Two things happened in the immediate aftermath of the club's first fight, where we managed to squeak out an overall club win on points. First, and most importantly, we caught the attention of local sponsors. Second, we lost about half our fighters, but picked up some new guys who were interested in boxing.
Boxing is a physically and psychologically tough sport. Training is just a preview. About half the team decided, for one reason or another, that they weren't really into a sport where, even when you win, you take a serious beating. From my point of view that was completely understandable. The next day everything hurt. Even parts of me I didn't think got hit hurt.
For me, the physical component of it was challenging. I came out of that first real fight aching all over, so the negative part of it was the pain. I had a low-grade headache. My left eye swelled nearly shut. I had a fat upper lip. My left ear hurt. My stomach hurt. My right shoulder hurt. I definitely questioned my choice of a sport.
But the psychological component more than made up for it. I was on a high. I'd won my first fight. That feeling when the boosters cheered was awesome. I walked taller just thinking of all the accolades and pats on my back. That was all tangled up with the memories of Cindy's soft mouth closing around my cock, with the memories of pinning her against the wall and pounding into her, then taking her to her knees, my hips slapping against her ass. Pleasure and pain were tangled tightly together in my immediate memories.
We had three days of rest after that Saturday and I spent it recovering and masturbating. I swear I must have masturbated five or six times a day. It was like my testosterone levels went berserk. By Wednesday most of the pain and swelling had receded and I'd cum so many times I lost count, masturbating multiple times a day, whenever I could get fifteen minutes to myself.
Wednesday night we had a club meeting. Those of us who had won our bouts got our checks and nice little bronze medals. It was a combination of prize money for individual victories and a percentage of the clubs take from the door and concessions. My check was for 175 dollars, which was impressive to me in exchange for less than nine minutes of getting punched in the head. What can I say, I was young and stupid.
A lot unfolded in that meeting though. As a club we'd picked up half a dozen sponsors. One of the local auto dealerships donated a used 12 passenger van. The local sporting goods store donated new equipment. A local franchise athletic club gave us free memberships and two of their trainers volunteered to join our coaching staff.
The business side of the club launched that night as well. The boosters were officially organized and elected officers, most of whom I knew by name alone. Frank Taylor, a local retired businessman, took the role of the club's business manager. His wife, a tall and tawny haired woman, became the president of the booster club. Half a dozen other local luminaries were selected for the board. Papers were drawn up and the club was incorporated.
There was a lot of handshaking as we were introduced to the various players or as they introduced themselves. About halfway through it someone thought to set up a reception line and so we were all lined up against one wall and we were introduced to more people than I can remember.
Cindy was there with a twinkle in her eye and a slight curve on her beautiful lips. She introduced herself as if she'd never met me, then introduced her friend Kerry. Kerry had a strong, cool handshake.
I didn't see them again until the end of the evening, after everything had wrapped up and I was walking out to my pickup in the parking lot. Most of the crowd had dispersed by then and I saw Kerry standing by a yellow Subaru, leaning in, talking to Cindy in the driver's seat. Cindy saw me, waved, and said something to Kerry. They laughed and Cindy pulled out and drove away.
Kerry waved at her and turned toward me, crossing the parking lot with long strides. Away from the crowd I got my first real look at her. She was tall, nearly as tall as me, with dark eyes and long dark hair pulled into a loose ponytail. She was wearing the universal small-town uniform, blue jeans, a t-shirt, a bomber jacket, and cowboy boots. My overall impression was athleticism. There was something in her that looked lean and sleek.
I'd opened the driver's door, preparing to get in, but stopped as she approached. She ran a hand over my shoulders as she passed me and slipped into the pickup.
"Give me a ride home." She said. It wasn't a question.
"Sure." I said as she slid across the seat to the passenger's side. I jumped into the driver's seat and started the truck.
"Where to?"
"Crooksville." She said. It was a small town about ten miles away down the state highway to the west. The community building was just off the highway, so it was just a quick left and then another quick left and we were on our way.
We made small talk as we rolled down the road. She pulled one leg up and tucked it under herself, turning to face me on the seat. In the glow of the dashboard lights, she was a vision. Her lips were curled in a half-smile when she wasn't talking to me, and I had the sense that she was measuring me. We talked about my limited experience at boxing, compared who we knew in common, and kind of laid out our personal histories to see where we overlapped.
It was a quick drive to Crooksville. In rural middle America ten miles means ten minutes. Once we got there, she directed me down one of the side streets to a small white frame house at the end of the road, surrounded by a neat hedge, with a single large oak tree in the front yard. Crooksville was not big. It had a main street, with a bar and a gas station, and six or seven short side streets and that was about it.
"Come in for a cup of coffee." She said. Again, I didn't get the feeling it was a question, but a command.
"Sure." I said, and followed her up the narrow sidewalk, across the small, screened front porch, and through the door. Once inside, we crossed a neat living room and entered the kitchen. I took a seat at the table while she hit the brew button on the coffee machine. She pulled two cups out of the cabinet along with the bowl of sugar. Once the coffee was ready, she filled both the cups and joined me at the table. Neither of us took sugar.
She took a sip of her coffee and carefully looked me up and down. That little smile quirked the corner of her mouth.
"So," she said, "According to Cindy you fucked her pretty good the other night."
I am pretty sure I stammered when I said. "Well, that was not what I expected."
She laughed. "I'd have said it in the truck, but I was afraid you'd crash."
