Calamity Jane
By Eko

Psycho Jane. Killer Jane. Manic Jane. Call her by any name, and it fits. Luckily (for me), she’s not a crazy hag you could punch on the face in a bar brawl because you thought you’d hit an ugly man. Jane Turner is beauti…, no, stunning. Five feet eight inches of physical finesse, crowned with beautiful, neck length brown hair, oval face, and grey eyes. Her eyes, however, give the impression away. They have the glare of the devil.

I owed Jane big time, since she beat up bullies in the third grade. Then we got separated after she was expelled for that fight – where she twisted a bully’s dick and laughing while a big fat boy was wailing in tears, crying for mommy. That afternoon was also the first time I saw her evil eyes.

Next thing I knew, I met her in Florida. We traded stories. Mine was of cloud computing. Hers was war story. She went with the Army to Iraq. Even like normal life in America, there were good days and bad days. Of course, most people’s bad days don’t involve ears ringing due to mortar attack or seeing someone’s limb severed.

Some things don’t change. She’s been discharged for misconduct. I wondered if she was involving in heavy-handed interrogation or something like that, but I refrained from asking for my own good. Over some more booze, I was able to get her into the bed. Where I was tortured.

She controlled me with her stout loins and her evil glare and smirk. She slapped me, insulted me, and kicked my balls. She milked me dry with her hand and forced me to eat her kitty – while pulling my hair and burying my face deeply, to the point that I understood what was that dune monster in Return of the Jedi about. She also gave me one hell of a ride – and it was a worthy admission considering I got a hot girl with a military-grade bod.

Two years later, we bumped into each other again back in Texas. At that time I was already with Stephanie. First I was afraid that Jane, for some crazy reason, might be angry at Steph, but she was perfectly content with it. At least the fact that I’ve had a girlfriend spared me from another chance of becoming her bitch.

If there’s no sex, there’d be violence. For a reason I wouldn’t discuss, I watched a women boxing night with some buddies. The sexy, girly type, not really the real one. Since Stephanie is too civilized for this kind of male entertainment, and I wanted to flaunt my personal Lara Croft, I brought Jane along. My pals could stop ogling at her. All she had to do was looking at them.

Jane was bored with the fights. We weren’t that interested either. Still, seeing scantily clad girls, no matter how gaudy they were, screaming and rolling before your eyes beat pole dancing. Finally Jane stood up – I thought she was leaving – but then she walked to the slimy man by the ringside and talking to him.
He talked to another guy and Jane got her wishes. The moonlighting stripper excused as the referee announced that the next fight was involving an audience against Jackie. The audience cheered, while a buddy said to me that Jane is better to watch out – Jackie is not a pushover.

All Jane had to do was to open her shirt and got a pair of gloves. Her jeans were seen as a disadvantage for her, and so did her brown shoes. After all, her feet are only used for stepping, not kicking. A corner assistant was provided for her. Jackie came in with the regulars chanting up her name. She was a tanned, pony-tailed blonde with the body of WWE Diva (Stacy Keibler, not Trish Stratus kind), dressed in white mini boxing short. Her tits were covered with uh, some kind of g-string for boobs? And finally, a pair of red gloves and white boxing boots.

The standard rules of boxing apply – no biting, punch below the belt, etc. etc. When the bell rang, Jane made some kind of Muhammad Ali’s impression. She danced and taunted Jackie. The resident replied by bitching her, while walking closer and then striking. Jane, however, ducked her one-two jab and slammed an uppercut to Jackie’s gut. Then she swung a right hook across her jaw. The supposed pit boss went down upon first contact.

“Shit! Where did she learn to fight, man?” An astonished co-worker asked me.
“Iraq, I guess.”
“No shit! They also do catfight over there?”
“Hopefully so.”

Jackie was back on her feet and tried to be more strategic. She tried to limit Jane’s free space and pushed her to the corner. Then she launched some jabs, inviting Jane to reply. Jackie and other girls here seemed used to have their boobs targeted by their opponents, and she wished that Jane did the same.

Unfortunately, Jane faked it. When Jackie made her cover for her right melon, Jane pulled back her punch and shuffled backward, and in the split second after Jackie opened her defense, Jane leapt and hit her left tits full force.

“AAAHHH!” the boxer screamed, instinctively holding her chest with her left glove. In a flash Jane pushed Jackie’s right arm (is that legal? I never seen it on TV) and burst Jackie’s other globe, again with her right. With such force that the bra thong (okay, very very skimpy tits cover) left its position.

“On fire,” Jane chuckled. Then she threw a bomb – an uppercut to Jackie’s lower belly, just by the belt. “GAAAWWWHHHHH!” Jackie wallowed in pure agony. Lucky for Jackie, the rules said that since she had dropped her body to the floor, Jane was not allowed to launch another attack. Jackie couldn’t go up. During the count-out she was just holding her chest and lower belly. The referee lifted Jane’s arm up. All she gave to the audience was a cold smile.

The guys brought up drink for her but she came home alone. Good for my dignity, none of them was good enough for Jane – she came home alone. So she has standard and in Florida I was up for that. The downside was for Stephanie – maybe testosterone surge or because of remembering Jane’s treatment at me, the next time I and Stephanie had sex I was bit rough on her.