Boxing Tool

Ben

With no small amount of frustration, a small framed, lean but barely muscled despite years of hard work, man stared back at Ben from the mirror. Clothed partly in a towel from a recent shower but mostly in bruises from a recent fight. Ben pondered his next move as the feeling of shame sank deeper into him. Already in his early twenties, Ben was showing no real promise of becoming a great professional boxer like his father was, yet he continued on. A sharp pain burned at Ben's side, emanating from one of the freshly given bruises, he moved his hand to it to assess the damage while doing his best not to cry out. His last fight, although it had paid well enough had been more taxing than anticipated. His opponent had enjoyed digging his gloves into Ben's body, snapping his head back, and busting his ribs with hard hooks. If he had the time or money, Ben would have gotten himself checked up by a real doctor, but that was a dream scenario. For the time being, he would just have to be a man and take it.

Ben looked at himself in the mirror once more, forcing himself to crack a smile, an act that did nothing to dispel his permanent sad look. His arms were small, lucky to manage ten-inch biceps after a good weightlifting session. His chest, while not totally flat, did not have the look of a man's chest. His abs, if they could be called that, were damaged and lacking muscle mass. Would his father be ashamed of him? Probably.

He resisted the urge to punch the mirror several times. Instead, Ben sighed as he tried to stretch out the newest pain his body felt. He could not avoid grunting a little, but he could not complain, it was a pain that at least paid the bills. Maybe his next fight, held at a private home of some spoiled rich kid, would change things. The bout, which promised to pay more than enough money, was being sponsored by one of the richest men in the city. Ben's opponent would be the man's pretty boy son. Ben assumed it would be a pampered, fed with a silver spoon boy who had never known any real pain, suffering or sacrifice.

This could finally be it. This could be his big break. The young man forced himself to believe that in order to keep hold of a strand of hope.

The young man forced himself to believe that in order to keep hold of a strand of hope        

Henry stood, completely naked, and beheld himself in the mirror. His hand ran over his body, slowly caressing himself in an almost sensual manner. While only sixteen years old, his body gave truth to being the product of superior breeding. His arms were lean and strong, showing just the right amount of muscle when flexed. His chest was, while lightly haired, still smooth to the touch and manly, especially when he bounced his pecs. His abs, his perfect core, was already a six pack, something the ladies absolutely loved. However, his true pride was the meat pole and heavy balls that hung between his legs. His manhood was something no worthless bitch could resist or refuse.

Speaking of which...

Henry turned and looked at the woman, of whatever age, who was lying in his bed, also naked. She had been an adequate sexual partner, getting him hard and off several times, but he was already growing tired of her. After all, someone like him couldn't, no wouldn't, settle on anything less than pure perfection. Sure, the bitch was good for a dick suck and then some, but she didn't deserve anything the next day.

Clothing himself in a pair of very expensive boxers and shorts, he called for one of his many servants to "clean up the mess" so he could devote his time to more meaningful activities. As a real man, he needed to not waste his time with the lesser things in life. Moments later, loud sounds of pounding would echo in the east wing, signaling the start of the young masters training. The one thing Henry loved as much as banging random women, was boxing. He wanted to become famous in the world of boxing, a champ that would stand above all others.

A king of men, the only alpha man.

But even he knew he had to work hard and train for that, and so he did. His arms would flex, contract, and burn from his work out, but push harder and longer he would. He was a man, not a boy, not a bitch, not a worthless fucking peasant. Sweat dripped from his toned and impressive frame, while trying to cling to the hair on his head. 

 "One day" he thought, as he destroyed the punching bag in front of him "I will be the champ"      

Image was everything.

Power was everything.

Money was everything.

Mr. Featherstone had it all, because he deserved it all. He commanded respect and his considerable size helped him with that. It also didn't hurt that his bank account was absolutely loaded. He was a man who was held in high regard by the community, and with good reason. The world was at his command, at his control. He looked down on the worthless peasant stock and they looked up to him, beholding a God. The only thing that he could feel more pride on was the birth of his son. In him, in Henry, his legacy would continue. The Featherstone name would continue to command respect, power, and authority.

All was as it should be.

Mr. Featherstone smiled as the sounds of intense fighting echoed through the mansion. His son currently fancied himself a boxer, something he was all too eager to support. It was important for a man, a real man, to command respect and be able to defend himself. One never knew when the lazy poor people of this world may rise up and try to destroy their betters. While most fights favored protection, equal standards or something just as silly, his money and influence allowed his son to perfect his skills and draw blood, like a real man should. As he walked towards the dining room, he noticed a woman complaining as she was escorted out of the building. He chuckled to himself and thought of his beloved son who was becoming quite good at seducing random women to use as he pleased.

"Well of course" he said to himself, "he is my son after all. "

He had power. He had money. He had respect. And his legacy would be secure in Henry. What more could he ask for?

"Nothing", he answered to himself. He could ask for nothing more. The man sat down at the head of the dining room table and lit a cigar as he waited for his food to be brought in. The phone suddenly rang, disturbing his peace, but he answered it and was glad of it. He had been waiting for this call. It was about his son's newest present.

Art by Jack Ray
Twitter:
https://twitter.com/JackRay85674939?s=20
Facebook:
https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100009316664767