Defending His Right

Screaming. His wife screaming, doubled over the kitchen table, her pants pushed down, with the giant looming behind her.

The slapping sounds, the slurps coming from her body's lubrication as it took the rapist's cock deep into her vagina.

And his own whimpering. The goddamn whimpering was what haunted him the most. Over and over again, little plaintive cries for help. They were the testament to his weakness, and ultimately they would be the thing which woke him from this nightmare night after night.

Davis Stockton woke to the familiar darkness of his bedroom. His skin crawled and his stomach churned as he struggled to free himself of the nightmare. It had been pursuing him for two weeks now, every night since it had happened.

He looked to his left, where his wife lay, her own eyes staring wide open at the window. She did that pretty often now. Just lay awake all night long, staring out the window, her eyes silent and her body tensed. A wave of guilt washed over Davis and replaced his own fear.

He didn't bother talking to her, comforting her, or encouraging her. He had tried that before and she had rewarded him with a vicious critique of his masculinity. Davis couldn't talk to her after that. She was right and he knew it. He knew that he could have nothing to say until he could somehow prove himself capable of changing what had happened.

But he had no idea how.

Jasmine Stockton, his wife, was haunted by the same nightmare that Davis was. They had been coming home from a night out with friends when the two men had appeared behind them in the stair well of their apartment complex. Their black masks and clothing had told the couple all they needed to know about their purpose. Instead of fighting back, Davis had crumbled, shrinking down on the stairs his hands covering his head.

She could still remember the sound of the men chuckling as they pushed her into the unlit interior of their home and the berated terms they used to describe the man who had promised her protection, provision, and love. Instead he had sat there, watching, as they had taken her again and again and again. He whimpered the whole time. Little squeaky cries of a child in trouble.

They had raped her. Fucked her over and over, until she had succumbed, until her body had surrendered to the natural desires it housed. And then they had humiliated her with her own inability to resist. Afterwards they had humiliated her with her husband. They had berated her for marrying such a pussy, for choosing such a man as her guardian. They had told her he was not a man at all. That they were better for her, that she would never be able to forget how much of a bitch he had been.

And they were right. All she could think of was his whimpering, of his begging for mercy as they had fucked his wife. She had been raped! Not him! Why should he beg for mercy when they just left him to whimper. They were unarmed even! No gun, no knife, just their strong arms and bodies. That was all it took for Davis to fold.

Jasmine was unsure if she could ever look at him the same again. Whenever he spoke now, she leveled him with repeated reminders of his failings, of his inconsistencies, and his inabilities. She was his superior. She had survived the attack and had almost been able to refuse them their demands. But Davis, he was worthless.

Incapable of returning to sleep, the devastated and crumpled image of a man rose from his bed and retreated to the safety of the internet. There he was anonymous and there he could be strong again. He could defend his spouse and take from others what he wanted. He wasn't just the pussy who had whimpered.

Davis beat himself off to stories of powerful men commanding their wives to behave like whores, while foiling the machinations of lesser beings. It was in one such story that he would find his inspiration. Inspiration for what he hoped would be a changed life.

Two days would pass, sunlit hours filled by monotonous work and evenings filled by a cold separation between he and his wife. But he was certain that with Saturday morning, his life would change.

It would not come soon enough, but when it did, Davis was ready. He and Jasmine had saved up plenty of money since the rape, they never went out and they never spent anything. There was just no point to it. So Davis had used some of the stagnant cash flow to purchase gear and pay for the first set of lessons. Excitedly the young man would leave his apartment just as the sun peaked above the sky and head to the address directed.

The words on the brochures and web page ran through his head. Mixed martial arts. Strength, courage, and control. Seven time world champion. Physique, defense, offense. Dominant. Powerful. They swept him off his feet like a romance novel would affect a middle aged woman. It seemed like perhaps there was something more out there and Davis was glad for the renewal of hope.

