Fight Dogs (Book 1): Into the Ring
By Abbey Kypner
Cover Art by Pockyrum
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2012
Discover other titles by Abbey Kypner at Smashwords.com
https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/abbeykypner
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This work is intended for adult audiences only, and should not be read by individuals age 17 or younger. All characters herein are entirely fictional and of age 18 and above.
~~~~~
Into the Ring
The taekwondo fighter is definitely outmatched.
His opponent's supposed to be a capoeira expert, and this dark-skinned Brazilian sways a little, bouncing on his toes. He's on guard, hands open as he makes a slow circle around the ring. His dark chest rises and falls, his stomach tightens and relaxes with the rhythm of his breathing. The shorter guy in the sleeveless taekwondo uniform is way too tense, keeping his fists close to his body. The collars are tight around their necks, but only the fair-skinned brunette seems to be having trouble breathing, pink-faced and nervous as he is.
It's clear who the winner's gonna be.
"Look, I told you I'd sign anything you want, all right?!" I hiss over the table. I'd helped myself to a little of the wine to help cool me down, but the platter of hors d'oeuvres remains untouched. I'm not sure if I'm allowed to sample them since I'm technically not one of the guests... not in my tank top and worn sneakers at least. Everyone else is in a $3,000 suit-and-tie.
My fox-faced minder simply watches the match, sipping his wine occasionally. That teasing Mona Lisa smile never changes, and his eyes are unfocused like he's half-asleep. His medium-length brown hair is combed neatly down the sides of his face, and he's as clean and prim as everyone else here. Off to the side there's the bustling squeaks of bare feet against canvas, the dull thuds of flesh contacting flesh. The sound of cloth rippling in the air is cut by a loud rattle as one of them is slammed against the wire mesh of the fighter's cage, grunting with the blow.
"Preparations are already being made, Mr. Casey," my minder says calmly. His name's Damian, and he reminds me of a cat... quiet, patient, predatory. "Tests still need to be done. Even if you agree now, it'll be a few days before we can begin. Rest assured, we're doing everything we can."
I want to pop that weaselly little head off his shoulders, but deep down I know he's right.
"I said I agree. You know I'll agree," I grumble.
He actually puts a finger up to shush me, the fucker, "Watch the fight first. We can't have you backing out because you claim we didn't show you everything."
I have to grip the edges of my chair to keep from punching the guy in his smug little face.
Things have been rough since Mom and Dad died, though thank God I was eighteen by then so we'd been able to escape the foster system. Yet even with the help of the neighbors it was a full-time job taking care of a kid brother. Over time the savings that'd been meant to put me through college were eaten up by the bills, and after cutting even more out of our lives my job at the gym only just began to just stabilize our debt.
And then Tommy got sick.
Tommy's a good kid. He knows what I have to go through every day to make sure he's fed and has his school supplies. I think part of me decided not to pay attention when he started losing weight and suffering from those dizzy spells, and he'd kept quiet about it himself so I wouldn't worry. It helped that he didn't speak up, so I didn't think it was anything serious. Denial, really. Neither of us had insurance, and going to the doctor might've just confirmed our worst fears.
So I'd ignored it.
When I finally got him to the hospital I'd hoped that we could score some free antibiotics or something. Yet after they ran some blood tests we got a phone call to get him in right now for chemotherapy.
Ten percent survival rate at this stage. Fifteen, at best. Some late-night googling revealed that if I'd gotten him in earlier it would've been a clean ninety percent, and he'd probably still be in school.
Even if Tommy survives I'm going to hate myself until the day I die. It's my fault, and no one can convince me otherwise.
So one day Damian, maybe only a couple years older than me, came up in a nice suit. I'd just finished up my shower in the locker rooms then. At first I thought he was from welfare or social services, but no. He'd said he represented a major shareholder at a pharmaceutical company. Something about an experimental treatment that could save my Tommy, even now, so long as I kept my big dumb mouth shut about it.
