Punching Bag

[©2010 BY CLINTON09; ALL CHARACTERS OVER THE AGE OF 18; NO EVENTS DESCRIBED ARE TRUE; THIS STORY IS TOLD WITHOUT RESERVE OR POLITICAL CORRECTNESS; READER SHOULD TAKE CARE AND CONSIDER LOOKING ELSEWHERE; CONCLUSION HARD EDGED; READER MUST BE 21 OR ABOVE.]

[THIS STORY CENTERS AROUND A MALE BULLY WHO GETS HIS COMEUPPANCE FROM HIS OWN DAUGHTER; HIS PUNISHMENT IS RICHLY DESERVED AND JUST, BUT MIGHT BE TOO HARSH FOR SOME READERS; CONSIDER YOURSELF WARNED...]

[THE MALE CHARACTER MISTREATS HIS WIFE PHYSICALLY WHILE MENTALLY ABUSING HIS INNOCENT DAUGHTER.]

*

I admit nothing, but confess that alcohol was my personal demon. When sober, I was a wonderful husband, great employee, and attentive and loving father. Ah, yes, when sober. If only....

Well Homer Simpson notwithstanding, drunks normally get ugly, real ugly. I have to continue the confession. When I came home after stopping at the local 'watering hole', I used to use my loyal, trusting, dedicated wife as a punching bag. All of the frustrations from work (and there were many, let me tell you) were taken out on her face (with a slap) or gut (with a punch or two). She took it because she was loyal to her marital vows and obsessed with protecting her daughter Heather. So she let the occasional abuse continue.

It would be nice to say that I was different with Heather as she grew up. Maybe I was a doting father, spoiling her constantly. Well, that would have made a nice paragraph or two, but alas, it was not the case. The truth was, I constantly berated her for not being the son that I wanted. If I didn't hit her outright as I did with her long suffering mother, I still would harass Heather mentally till I had secured tears from her innocent eyes. I myself was sometimes puzzled that I would hound this beautiful and wonderful young woman mercilessly for no apparent reason except to re-build my own fragile and pathetic ego. The ironic thing was, as I tore down her pride in self, she would retreat to our basement to get away from me. The ironic part of that was, the only things in the basement were our old water heater, a pool table, a black and white TV, and my (unused) weight set. From sheer boredom or curiosity, little Heather started tinkering away at that set from the age of seven. It got to the point that she went down there even if I wasn't around to harass her. She was zealous about not letting me see her body as she grew. That was for two reasons: she didn't want me to enjoy seeing her grow up and develop, given my cruel and callous non-support. Also, she was secretly developing a physique, for lack of a better word. She didn't want me to be alarmed about it until the day I abused her once too often...and then! In the end, I had never so much as laid a hand upon Heather, nor seen her in an inappropriate manner before her 18th birthday.

I should have had some warning when Heather asked me to sign a release as well as a complaint. I did not read it, since the NY Giants were on, versus the hated Cowboys. She could have given me a quitclaim and taken the house away, for all I knew. She got her mother to sign those things, too. Heather had just turned 18 and was a senior in high school. For two years, she had tried to play with the boy's football team in high school. They just laughed at her, leaving her only to take weight-lifting as a consolation. There, the instructress confided in Heather that she out-lifted all of the young men on the football team!

On the day of her first game, I was actually upset about her playing against men, perhaps showing them up. I got really tanked up and drove that way, carting her mom. We had a terrible accident, all of it my fault. I was in relative care in the hospital, my wife in intensive care. Unfortunately, just before kickoff, Heather was told about her mom and told that she could certainly take that game off. Being the trooper that she was, it just made her all the more determined to show her 'girl power'. Heather was 18, blond, five foot seven, a slender 130 who added 20 pounds of solid muscle with weights to be a rock hard 150. Her legs were shapely and silky smooth at all times. Her thighs were both like a Sports Illustrated bikini model's AND like an NFL running back's, with those powerful muscles that provided dazzling speed and frightening power.

A determined Heather, superpowered by adrenaline and the emotions of the day, just ran through the other team. She averaged eleven yards per carry, sometimes dragging two or three of the wimpy guys on the other team with her. She ran back kickoffs, taking two of the four for touchdowns.