The building was largely nondescript and run down. Davis liked it though, it reminded him of a movie about an unlikely common man who won the boxing title. "Stony" or something. Its brick façade was aging, obviously in disrepair, and the large windows were dirty and did not look like they had been ever washed. Vinyl lettering decorated the windows, repeating the mantra of the weak- be strong, be able, stand up for yourself, take what's yours. With a grin of self-assurance, the young man entered the glass door. The black paint on the window's interior had separated him from a different world.

Straight ahead, a huge seeming boxing ring occupied center stage, taking over his field of vision and dismissing the various other athletic implements that took up floor space. All he could focus on was that boxing ring; its taut red, white, and blue ropes, heavy grey matting, and the diamond cut steel steps that entered from each corner. Davis' heart raced at the possibility that this was the start of something new. His excitement betrayed him, and to the man watching from behind the glass in the rear office, he looked like all the others.

He had been teaching the practice for many years. His glory days as a fighter and as a founder of the brutal art form were behind him. Instead the sport had dumped him and forgotten his name when he had grown older and the young grew more capable. But that was how things should be. The strong thrive, and the weak exist. This gym had become his existence, because it allowed him at times to forget his own weakness, and prove that he was still stronger, better, more capable then others. And the young man who called himself Davis Stockton looked to be like all the others. He was excited by the opportunity.

With a harsh smirk, he rose from his fading leather chair and strode through the door.

"Davis?"

Davis looked up when he heard his name called. From the back of the room, a grey haired man called. He was a little disappointed. He had hoped that his trainer would be more impressive. But as he approached from around the ring, he realized that the hair color of this man was hardly an indicator of his strength. There was something in the stance he took, in the distance his shoulder's covered, that belied power. Davis was reminded of the stance that his attackers had taken when they had taunted him. They had been strong like this man.

"John," he hesitantly asked, his voice cracking as it trailed off.

John just grinned and gave him a nod of his head. This guy was prey and nothing more. He had to resist the urge to laugh in his face. As the man approached, John found himself more and more disappointed. He was tall and lanky, his body too thin for his height, and his movements ungainly and unpracticed. And the smile on his face was as timid as his voice had been.

When they drew near the two men shook hands, friendly and forced smiles occupying their faces.

Davis signed his papers eagerly, unable to wait for his chance to prove the hidden talent he had buried inside. John pointed him towards a changing room/ rest room and waited until he returned.

The pussy's stuff was brand new John recognized as Davis stepped from the rest room. He probably hadn't even worked out in years. The way the too small t-shirt clung to his slim frame was disturbing and his shorts were too shiny and too pretty for this sort of thing. And the pads he wore looked stiff and bulky, not suited for quick movements or reflexes. John decided on a more severe introduction of the sport and its finer points.

"C'mon. Get up here. You've only got an hour and a half lesson today. And you're wasting time," John called out.

Davis immediately moved quickly to try and appease the powerful old man who had promised such greatness. In doing so, the bulky ankle pads he wore caused his foot to be less reflexive and his first step into the ring proved to be his last for the lesson. He had raised his right foot as he had jogged up the stairs and had not been able to bend it enough to get traction. Instead he ended up kicking his big toe into the steel steps, tripping, and face planting against the edge of the mat. For several minutes the world has spun and his new instructor had peered down at him, checking for a concussion.

By the time the new customer had left, John was dying from restraining his laughter. He had some pansies who folded on the first visit, but this was the first one who had managed to KO themselves without getting in it. He was certain that this would be the last visit from the young man. If it wasn't John was certain that there would be plenty more entertainment to come.

When he arrived home, Davis discovered that Jasmine was up already and looking for a fight. The swollen bulge underneath his eye and the split lip he sported were certain to make for an interesting discussion.

"Where in the hell have you been," his lithe firecracker wife yelled.

"I went out," he replied

"Out where?!"

"Just out!"

"Don't fucking yell at me! You're the one who left. Fucking pussy!"