"I hear you study martial arts," he'd said with that thin, sleepy-eyed smile. "How comfortable are you with your body?"
And here we are now.
It's not long before the referee calls the match and the taekwondo fighter is slumped against the mesh frame of the cage, sporting a black eye and numerous other bruises. The Brazilian pumps a fist into the air, but for some reason he isn't too enthusiastic about the win. Small wonder, given how crummy his opponent was. Still, you'd think he'd at least smile for the audience. Mostly he seems to be avoiding eye contact with the guy he'd just beaten into the cage. One of the attendants opens the door, and the winner steps out, grabbing a towel and wiping his face. He barely even broke a sweat.
I can't see what was so interesting about this match.
"Okay," I grumble, "It's over now. Let's-"
Damian's smile never falters, "Actually... it's only just begun."
Two of the attendants enter, and the taekwondo fighter looks up at them from beneath his auburn bangs. He's young... can't be more than twenty. Though he's fit enough to look like he works out casually, he isn't built as thickly as most of the gym meatheads I bump into. A fighter's gotta be light on his feet after all. Flexibility and speed often count more than strength. Even though he's fair-skinned and brown-haired, there's a certain softness to his features, something about his eyes like he's half-Asian or something.
His shoulders are slumped, and there's a defeated look in his gaze. It's from more than just losing the match. He looks so beaten, like he's standing in front of a judge awaiting a sentence. I feel my heartbeat quickening with a sense of dread, realization suddenly dawning that they're going to do something horrible to him.
The attendants grab the guy, and he lets out a soft whimper as they grip his shirt. The fighter yelps as they pull, ripping the cotton from his back so violently that he's thrown to the ground.
My jaw drops then. I can't believe what I'm seeing. One of them grabs the guy in a headlock, and the his fingers only tug his assailant's arm weakly. The other attendant pulls loose his belt, and that strip of black cloth flops to the ground like a dead snake. Bare chest heaving, glistening with sweat, the fighter's toes twist on the canvas as they tug loose the tie of his pants and pull down, then shove him to the canvas mat so he's on all fours.
All he's wearing now are the sparring gloves and his leggings tangled around his bare ankles. He actually hoists his naked little ass up in the air and plants his forehead on the ground, until one of the attendants grabs a fistful of his hair and pulls him up, snarling something about not hiding his face.
I glance around at the audience, and suddenly I feel like I'm trapped in a nightmare. It's surreal, looking at the faces around me... almost all of them in their early to mid thirties, smiling in anticipation, eyes wide and eager for the show as this guy's getting roughed up.
"Why aren't they s-" I start, but again Damian shushes me.
While I was glancing around a third attendant had entered the ring.
He's thickly built and a full head taller than me, probably. A black hood obscures his face, like an old-timey executioner, and his tight black shorts advertise the pointed bulge of his crotch.
I wince and look away.
On the stage the loser of the match lets out a sharp cry as he's penetrated, and the squeal dies down into a choked-off moan. There's a rhythmic slapping sound, punctuated with animalistic grunts and soft whimpers. The mat squeaks as toes and fingers scrape against the canvas, and soon the both of them are panting. That repeating smack of flesh against flesh grows more rapid, their breathing grows heavier. I hear the meathead snarl, his roar muffled by the hood. The slapping sound ceases, and the kid begins to pant heavily.
I work up the nerve to open one eye. The attendants have let the fighter duck his head now so he can hide his shame, but the marks of their hard fuck are still sharp and pink on his milky hips where the stud had gripped him. One of the attendants is pressing a wad of tissues against his anus, and the kid's shoulders rise and fall as he gasps.
I turn to Damian just as he looks to me, "Now. Let's address that contract."
~~~~~
He flinches when we first enter the room.
Though he's been cleaned up a bit his chestnut hair is still in disarray, and a raw spot around his eye is beginning to get a little puffy. It'll start to purple soon, I suspect. A can of soda and a half-melted ice pack rest on the table, and I try not to wonder whether the ice is for his bruises or for his ass.