Punch Drunk: Black Alpha Male Dominates Submissive White Couple

by Felicity Fleming

  Punch Drunk

  By Felicity Fleming

  Copyright © 2015 by Felicity Fleming

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Similarly, this publication cannot be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which in it published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  WARNING!

  This romance/erotica book contains scenes of an EXPLICIT SEXUAL NATURE. It is not intended to be read by audiences younger than 18 years of age and the subject may be offensive to people of a sensitive disposition.

  For those of you who like that kind of thing – ENJOY!

  Love,

  Felicity

  CONTENTS:

  MAIN STORY:

  Punch Drunk

  BONUS STORY:

  Bareback Behind Bars

  SNEAK PEAK:

  Amy Gets Examined

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  Punch Drunk

  Chapter One

  Oliver Adami wasn’t satisfied.

  When he’d entered the octagon that night, the huge, African MMA fighter had intended to break his opponent. Mika Romanov was a surly, pale thug from the wrong side of Moscow, and Oliver had been looking forward to getting his hand hands on the smaller fighter and folding him like human origami.

  He’d anticipated watching Romanov desperately tap out as he lay beneath him, all while Oliver bent his body in the cruel and unusual ways that nature had never intended. That mental image alone burned with almost erotic intensity inside Oliver’s head.

  But, instead, Romanov had made a rookie mistake. Within the first minute of the first round, he’d tried to take a swing at Oliver and left his whole left side open – and BLAM! That’s when Oliver had taken the smaller man clean off his feet with a punch that had the force of a freight train behind it.

  Romanov had gone down like a sack of potatoes. TKO – total knock out – in 41 seconds.

  The crowd had gone wild, of course – it had made for a spectacular fight. Throw in the fact that Romanov was largely considered a thuggish Russian brute – the ‘heel’ of the match – and it almost seemed like poetic justice had been served.

  But for Oliver, he’d had his victory robbed from him. Where was the sport in a TKO? He should have been making Romanov beg for mercy instead.

  The post-match formalities were over quickly. The referee tried to raise Oliver’s hand over his head, but that wasn’t easy given that the African fighter towered nine inches over the ref. The ref – once a noted MMA fighter in his own right – looked like a child standing next to the 6’9”, 400lb super-heavy-weight strongman.

  Photos were snapped. Somebody shoved a camera in Oliver’s face, and he couldn’t even remember what he said to the crowds watching on TV. All he really remembered was being led out of the ring, down the stairs, and hearing that Romanov was awake, and suffering from concussion.

  The enormous fighter had snorted when he’d heard that: Good.

  But that burning dissatisfaction remained. As Oliver was led back to his dingy, cinderblock dressing room, he felt almost antsy about it. He’d got the MMA equivalent of blue balls – and Romanov had been the cage-match equivalent of a one-pump chump.

  His trainer, Obami, had welcomed Oliver back into the dressing room and passed the enormous fighter an ice-cold 24-ounce bottle of Tusker and a towel.

  “You alright, champ?” Obami asked, reaching up to thump Oliver on one of his enormous shoulders. “That was one hell of a fight. One for the record books, I think.”

  Oliver shrugged. Sipping his beer, he started peeling off his gloves and wiping the sweat from his brow.

  “I don’t like it when it’s too easy,” the African explained, in his heavy Kenyan accent. “When are they going to find me somebody who can put up a real fight?”

  “Ha!” Obami laughed nervously, collecting the sweaty gloves and ropes of tape Oliver handed him. “It ain’t easy finding people willing to fight you, Oliver. Especially not the way you keep knocking ‘em down.”

  Oliver snorted again. He drained the bottle of beer, and reached out his hand silently for another. Obami popped the top and handed it to him nervously.

  “So we’ll go out and get something to eat in a little while,” his trainer grinned. “I told the chop house around the corner to prepare steaks and beer for five people.”

  Oliver looked at Obami, and did some calculations in his head.

  “Who are the other three people?”

  “There are no other three people,” Obami explained. Oliver snorted. It was like his trainer knew his appetite better than he even did himself.

  Satisfied by Oliver’s nod, Obami suggested: “Why don’t you grab a shower, and then I’ve got one meet-and-greet you’ve got to sit through before we can go.”

  The towering African rolled his eyes.

  A ‘meet-and-greet.’ Another stupid publicity hoop the championship was making him jump though. Some kid with cancer, or a pre-teen who’d won a competition off the back of a cereal box, would show up in his dressing room and Oliver would have to sign merchandise, pose for photos and act all friendly and nice for fifteen minutes.

  Oliver drained his second beer. He wasn’t exactly the ‘friendly’ type.

  “Wash up. I’ll bring ‘em in about fifteen minutes – okay?”

  Tossing the empty beer into the trash can in the corner, Oliver snatched another 24-oz Tusker and popped the top with his teeth. He drained almost half of it in two long, slow swallows.

  “Sure,” the big African nodded. “And grab me some more beer when you come.”

