THE FIGHTER  Part Two

By Pete Brown

Petebrownuk @ yahoo.com

Read all of Pete's stories at groups.yahoo.com/group/petebrownseroticstories


We'd arrived at a very non-descript looking building, that said on an old weather-beaten sign "Ron's Gym".  It wasn't at allthe sort of place tyouy think of as a gym these days, the sort I was used to seeing in the smart part of the city where I was working on the building site:   no glass and steel here, no smart reception area with a fancy-looking receptionist behind a PC, no coffee and juice bar.  No, this was an old-style "working gym" like you used to find in the East End - no proper entrance, a big area with a few boxing rings and some benches scattered around.  The hole place smelt of sweat and, well, men.  The paintwork was not so much dirty as just tired out with old age.  The only think that was in good condition were the blokes using it, and it was all blokes, as there wasn't a woman to be seen: again, something different from the city gyms I looked in to when I was on my way to ad from work.  They were all in their twenties or thirties, and all looked fit and lean.  Thy were sparring, or working out, and there was an intensity in the air that told me instantly that these men were serious about being fit.

The Inspector ignored calls from some of the men, and strode across the area wioth me following.  He went through a door marked "Office", and there, behind a desk, was a man in his early fifties, I suppose.  He looked as it he'd had a hard life as his face was scarred, and in spite of his expensive-looking silk suit, there was an indefinable something aout him that screamed "thug".

"Ah, Inspector Jenkins", hw said, rising to his feet.  "And what have we here?  More meat for Uncle Ron?"

"Ron, this is Steve.  I think you might be intersted in him - he's just the sort of bloke you normally recruit:  twnety four, single, fit, and, if I may say so, pretty good looking.  And he can take a beating - we worked him over a week ago, and he was still able to go to work three days later. He's tough."

Ron stared at me, then just said "OK, lad, let's have a good look at you.  Get out of those clothes."

"Now look here", I began, but the Inspector simply rapped "Shut up, Steve, and do as you're told, will you?  I haven't got all night....  And you knwo what will happen if you're disobedient."

There was nothimng else I could do, was there?  I pulled my T over my head, and dropped my shorts, stepping out of them as the wide legs easily went over my trianers.

Ron's inspection of me was quite different from that of the inspector.  His hands ran over all the same parts, but these weren't just gentle touches, as if he was savouring the flesh.  No, Ron's hands rubbed and poked and probed.  As they ran down my backbone, his fingers dug in to feel the ends of my ribs and the thumbs pressed nto the hollow of my spine so hard that I almost gasped for breath.

I felt reall odd standing there naked in front of two men, one of whom was feeling my body.  I was confused, and didn't know what to do.  I wanted to get up and go out, but there were two things stopping me - my worrty about what the Inspector might do afterwards as he still had the "rape" suff hanging over me;  and te attitude of the man Ron.  There was something aout the eas, confident way that he was feeling me, and the fact that he seemed to be completely at ease at touching my naked body, that made me feel somehow secure.

He finished, and looked at me.  "So, Steve, they gave you a beating , did they?"

"Yes."

"I can tell - al lthose brusies.  And the ystil hurt a bit, don't they?  I can tell fro mthe way your muscles go into little spasms as I touch them.  Still, you took it like a proper man, did you?  No running off to the hospital, or the doctor?"

"No.  Just some paracetamol..."

"Good.  I'm always looking for boys like you with good, hard bodies, who can take a bit of pain. Now, ever done any fighting?"

"No, why...?"

"So why do you want to take it up now...?"

"What the fuck are you o nabout?  The Inspector bought me here...."

Ron looked at the Inspector. "Didn't you tell him?"

"No.  I thought I'd let you take a look at him first.  Like what you see?  I thought of you when we were laying into him - he didn't shout or anything, just took it, and it was a real beating.  Now, I've introduced hm to you - it's up to you to do the rest...."

Ron turned back to me, noidded at my shorts to indicate that I could put them back on, and as I bent down to pull them up, said "I run a stable of fighters here.  Big, tough lads, like you, who can take a beating - and give one.  I'm always on the look out for new lads to join us."

"No, I'm not interested... I don't fight...."

The Inspector cut in "Oh, I think you'd better change your mind, lad.  I want you off the streets at night, and you need something to keep you occupied.  We can always go back to the Station, you know...  And I though yoyu said you needed more money...."

"Money?"

"Yes", Ron cut in.  "There's a retainer, of course, for each week.  And when you fight, there's a bonus... And more for winning.  And it's all cash as well...."

"Well, I might be interested...."

"Good... But first, before I take you on, I want to see you fight..."

"But I don't know anything about fighting...."

