Andrea Pistons

While I work on the next installment of the serial, here's a short subject!

I first saw Andrea "Pistons" Pistone, a raven haired, big tited girl of medium height, in a bar on Route 46. I'd say it was a year before our match. She was the star fighter among a group of women who worked a circuit of bars and clubs in northern New Jersey.
While Andrea occasionally fought other women, mixed bouts were her specialty and obvious passion. No one could remember her losing a fight to a guy. Not that most of the competition in those smoky highway dives were in prime shape. They were horny drunks who paid a hundred dollars to have Andrea clobber them until they abruptly found themselves either on the canvas, sprawled on a couch outside the ring or surrounded by very concerned looking EMTs.
I walked in at the end of Andrea's fourth match, too late to sign up for a fight. It didn't matter much; my girl Desiree was with me. Dez had given up boxing herself because she was pregnant with our first child and was not temperamentally inclined toward seeing her boyfriend making close physical contact with a hot female boxer.
Dez and I cheered along with most of the females at the bar for Andrea as she prepared to end the bout. Her fists moved like the cylinders of her nickname, pounding the guy, well built and in his early 20s, with lefts and rights to his head and body.
Then Andrea stepped back to scrutinize her work. The guy barely hung on the ropes, knees buckled, eyes opening and closing. Andrea slugged him in the gut, thrilled to see her victim double over. A "WHAP!" echoed around the bar, followed by the crash of his inert body to the canvas.
A climax of cheers greeted the ref's "10...you are out!"
We watched Andrea do her victory strut from the ring.
"Think you could take her, Peter, honey?" Dez asked me, sipping her coke, as we enjoyed the leg show Andrea was giving the spectators.
"I'd knock out by round three," I answered.
Dez smiled at the exiting fighter. "Good night, mama!" Dez sighed.

The birth of our daughter Jill didn't leave much time to daydream about the return of Andrea. The list of fighters I trained had grown in the months that passed and Dez, on maternity leave from her office job, had taken quickly to motherhood. One of the other trainers at my gym told me Andrea was back on the boxing circuit and would be in our area in two weeks.
That night I told Dez she needed a little vacation and should visit her sister Serena, who had yet to see baby Jill, in Cape May. Dez left with Jill the weekend Andrea arrived in town.

As the third of five men to fight Andrea that night, I watched my two predecessors carried out of the squared circle, limp and spark out in the arms of the female attendants. Andrea looked at me from her corner, prepared to leave me in the same condition.
"Ready to do this, hammer dick?" Andrea asked me as we circled each other, throwing punches.
"You don't know for how long!" I answered.
As we bashed each other, I pressed against Andrea as much as possible, forcing her into a corner and delivering lefts and rights to her head and torso. Andrea figured out my plans to knock her out quickly as possible and kept her distance, only attacking when she could freely dart in and away.
"Doing good, Peter, for a horn dog about to take a nap!" Andrea smiled like a panther ready to strike.
My right hook jolted the side of Andrea's face.
Andrea's eyes went wide from shock and sharp pain. The left upper cut detonated on her chin in mid stagger and I delivered a pair of left-right combos to the gut.
I watched the almost sensual beauty of Andrea crouched over, arms instinctively protecting her midsection. My from the floor upper cut bounced Andrea off the ropes and left her standing flat footed right in front of me.
Male voices demanded that I finish her, but another punch would be pointless.
The irises in Andrea's eyes vanished into her head. Her entire body folded inward and then slammed to the canvas.
Completely unconscious and supine, Andrea was face down, mouth barely open, revealing a small portion of her pink tongue.
Screams came from all over the bar. I was the first opponent, male or female, to put Andrea to sleep in the ring.
Andrea burbled a few names over and over, dreaming in her deep slumber. The dejected male spectators cursed loudly when the bell ended the count at "six."
I watched, intensely aroused, the out cold Andrea lifted from the canvas, legs and forearms swaying, and carried to her corner. The ref shoved me back to my chair, where I watched the female attendants work to revive Andrea.