Before the game, all of her fellow players had ribbed her with varying degrees of hostility. None of them wanted her there. After the game, though, they all came over to compliment and support her (now that she didn't need it, of course). Her highest compliment was when the quarterback quietly asked for her to 'make a muscle for him'. She did, and her bicep didn't stop expanding until it reached a record twenty-inches. That was near champion size for a male Mr. Olympia; for a woman, it was a record.

As the quarterback felt and caressed that beautiful mountain on her arm, he squeezed it in quiet admiration. He said: "God, that's as hard as a rock...no wonder you are so fucking strong!"

After the game and two local reporters' questions, Heather bummed a ride and went to the hospital. She already knew her mom's fate but saw me. The accident had been so serious that we had to be rushed to the hospital without any accident inquiry. Heather could sense I had been drinking. Now she knew that her mom had passed away because of my being tanked up. Right then and there, she vowed that she would get revenge on this slob for my cruelties to herself and her mom, as well as revenge for my irresponsible drinking.

After four days, I had returned from the hospital and continued my recovery at home. Heather came home and went directly to the basement to lift weights for a solid two hours, as she did every other night. Tonight was different. Instead of going directly to the shower, she came into her parents' (i.e. my) room. As I lay on the bed, she came to the side of it, within inches of me. I thought it was to offer comfort. Instead, Heather was going to perform the movie, Misery, Live, in person and in living color.

Heather: "Well, daddy, you finally did it. It was one thing to have to put up with your abuse all of those years. It was yet another thing to slap and punch mom around because she was just a 'punching bag' as you told her once--her role to be a dutiful wife and absorb your punishment. All of that time, I was secretly pounding your own weights, building up my body. As I heard mom whimper from the wallop you drunkenly delivered to her mid-section, I would lay in bed, dreaming that my muscle cells were even now replicating at an incredible speed, making my muscles grow and grow and grow. Every time you slapped her around, I would secretly measure my progress, vowing revenge on you when my arms were big and strong enough. I was so surprised and relieved to see my body develop, this weak useless girlish body as you called it, insulting me for not being a boy. Well, let's both have a look-see, shall we?"

Heather: [she came real close to me, wearing a skin tight cotton t-shirt. She flexed her muscles and you could hear that sound of material being stretched to its limit, then that sound as material gives way. Finally, her biceps bulged through the sleeves, tearing them into tatters hanging limply off her magnificent arms. Her broad but feminine shoulders burst out too. Her entire t-shirt hung limply about her waist as she presented her unbelievable upper body. I had seen bodybuilding shows on TV and even two in person; I had never ever seen a physique like that. Remember that this was the culmination of over 10 years of training by her. Heather's obsession with revenge and her vow to prove that 'girl power' could be as intimidating as guy power made her spend 30 or 40 hours a month doing hard core weight-lifting. And this was in addition to the weight training for football at school.]

Heather: "According to your doctor, you were let out of the hospital early. He said you should be fine by next week. Of course, mom won't be fine, will she?" [For the first time, Heather grabbed me; she took my wrist and almost twisted it clean off; as it was, she gave me a terrible sprain and bruise. God, it's frightening how strong she was, especially if I had to bear the brunt of it.]

To my shock and surprise, but most of all embarrassment, Heather opened the covers of my convalescence bed. With her determination, she had no problems about pulling my green hospital gown open, displaying my 'unit'. This was her first real bit of revenge. The truth was: I was really tiny down there.

Heather: "Gosh, what a surprise. You are the typical bully. Sexually inadequate, you just had to hide in a liquor bottle and then hide your impotence by appearing tough. Of course, you weren't tough to other guys, only to your loyal, dedicated, trusting and relatively weak wife. But you could slap HER around, couldn't you...COULDN'T YOU?" [Heather took the opportunity of my revealed tiny unit to grab the entire 'package' and give it a terrific squeeze. She only used a fraction of her frightening power, or I would've been a eunuch. Ouch!]

Me: [trying to distract her and defuse her rage, I tried something.] "Sweetheart, let me see those muscles again; let daddy see how big and strong his angel has gotten for her daddy!" [To my surprise, she apparently bought it and made a muscle, letting me feel that mountainous right arm. The only thing lacking on that swell was a ski lodge or a cartoon image of a nuclear power plant or atomic explosion, a la Popeye.]

