Date: Mon, 1 Sep 2003 22:32:51 EDT
From: David Whittier <sophiacdtv@yahoo.com>
Subject: KICKBOXING STEPFATHER

Sam is 23. Charles, his stepfather, is 47. An incredibly fit 47. Charles has
built an elaborate fitness studio as an annex to their house. Charles works
out daily. Charles is a professional stuntman. He had been a gymnast and fencer
in college. He teaches self-defense at night. Charles has a black belt in
savate, the French art of foot fighting. If need be, he could disable another man
with a single kick. (Wicked wicked Charles!)

Sam is unathletic. Sam is a physical and financial sponge. Charles has had it
with Sam's college-tuition expenses and undeclared major. He is about to lay
down the law. They are in the fitness studio. Charles is working the heavy bag
with his feet. Whup! Whup! His kicks fly, hard and loud. He is drenched in
sweat. Sam watches, more than a bit scared. Charles is 6-foot-3, with a
virtually hairless torso and legs. His abdominal six-pack is breath-taking. Charles's
callus-gnarled feet look like tree-roots. Scary, not pretty. His long thighs
and calves, though, are as elegant as a race-horse's. Charles is extremely
flexible. He can still do that ballerina thing of touching one's own ear with
one's foot. As Sam well knew. He had seen it.

"Sam, the gravy train stops today. You need to get a job."

"Screw that! I'm working on my degree!"

"In what, Creative Procrastination?"

"We'll see what Mom has to say about this."

"Running under Mommy's skirt again? At your age?"

"Go to hell. You don't run my life."

"Neither do you. And watch that mouth. Unless you want a foot in it."

"You wouldn't dare, Mr. Macho!"

"I wouldn't? Who's going to stop me? You, sissy-boy?"

"I'll have you up on charges."

"Can't fight your own fights,eh? C'mon. I'll teach you how to take a punch.
Better late than never..."

Charles jabs the air. Sam jumps back. Charles's grin spreads.

"I knew you were a punk. Okay, no gloves. And no hands. Now take a shot."

Charles tosses his gloves off. He dances. He roundhouse-kicks the heavy bag.
It swings and twirls. Sam gulps.

"C'mon, punk. I won't use my hands. I promise."

Sam throws a hilarious punch. Charles pirouettes, and the blade of his
heavily-muscled calf connects with Sam's soft belly. Sam gasps. Charles executes a
jumping-front-kick, which, with a snapping motion, presses the sole against the
antagonist 's sternum, sending Sam tumbling backward, and to the floor.

"Don't get up!"

Stupidly, Sam stands. Charles demonstrates a side-kick into that
ever-vulnerable belly. He looks coquettishly over his shoulder, aims, and shoots a
back-kick into Sam's crotch.

"Auughhhhhh!!!"

"Sorry. I was aiming for your knee-cap. My back-kick needs some work. Let me
try again."

"NOOO!!!"

"Tell me no, and it's just gonna get worse. Regardless, you'll have some
bruises in the morning. We could stop now, and...'relax the tension'...if you know
what I mean."

Sam knew what he meant. Charles was glistening, and aromatic,  with sweat.
The only item of clothing Charles wore, a purple Lycra thong, was dark with
moisture, and strained with turgidity. A black splotch of pubic-fur showed
through. The shoestring of the thong clung between the perfect hemispheres of
Charles's muscular rump. Sam did not know how latently gay he was until just that
moment: when Charles had turned and lifted his leg for that back-kick. Dave
watched that exquisite bun flex. The impending violence of the kick seemed a small
price to pay, if he could watch those stupendously baroque gluteus muscles
flexing, flexing...in slow-motion...in stop-motion...forever and ever...

[TO BE CONTINUED]