She had not spoken like that before the rape. Jasmine had been gentle, cute, and sweet, her exotic looks giving her an intensely sexual appearance, but her personality's openness and friendly mannerisms knocking it back a notch or too. Davis was always incredibly stung to hear her swear now. The first time had been the night she had been attacked. She had sworn at her attackers, then at him, then at herself when she had responded to their repeated penetrations and ministrations.

"Don't call me that!"

"Call you what? A pussy? A pussy would be able to recognize that marriage is a two way street. Its called communication. A pussy wouldn't have just left in the morning without a note or word abut where they were going. A pussy wouldn't just stand there and not say where they were. Course, no one here doubts the fact that you're a pussy!"

Jasmine was on a roll. Her blood pressure was up and her whole body was tensed with anger. Davis had all this and more coming to him.

"Don't you have anything to say for yourself, Davis? Do you want to call your mother again? Huh? How 'bout it? Should I get the phone for poor little Davis?"

"Fuck you! Fuck you! I'm tired of your shit, Jasmine! I was out at the gym! I have a martial arts instructor. That's were this black eye came from! I know I fucked up, okay! I know I let you down! But I'm trying to do something about it. How do you think I feel? How humiliated and violated do you think I feel, Jazzy?" Davis had not ever yelled back. Perhaps just going to the gym had changed something inside him.

Silenced by his violent outburst, Jasmine fell silent for the first time. She had not heard Davis swear or yell, ever. But beneath the suddenly quiet exterior, all her anger and humiliation still boiled. What right did he have to be violated? The dicks had been in her! She had been the one who was assaulted. He had just sat there and whimpered.

For a few moments she glared at him, her anger ebbing and cooling.

"You were at the gym? Doing martial arts?" Davis detected the interest in her voice.

"Yeah. It was my first time. If it checked out I was going to get us both memberships," he lied. He wanted to be the strong one and didn't want his wife there until he was capable of something.

"And?"

"And.... Well, its cool. It'll be good. I was going to talk to you about it and sign you up if you want."

"Good." With that, Jasmine pivoted and left the room. She took a long shower, replaying her assault with the suddenly added element of her own strength and self-defense being much better. Davis would still whimper no doubt, huddled in a corner, while his petite wife beat the crap out of the men who had dared to assault her. For the first time in weeks, she left the shower feeling clean, better then when she had climbed in.

The next appointment was scheduled for a Friday afternoon, once the couple was off work. They would meet there, take the lessons, and then go home separately. John was waiting at the scheduled time and was surprised to see the door open and a beautiful young woman enter.

Davis had called to inform him that his wife would be joining them for their lessons, but John had expected much less from the pansy. Instead, the woman who entered the gym and hastily crossed its padded floors, was a siren.

She was shorter then John, approximately five foot seven, her thin body perfectly balanced between fitness and femininity. John found his older single male body responding to the closeness he would have to this woman. Her breasts were full and round and stood firmly atop her chest. The sports bra she wore now flattened them a bit, but her nipples were still evident beneath the top. And her short spandex bottoms displayed the other portion of her fantastic assets. John wished that he were her husband. He would fuck her a million ways to none. He had to adjust himself before she entered the office where he stood. His hand was in front of him and waiting as soon as she crossed the threshold.

Jazzy had found the place easily enough, but unlike Davis she had not been impressed by the slightly deteriorated surroundings. And the boxing ring and few other exercise implements did not make a gym necessarily. She was a little disappointed in herself for believe that her husband could have actually found a cure for her self-loathing and spite for him. The gym owner and her instructor changed that opinion.

When she entered the office, she had nearly run into him. He was just over six feet tall, slightly shorter then Davis, but built like a real man. He had a thick neck that slid into broad shoulders and a muscular chest and arms. His stance belied power and the cold way his eyes evaluated her as if she weren't aware of his gaze spoke of self-assurance. At first she was put off by the way his eyes roamed her body while they talked, but Jazzy was surprised to find herself flattered and gladdened by it.

To her it meant he did not care what she thought of him. He was enough. His personality, his strength, his accomplishments, they were enough. He owned this area and everything in it. Perhaps that caused her to be a little more open with her life then what was necessary.