Heather: "Well, I hope that you enjoyed the floorshow. That will be the last time that you get to feel my twenty-inch guns. You will feel their POWER, though...oh God, will you feel their power. You see, my little loving daddy, I did something the night of your accident that you did not know. I whispered to the registered nurse attending you that I needed something done for future reference. She took two blood samples at different times, and had them time-stamped into inventory. So, my dear daddy, I only have to collect those at the hospital, filed under a secure password only I know. With those in hand, we go to a lab, then to the police. And then your insurance company sues you and the state gives you lovely free bracelets in silver, just for you. Ah yes, poetic justice, to see you put away for the cruelties to mom, especially the final cruelty, when you drove into that bridge abutment. Then you had so little conscience that you collected on mom's life insurance, never letting the company know that you were at fault and they were not liable to pay you. What a bad daddy you are! Boy, if I was to tell them about you.

Anyway, I mentioned this to put the fear of God into you, but also to let you know that you will have to answer to a lesser god, i.e. me, for your sins. Every day, fresh from lifting weights, pumping new strength and power into my body, I will dole out a tiny fraction of the abuse that you gave mom and me. We are now going to have daily 'floor shows'. I will bring girlfriends, and yes, boyfriends over, just to see that pathetic two or three inch cockie you have, powered by those massive green pea-sized balls. Just think of the fun we will have. On most days, I'm sorry to say, I won't be able to be here or to have a full floor show, but be assured, even if I drag in at 4 am, I will always have time for this."

She went to her room and brought in these small dumbbells. (small for HER, they were 50 pounds for each hand. Her normal ones downstairs were adjustable from 10 pounds to her personal best, 150 pounds in each arm.) This was going to be my daily experience unless she had even worse 'entertainment' arranged. She would come home from school, her arms looking feminine and like anyone else's. Then in my room she would use those dumbbells and I would watch in goggle-eyed amazement, with fear and dread, as her arms would transform. From her tanned, shapeless but thick arms, these Himalayan crests would emerge, like a severe ski slope, the peak of the curve, top and bottom, stretching the measuring tape to 20 inches, as she showed me. Those mountainous biceps would finally sport blue and green veining, which some people found ugly, others sexy. I was ashamed to admit to anyone, especially my tormentor, but seeing my little 'Mighty Mouse' was so exciting it almost made up for the abuse and humiliation.

Well, things couldn't get worse, or could they? I should have known that someone like Heather, on a vendetta, would plow thru my room. She found my diary! Now I was really in for it.

Talk about thorough...about going to ANY lengths to get back at me? One day I was in the shower before taking a nap. I got in and felt the oddest, coldest, clammiest thing I had ever felt. Worse, it had a hard shell. Much worse, it was moving! I opened the cover and my nightmare was crawling up my body! A damn horseshoe crab! I leaped out of bed, looking at it in horror. Who should be at the doorway, rolling in laughter, but my dominant one, Heather.

Heather: "Oh that was rich! In your diary you mentioned going to the beach, laying on the blanket, and grabbing some rays. Then you looked down and saw a nightmare, in person, and walking on your blanket. You wrote you screamed like a 2 month old baby girl and ran crying into the Atlantic. God, I couldn't be there, but today was almost as good. You have to admit, this was a novel idea on my part. I had to drive an hour each way to find one of these damn things. I'm even going to take it back...they are endangered and all. But don't worry, I might stop in the big city and pick up some new entertainment for us."

Sure enough, she went to the discount outlet for the nation's novelty and Halloween costume stores. She bought enough costumes to outfit a theatrical company. More floor shows were coming.

One time, she started the week unimaginatively with about 30 reps with those heavy dumbbells before she used her right (or was it her left?) fist to give me yet another black eye. When she came home later that day, she would study my face to 'admire her work', pretending to be sympathetic, promising that she was not going to hit me again...at least for a day.

One day, she brought her friend Alice over for tacos and to see her tiny dad in person:

Heather: "Well did I tell you; have you ever seen a more pathetic unit in your life?"

Alice: [She actually put Heather's magnifying glass near it to see, as Heather looked on in hilarity.] "Well, he's a tiny bit bigger than my brother; of course my brother Sean is only 3 months old." (They both cackled like the magpies they were.) "By the way, Heather, did you ever wonder if your sissy father actually got excited over you. I mean, when you are pumped even I get a little hot, and I'm not one of 'those' girls. But I wonder if this useless wimp wouldn't get excited over his daughter, running thru men on the football field like they weren't there, or lifting weights that he could never budge. I bet you $20 that he gets 'hard' over you!"

