The bell finally sounded, ending round 4. Trish stopped her onslaught and stepped back from my wife, raised both gloved hands in victory as the crowd cheered. She just grinned at Susan until the referee made her go to her corner. Susan, my wife, was now sobbing like a little girl. She still held onto the ropes trying desperately to get her breath that had been pounded out of her by Trish’s repeated punches to her navel and below. Her lower belly was bright red from the pounding. The referee stepped back to the center of the ring and just watched as she tried to recover. By rule I wasn’t allowed to help her get to her corner. I was afraid when she did let go of the ropes she would drop to the canvas but she kept on her feet and wearily came to me and collapsed on the stool.
“Fuck! Just fuck!” she shouted between her sobs as she brought her left hand up to cradle her wounded left breast. I removed her hand and put them both down by her side. I had other issues to deal with before I could work on her breast. The most serious of which was the small cut over her left eye which was bleeding heavily and robbing her of any vision from that eye. Trish had opened the cut midway through the 2nd round and had repeatedly been making it worse, with her husband shouting encouragement to do so from ringside. I tried compression as Susan winced but as soon as I let go the bleeding returned, and the eyelid was also starting to swell. Cold ice in a wet towel was about all I could do, as no cuts could be sewn. I was thankful there were two minutes between rounds.
I kicked myself for letting this all happen to her. This was their third fight. My wife won the first one handedly, punching Trish around the ring and knocking her down several times. Trish just ran out of steam and was going to be knocked out and I thought her husband was wise to not let her get off her stool for round 7. They wore 12 oz gloves and neither fighter had the stamina to keep punching hard, especially for the last minute of the two-minute rounds.
Within a month Trish had challenged her to a rematch, which Susan gladly accepted. As the winner of the fight my wife dictated the rules for their second match. This time Susan decided they would wear bikinis instead of boxing trunks and t-shirts, and much smaller and lighter 6 oz gloves. Six months after their first fight they met again at our club with a huge crowd present. Trish had been taking lessons from a professional trainer and her punching was a lot sharper. With barely a minute gone in the 2nd round Susan ran into a real haymaker straight to her face. The punch knocked her flat on her back on the canvas. She got up at six, but her face was bloody. She had blood streaming from her nose and her lower lip was cut. I panicked and threw in the towel! Susan was furious at me for stopping the fight. She challenged Trish to a third and final match before they even left the ring.
As the last winner Trish now had the ability to dictate the rules for this fight. They would use the same 6 oz gloves, only this time they would fight topless, to a finish. Only the referee could stop the fight. Husbands weren’t allowed to interfere. I had really become worried when I found out Marge was chosen to referee the fight. The gruff 40-year old referee had never stopped a fight even when she should have. And all the women fighters knew they could get away with a lot of dirty tactics because Marge would let them. Thumbing in the eyes, holding and hitting, the occasional elbow, were all overlooked by Marge. The rules and the fact that she was refereeing almost doubled the size of the audience from their second fight because they knew they were going to see blood.
In the second round Trish had punched Susan to the ropes and then shoved her sideways pinning her left hand. She then took her right glove and used the oversized hard leather laces to maul my wife’s left tit, scratching, gouging, and grinding at the nipple and areola. Marge just stood by and did nothing to stop it as Susan screamed and tried to knock her hand away. The only way she escaped was to go down, holding her wounded breast with her gloved hand while Marge began counting for her to get up and take more punishment. She got up by 8. By the end of round 4 the entire areola was swollen and extended outward from her breast at least an inch and was dark red. The nipple had been scraped and small drops of blood were oozing out. I wiped off the blood and Susan winced as her tit was now very painful. I told her to not let her arm get caught in the ropes again because if she did Trish would milk her tit. She said, “Okay,” but weakly. I had seen a video of a fight where a woman got her tit milked. If the milk ducts were damaged and blood was flowing into them, another blow to the nipple followed by an uppercut from below would cause blood to spew out of the nipple. It was incredibly painful, and I knew Marge would stand by and watch Trish destroy my wife’s breast and I could do nothing about it.
Susan had gotten some of her wind back, though her belly below her navel was turning dark red now from all the low blows Trish had given her. I could tell that all the strength was beaten out of my wife, and her punches could no longer keep Trish away. I put Vaseline on the cut above her eye, put her mouthpiece back in, and the bell rang for round 5…
