late attempt to protect my insides.

“Second of all, you don't seem to be able to tense on time, felt like I got half-way to your back bone before ya did, and that's not gonna do you any good! Also, notice I targeted your lower gut, seems to be the softest part of ya.”

In the meantime I'm staring at his stern face, my eyes bugging out and drool pooling in my mouth as I feel the beer roil around in my crushed stomach. He suddenly pulls his ham out of my center, but I hold my own position, still starting wide-eyed. He looks at me, then at my stomach and suddenly laughs, crouching down. My eyes slowly swivel down to see what he's looking at. He's pointing at a bowl-shaped indent in my gut, my soft stomach having retained his fist's shape as I had flexed after the blow and continued flexing. I didn’t see what was so funny, but my dad sure seemed to enjoy it.

“Hahaha! Looks like I put a crater in your paunch, son! Think it'll ever come out? Hehehe!”

I have time to feel a little indignant before I finally chuff out, muscles relaxing as my diaphragm releases its spasm. I fall forward at the same time, but my dad is there to catch me. Having still had his eyes on my front porch he didn't miss the change in its consistency; he tight, indented muscle suddenly turning into a puffed out globe of flesh as I took in a massive breath. Not wanting to miss his chance, he smoothly, but firmly thwumps his massive hand into my inflated belly. He puts his other hand on my shoulder and continues the motion, angling the palm upwards so that I'm sort of bent over it, intent on flattening my stomach again.

“Huuuuffffffhhhhhh”

The only sound is air leaving my lungs as it's literally pushed out of me. The blow wasn't harsh enough to really paralyze my diaphragm like the previous one, but his all-encompassing hand really left no room for air to hide in my poor belly. Once I stopped making sounds similar to that of a deflating tire...literally a spare tire, I suppose...he stops and we both stare at the image of his hairy hand pressed deeply into my center, in between both sides of my ribcage which were jutting out quite a ways past his hand. He slowly relieves pressure, chuckling as that same hand begins to make massaging motions.

“Breathe, son, that's another thing we need to work on. You stand there gaping like a fish out of water for way too long.”

My head droops forward and my chest leans into his upper arm. My shaky knees gratefully bend and relax, though I'm a bit concerned due to the fact that he's got my entire gut in the palm of his hand. His fingertips actually dip a few centimeters under the waistband of my boxers, resting against the edge of my fat line, and the heel of his palm ending right at the edge of my sternum.

He continues to work my entire belly, kneading the muscle and fat until he feels my stomach relax again, feeling the first breath inflate my midriff.

“There ya go, now wh-”

He pauses, suddenly feeling a gurgle deep in my pit. I feel it too and the next thing I know I'm heaving myself off his hand then stumbling haphazardly toward the metal bucket at the side of the ring before retching mightily into it, all the beer I had drunk in the past hour pouring out. I remember wondering where three can-fulls had room to go in my belly when a hand of that size was pressed so deeply into it...I guess upwards.

I sense my dad is in silent mirth as I finish up, wiping my mouth with the rag next to it. Once again, I had been completely humiliated. I stared down at my bulging stomach, which had now taken on a pinkish hue. Stupid thing, it was its fault I was getting my ass beat. With my dad drunk like this, he wasn't teaching me anything. I glare at the bucket,

“Alright...ugh...you had your fun, I'm going back upstairs.”

As I shift to move out of the ring, I hear thundering footsteps behind me. I roll over from my hands and knees, my back against the corner post, slightly reclined in a sitting position. The first thing I see is my dad in a lunging position, a grin on his face, belying his age with the leap he had just taken. Then I see his fist, pointed out like a comet, headed for...you guessed it...my slightly bulging, reclined stomach, looking as vulnerable as ever, the abs visibly relaxed.

Shloooomp!

My stomach takes it in sloppily, his fist punching into my core without any resistance. Air I had just recovered builds up behind my lips, inflating my cheeks before the pressure is too much and I expel my wind. It happens in such a way that my lips flap, making a raspberry pbbbbttt sound. That gets an even bigger smile from dad.

Then, we both watch in mutual fascination and surprise as my belly first takes in his knuckles, then further up the top of his hand and over the thumb underneath. Then, slowly, agonizingly slowly, my thick gut closes around his wrist. Hell, I didn't think it was possible, my dad's entire massive fist was able to fit between my ribs and my pelvis, guess it was the three cans of beer that were just preventing it earlier, now there was more room.

I look back up at my father and he looks back at me. He's looking a bit more sober now, the flush on his face more likely due to exertion rather than booze at this point. The loopy look he had earlier was replaced with a more disciplinary, but affectionate expression.

“Let's do this again tomorrow, I'll take it serious next time, alright?”

I, of course, can't respond, due to the fact that there's practically a bowling ball inside me, compressing my guts. I croak instead, eyes unfocused, seeing double.

“Though if you get into the beer again...you can expect a similar lesson. It adds to your paunch, you know. And since you're not a 'defensive back' anymore, you don't have any excuses Mr. Johnny Football.”

He gives his fist a little wiggle, shaking up my giblets. I lost track of the amount of time I had been pined to the post against my back, but that doesn't matter as I give a final hic! sound, my dad's smug face getting blurry before fading to black. Only then does he finally tug his fist from the embrace of my belly. My last thoughts are about how much I don't wanna train with my dad anymore, how much I'd actually just rather face Dix instead...