Heather: "You're on, bitch. But how could we tell?"

Alice: "God, that's easy. We measure him now, and then let you pump up. If he doesn't change, you win $20"

Heather: "You've got a bet, girl." [She got the same measuring tape she used for her arms. The tape showed 2 ¼ inches. She started lifting those dumbbells, 50 pounds in each arm. Those magnificent biceps rose like volcanoes from the sea. Sure enough, to Alice's amusement, my tiny cockie twitched, lurched, and attained its full stature, some 3 ½ inches of rubbery white hose.

Alice: "Face it girl-- that father of yours is not only a sissy wimp with baby equipment, but he's also a perv, getting off to the sheer musclepower of his superhero daughter."

Heather conceded defeat. Furious, she bent over me and flicked my pathetic little things with her forefinger. As a parting 'gift', she squeezed my microscopic 'family jewels', making me wince and tear up.

Wednesday and Thursday of that week were also non-events, with Heather simply beating the stuffing out of me. On Friday, she brought out the diary, noting that my entry said that I enjoyed abusing women more than my fantasy of living during slavery and getting to discipline black men.

Heather: "Well, daddy, we have a great floor show for you today. Here is Tyrone, our star receiver on the team and my new boyfriend. Ty, come in here."

This tall, maybe six foot four, exquisitely built black dude came in. I unfortunately had made many racist remarks in my diary, all of which Heather was anxious to show him. He was not smiling when he came in and didn't offer his hand.

Heather: "Daddy, since I was nice enough to round up a black person AND a female for your enjoyment—since you wrote you liked the thought of roughing them up—I think the least you could do would be to sit there and be quiet." [Ty watched in almost religious silence and total awe at Heather as she pumped up with those weights. She came over to him once pumped, letting him feel, caress, and squeeze those bulging biceps of that petite and oh so sexy daughter of mine.]

Heather: "Now daddy, since you mentioned blacks, and females, and beating up, I guess it would only be fair that we give you a beating. Now Ty here could give you a right powerful beating, but he said he's out on probation and can't do anything. But, he will watch as I give you more than a punch today; I won't hit as hard as usual, but I'm going to beat the shit out of you slowly, so you can think about mom as my fists pound you into hamburger." [To kick it off, she gave me a glancing blow with a right, an upper cut, a cross, and so on. By the end, her black boyfriend was cheering her on, imploring for her to 'hit him again...again...harder! Beat that white devil up...you go girl!']

Heather: "Now daddy, it says in your diary that you loved watching interracial porn on the web. You wrote that you were strangely fascinated by the specter of black breeding, of some sexy blonde white woman getting inseminated...knocked up...by some black stud. You wrote that the idea of some white woman heavy with black child made you ill, even though you were paying $29.95 a month of our money to watch it. Well, my pervert daddy, I am happy to tell you that you won't have to pay $30 a month anymore; today you will get to see a live presentation. Ty here (as all can see) is as black as they come. I, on the other hand, am blonde and as white as they come. Ty is going to black breed me, right in front of my racist daddy. I just want to re-assure you; I checked on my cycles and today is my peak fertility day. What about those 'pills' you put me on, 'just in case'? Well, look here (in my trash can were all of those pills, round blister packs completely unused.) OK, I think it's time for the show, don't you?"

Heather turned to Ty. She got his clothes off in record time. He stripped Heather nude and laid her on the kingsize bed right next to me. He proceeded to black breed my little girl. His cock, precisely three times my size or a full ten inches, was plowing into my little princess. She moaned obscenely and writhed sensuously on the bed. He just sawed away in and out. Finally, at the key moment, he put his huge black hands around her athletically perfectly round, small, and steel hard behind, pushed hard, and proceeded to fill her womb directly with a tidal wave of African seed. Heather was seeded, bred, and filled to overflowing. As he quietly left, Heather remained, recovering on the bed, her cunt oozing out his excess spend, the sperm laden cum dripping out for the entire six hours that she slept on the bed, leaving a big puddle that eventually dripped down the side of the bed, in two directions.