  And then, totally without self-consciousness, the towering African fighter stripped off his t-shirt and shorts ready for his shower. He acted like Obami wasn’t even in the room.

  But he was, and as Oliver stripped Obami backed nervously towards the door.

  It wasn’t Oliver’s enormous shoulders, or bear-like chest that intimidated him. It was the fact that the sweaty super-heavyweight fighter had a big, black cock and balls swinging between his meaty thighs that a thoroughbred would have been proud of.

  “Ahem,” Obami scrabbled desperately for the door, as Oliver drained his third beer, and idly scratched his heavy, goose-egg sized balls. “I-I’ll be back. I’ll knock before I come in,” he added, “to make sure you’re decent.”

  Oliver rolled his eyes as he heard this, and watched Obami leave his dressing room with a sneer.

  Not only did he have to sign shit, and smile for the camera. Those assholes who did the publicity for this championship insisted he wear pants during it all, as well.

  Chapter Two

  If you’d asked Keri where she’d wanted to spend her 10-year Wedding Anniversary, a grubby bar in a sports stadium in the ci
ty would NOT have been her first answer.

  But the look on her husband’s face made it all worthwhile. Ross was so excited, he could hardly sit still.

  “I can’t fucking believe it, Keri,” her husband grinned at the pretty blonde, practically squirming on his stool like 6-year-old. “I’m going to actually meet him.”

  Keri grinned, and leaned over to kiss him.

  “Yes, you are,” she purred, pressing her lips against his cheek. “Happy anniversary, darling!”

  It had taken weeks of planning to get this to happen, but Keri had known Ross would love it. Great seats for the MMA championship and an exclusive meet-and-greet with Ross’s favorite fighter afterwards.

  Oliver Adami – the African Hardwood, they called him.

  Keri was just pleased he’d won. Surely shaking hands and signing posters must be drag if you’d just had your ass handed to you by another fighter!

  But the moment she’d laid eyes on Oliver Adami earlier that evening – swaggering into the octagon like a giant – she’d known he couldn’t lose.

  He was 400lbs of rippling, black, African muscle – a championship strongman, and two years running as ‘Kenya’s Strongest Man.’ The guy he was fighting – a mean-looking 270lb boxer called Romanov – was like a child standing next to Oliver – and Keri hadn’t been remotely surprised when Oliver had swatted him aside like he was a fly.

  Ross’s 27-year-old wife had never been remotely into MMA – that had always been her husband’s thing. But she’d had to admit that she’d been wowed by her first live fight.

  What a spectacle – so much more vicious and real than all that fake WWE wrestling shit, and infinitely more interesting than boxing.

  And then, of course, there’d been Oliver himself.

  Jesus, what a man!

  One of the reasons Keri had always been cool with watching the MMA fights with Ross was because the fight circuit offered up a lot of lovely eye-candy for a girl to enjoy. She wasn’t really into watching guys beat the shit out of each other – but Keri didn’t exactly complain about seeing shirtless dudes wrestling in a ring together.

  But this Oliver guy? He was something else.

  Nearly seven feet tall and, Keri swore, just as wide at the shoulders, he was dark-skinned, and oozing masculinity. He looked like a something out of African legend – he was truly more gorilla than man.

  Keri had seen MMA fighters with biceps thicker than her thighs before – but Oliver had arms so big, they were practically wider than her waist! And with his sculpted chest and meaty thighs, he looked like the stuff of legend. An ebony, African God, swaggering about amidst mere mortals.

  Keri had to admit that watching this towering African brute made her panties damp.

  “Shit, this is an incredible surprise, honey,” Ross grinned, kissing Keri again, and breaking her from her less-than-pure thoughts about Oliver. “I just wish I’d have done something as special for you!”

  Keri laughed: “You bought me that necklace. That was sweet.” As she squeezed her husband’s hand across the table, Keri added: “Besides, seeing you so excited is kind of like a present for me, too.”

  Ross grinned, and it made his wife’s heart sing proudly.

  Just then, a discreet cough from behind them caught the couple’s attention. Turning in their seats, Keri and Ross saw Obami – Oliver’s trainer – standing patiently behind her shoulder.

  “I think Mr. Adami will be ready to see you now,” he nodded.

  “Oh, my God,” Ross grinned, scooping up the posters and merchandize he’d brought for Oliver to sign. “It’s really happening.”

  Obami looked at Ross’s huge pile of MMA gear with concern.

  “Yes,” he said dryly, leading the husband and wife towards a doorway marked Authorized Personnel Only. “I just ask that you be a little patient with Mr. Adami. As you can understand, he’s had a busy day – and he might be a little tired and subdued as a result.”

  “Oh, we’ll be on our best behavior,” Ross promised. “I’m just excited at the chance to meet him.”

  And, with that, Obami led them to a nondescript door in a darkened corridor, with a printed sheet on it saying “Oliver Adami, Dressing Room.”