For half an hour they would talk, John almost always quiet, his gaze prompting further explanation from the raven-haired beauty who sat opposite him in her workout clothing. Jazzy found her voice dropping a few decibels as she described her life, and the event that had driven she and her husband to the gym. Once she had managed to spill everything on how it had made her feel, he had encouraged her, telling her what he could do for her. John had given her the perfect medicine- he had made her feel like she was capable of taking care of herself, or that she would be with him. He told her that she would need to be tough, that the lessons were not easy to learn, but that when she did learn them, she would not need Davis or anyone else to care for her.

Something in that statement had made her a little too excited. The idea of being capable of protecting herself was a little to sweet. Some of the bitterness of her rape no doubt played into that, but she had not heard it from someone else, as if it was logical and rational to not need him.

John's opinion of Davis had continued to drop as he heard Jasmine Stockton's description of her assault, and her husband's response. He could not imagine standing by as another man took his wife forcefully and then berated him. He would have either killed the man or died trying. He had told Jasmine so- that he would not have allowed it, and that with him, it would not have happened. He knew from his years of experience that self defense could be a form of therapy or healing, and that what he was saying was wrong. But looking at the skimpy form fitting outfit she wore made John think differently than he normally would. Secretly he wished he could take her, as those men had, and make poor Davis whimper once more as his wife cried out for more.

His erection was just getting to be a little too intense when Davis entered the gym. He had seen his wife's car out front and felt terrible for being late, but rush hour traffic was impossible to navigate this time of day. He didn't bother entering the office until he had changed once more into his gear and come out of the restroom. By the time he had finished, Jasmine and John were already waiting for him in the ring.

Davis was eager to prove himself after his embarrassing tumble the previous day and volunteered to spar first with the shorter, but stronger man. He thought that his youth and height would matter, as fight commentators always mentioned. To his dismay, height and youth matter when you are both professional fighters.

He and John had adopted their fighting stance, legs slightly offset and arms raised in front of their faces.

"Just strike however you want to. I won't strike back, just defend myself."

Davis danced around a bit more, trying to look like the fighters he witnessed on Pay Per View. When he saw John's stance relax a bit and his arms lower slightly he dove forward, his long slender arm pointed in front of him like a javelin and his glove flying forward.

In a flash, he was face down on the ground a knee driven into his back. He wasn't even sure what had happened, but Jasmine snickered in the background. Apparently he wasn't at such an advantage as he had thought. John helped him to his feet and reset his stance and encouraged him to try once more. Davis decided that perhaps striking with his feet would be better. Dancing around once more and waiting for what he perceived to be a tell tale sign of softening, he flung one of his long legs around in a kick towards the waist.

This time, he was able to see what happened in painful, jarring detail. The moment that Davis' foot was in the air and incapable of stopping, John stepped inside of his legs, his body moving swiftly and smoothly. Before Davis could connect even his knee into the man's hip, a swift sweep of the ankle and a forceful shove had pounded him into the ground. The world spun momentarily and stars flinched in and out of existence at the periphery of his vision. Once again the tinkling laughter of his wife filled his mind.

Not waiting to have John tell him to get up, a hot tempered Davis lurched to his feet and charged forward. The older fighter simply sidestepped him and lifted his knee. Davis' own momentum carried him into the bony extension and the wind left his gut with a whoosh. Gasping for air, Davis doubled up and stumbled into a corner. Jasmine was laughing unrestrained now, emphasizing his weakness. Enraged, and still out of breath, Davis turned red faced towards John and started to swing his arms wildly.

The repeat world champion just smacked his hands away, barely even moving his torso. Davis tried launching a knee when the last of his right hooks was batted down like it was thrown by a child. John grabbed his foot as it rose and used Davis' bent leg and its limited range of movement to launch him into the air. In a surreal moment, Davis watched as the lights disappeared from view and he completed his flip face first into the mat. Humiliated, his nose bleeding, and most of his body aching from the heavy impacts, he rolled over.