"Never been in a boxing ring?"

"No."

"Or did any wrestlying?"

"No."

"Or a bit of rough stuff in a pub or anything?"

"Well, no.... I mean, most blokes don't start anything with me - they take a look, and think better of it.."

"Good!  I like to train my boys from the ground up, so to speak.... If they come here with preconceptions about boxing, or wrestling, they have to lose all that first."

"So what kind of fighting is it you do then?"

"The sort that tyou's see in a pub brawl, if ytou ever got into those.  Two guys just go at each other and slug it out - punch, kick, pull hair, wrestle, whatever.  The important thing is to win, not how you do it."

"But why...?"

"Becasue the punters pay, Steve!  There's a lot of men - and some women - who will happily pay a lot to see two well set-up blokes beating the shit out of each other.  None of those silly rules, no mamby-pamby referees or anyything - just a good old-fasahioned ruckus with the two blokes going at each other until one of them has won."

"No, it doen't sound like me.... I don't fight.  I don't even lose my temper, really..."

"That's better - some blokes are just animals once they get into the ring.  They lose it completely and go at it as if they're completely out of control.  That's OK if you're fighting in a pub, as it scares your opponent, but in the ring, it's a sure way to lose.  A bloke who can keep his temper and do it 'scientifically' always has the advantage. So what you're telling me is all good news."

The Inspector cut in again.  "Now, let's cut the crap, shall we?  Steve: you're going to give his at least a try.  Let's say three months, and then I'll forget all about yuor little indiscretion last week.  And Ron.... I'll take my customary introduction fee..."

Ron got out a wallet, and to my astomishment I saw him count ten fifties out to the Inspector's waiting hand.  The two men smiled, and shook hands, the Inspector winked at me, and walked out.

There must have been a look of astonishment on my face, as Ron looked at me, smiled, and said "Yes, you're not the first.  That Inspector's done wonders around here for stopping crime on the streets - he's introduced quite a lot of lads like you to me.  There are twenty in my 'stable' now, and  I always give him a little something for introducing them to us... For one thing, it keeps you here for those first vital couple of months whislt you're learning the ropes.  After that, it's up to you."

"What do you mean?"

"Look, after you've tried it out, either you're hooked and you'll stay on because you love the fight game, you get to enjoy trying to beat the shit out of another man.  Or you don't - in which case there's no point in me keeping you, is there?  You've got to love fighting, or there's no point."

"I see...  But why haven't I heard about this? "

"Because, technically, it's illegal.  The only sort of fighting that's legal is wrestlying, or properly supervised boxing where the boxers and everything are all licensed by the British Boxing Board Of Control.  Anythign else is, technically, an affray, even if it is carried out in private, and the police can do the fighters for GBH.  But around here the local police turn a blind eye.  They'd rather there was an outlet for young blokes' agression.  Provided we keep it out of the papers, and the audience is discrete, there's no problem."

"Now", he continued, "Down to business.  I give you two hundred a week, and you come here every night - and I mean every night - to train.  Every time you fight, you get five hundred.  And winning gives you another five hundred.  And, remember, that's all cash."

I started to cheer up - ten thousand in cash, even if I never fought:  I'd never had that much money before, well, not spare:  the money I made on the site paid all my living expenses - just, and so this would all be 'profit'.  I thought of al lthose foreign holidays and other stuff I could have.... 

"And there is always the possibility that you'll be spopnsored", he continued.  "Some of our regular patrons like to have a 'personal' fighter, who they can ask to do little private performances for them.  If someone takes you up like that, then there's a whole lot more cash for you.  Now, come and meet some of the other boys..."

We went out of the office into the gym, and there were eight or ten guys really working away - not just on the ususal sort of exercise machines you see in all kinds of gym, but "sparring" in some of the rings.  The blokes doing that were wearing padded head shields and boxing gloves, buit it looked pretty serious.

"As I said, it's not boxing we do", Ron reminded me, "But if you learn to box, it's a useful discipline and it gets you really fit.  Teaches you to be nimble on your feet, and toughens your muscles so you can take the punches.  So you'll be expected to work out in the ring once or twice a week at least."

We went through a door at the end, and were in a changing room.  Like the rest of the place, they hadn't bother ed to spend money on the decor.  There was an open tiled area at the back with four shower heads, a few of those open slatted benches running down the centre on which there were heaps of clothing strewn, and some battered metal lockers down one wall.

"We don't use the lockers much", he told me.  "You can have one if you like, but most of the blokes here trust each other.  I mean, you wouldn't want to risk stealing something from he otheres, would you, when they could beathe shit out of you if they found you out?  And you don't need to keep anything here - we supply everything you need 

  

        