  Obami nodded.

  “You decent in there, Oliver?”

  Ross reached over and squeezed Keri’s hand, looking at his wife excitedly.

  “I’m hardly decent,” came the booming reply, and then the door to the dressing room swung open.

  Keri nearly swooned. There, in a white bath robe, towering above them, was the enormous MMA fighter.

  “But why don’t you come in anyway?”

  Chapter Three

  Oliver had an appetite.

  It wasn’t for beer – four 24-ounce bottles of Tusker had taken the edge off that. It wasn’t for food, either. He was planning on wolfing down 64-ounces of ribeye when Obami came to take him to dinner.

  No, he had an appetite for something more intangible than that: Domination.

  A couple of minutes earlier, when he’d been soaping the sweat and blood off himself in the shower, Oliver had almost been overcome by the urge to jerk off. If he’d done so, he’d have done it thinking about Mika Romanov. Nothing sexual, of course – just the idea of pinning the cocky Russian asshole to the mat, and bending him until he screamed. That image alone was enough to make Oliver’s huge, black cock swell.

  But Obami’s knock on the door had disturbed the looming African before he could do that – and the moment Oliver had staggered out of the shower, thrown on a robe and opened the door to his dressing room, another type of appetite had overwhelmed him instead.

  “Good evening,” the towering African boomed, looking down at the husband and wife eagerly awaiting their chance to meet him.

  It was the wife – a pretty, slip of a blonde – that had whetted another appetite inside of him.

  Now subtlety wasn’t exactly Oliver’s strong suit. The fact that he could lift a car, or break a man’s jaw with the flick of his finger, had relieved him of much of the requirement to be ‘subtle.’

  But the moment he saw this petite little creature (face it, all women were petite compared to him) he decided that there was another submission he could fight for tonight – and this time, a lucky TKO wouldn’t spoil his enjoyment of it.

  “Oliver, this is Mr. and Mrs. Thompson,” Obami introduced the couple. “They bought your meet-and-greet in that online auction.”

  “The one for cancer?”

  “The other one.”

  “The other one for cancer?”

  “That’s right.”

  Oliver grinned, and gazed down on the husband and wife like a wolf eying up two particularly tasty-looking lambs.

  “Why don’t you come in,” the fighter opened the door wide. “Obami, why don’t you go and check on our car for us?”

  Obami nodded. He’d sat through so many meet-and-greets that he was happy to skip this one. Nevertheless, he did get a momentary twang of curiosity when he realized that Oliver was actively trying to get rid of him.

  “Now, you be nice, Oliver,” his trainer warned him, as he closed the door on the looming fighter and the young husband and wife. “They paid to meet you.”

  “Oh, don’t worry,” Oliver grinned. “I’ll be sure to give them their money’s worth.”

  Chapter Four

  Oh, my God, thought Keri. He’s even bigger up close!

  The moment the door to Oliver’s dressing room had swung open, Keri had been forced to crane her neck back to look at him. The enormous, muscular African towered over her and Ross – so tall half his face was hidden behind the top of the doorframe.

  “Why don’t you come in,” he boomed, in his thick African accent.

  Ross gave Keri and excited grin, and led her inside the dressing room.

  It was hardly something out of Hollywood. Bare cinderblock walls were matched with robust, steel and plastic furniture. A shower cubicle stood in the corner, and from the pools of water and
towels littered on the floor, it was clear Oliver had just finished showering.

  That explained why he stood there in nothing but a robe – a huge terry-cloth dressing gown that would reach the ankle on most people, but barely made it to Oliver’s knee.

  Keri swooned. Oliver was just so… so big. And the room smelt of sweat, man-funk, shampoo and soap. It was just the kind of weird combination of testosterone and hygiene that got her worked up… Like her first kiss, in the boy’s locker room, all those years ago back in high school.

  “Take a seat,” Oliver grinned, and he reached for a bottle of Svedka that was swimming in an ice-bucket on the shelf. “Can I pour you two a drink?”

  Ross looked over at Keri, as if asking for permission. She nodded, and watched as the enormous African poured four fingers of neat vodka into three nondescript tumblers sitting on the dresser.

  He handed the overflowing glasses to the married couple, and lifted his in salute: “Vifijo!”

  The enormous fighter then drained his glass in two short swallows.

  Keri and Ross exchanged nervously glances, and then lifted the glasses to their own lips. Struggling, they each attempted to gulp down what was essentially half a cup of neat grain alcohol. They each succeeded, but gasped and spluttered at the end of it – throats burning and eyes watering.

  “That’ll put some fire in your belly,” Oliver grinned. “More?”

  “N-no,” Ross wiped the tears from his eyes. “N-not quite yet, thanks.”

  The huge MMA fighter snorted, almost derisively. But then he relocated his decorum, and grinned: “So what can I do for you fine people?”

  Ross started by offering up his small hand. “I-I just wanted to shake your hand, Mr. Adami.”