Dad VS Son - erotic gutpunch

by gutpuncher12456 -


“Are we really going to do this?” Dad asks. We are standing in the boxing ring. His round sweaty chest looks sexy as hell.
It is my 20th birthday, and it is a crazy all night-out with friends. There’s a lot of booze, and of course a lot of girls. I am very drunk, and barely made it home after countless shots of vodka.
“Have a n…nice day….s….sir” I waved goodbye to the uber driver, who shook his head disapprovingly.
Staggering and murmuring, I finally opened the door. It was all dark inside the house. Dad was sitting on the couch.
“Where have you been all night?” Of course he smelled that alcohol. He has always insisted his stupid no-alcohol policy. Granted, I have been drinking since I was like 15.
This was the first time I get caught drinking. And you know what? I’m 20 already. I don’t care.
“Drinking. Out with my buddies. You have a problem with that?” I headed towards my room.
“And you think that I am going to let you come home drunk as if nothing happened?” Dad stood up. Shirtless.
“God damn it…” I stopped in frustration. “I’ve had enough of you. You ever know why mom left you? You are such a control freak.”
Dad stood stunned as my stupid statement hit him.
I immediately regretted what I said. Mom and dad divorced not because he is a control freak, but because she cheated on him. But alcohol got in the way.
“Maybe you should just shut up. Go back to your room and mind your own business.” I shrugged, and headed back to my room.
“Aha…” Dad simply laughed. “The little boy thinks he is in charge right now huh?”
He followed me to my room.
“Maybe I am,” I said. “I mean, you are…”
All of a sudden, he punched me in the face, knocking me down on the bed.
“What are you doing, dad?” I stood up in anger. This is the first time he punched me, and it hurts.
“To show you who is really in charge in this house."
"Sounds like my old man is asking for trouble.” I opened the wardrobe.
“Why don’t we settle it like a man, dad?” To my dad's surprise, there lie a few pairs of boxing gloves and boxing shorts. He never knew about this. But I have been training for boxing for a year already.

So here we are. Shirtless in an amateur ring that I just set up in the basement.
I’m drunk. What the hell am I doing? We are not supposed to fight. The father and the son are in boxing gear. That is wrong. But that’s also sexy.
Dad has put on my gear, and my boxing trunks look really hot on him.
My dad is a gorgeous man. At 43, he is a basketball coach in my school, always ranking first in the “dad I’d like to fuck” polls. Partly because he looks like Zac Ef. We have always avoided each other in public, and while some of my friends train (and hang out) with him, they don’t know this sexy hunk is my dad.

That’s also why when he dated one of my classmates, that girl never found out I was his son.

I realize that I am getting hard, seeing my 5’11 basketball coach dad in red leather gloves. He’s a man that even my peers respect. And now I am fighting him.
“I am going to knock you out and show you what a real man is, son” Dad says, and raises his gloves. He has thick biceps. I can see all the veins running down his arms. His skin is tanned from years of training under the sun. My cock stirs at the sight of him as my boxing opponent.
“Alright, let’s see why mom left you” I raise my gloves. We circle each other like all fighters do.
I am quick to send a punch to his face. He blocks it, and immediately he aims for my abs, making the first solid hit in the fight.
I gasp, trying to regain my balance. He fires a few more solid punches to my abs. I step back as he punches me, and only after some ten punches do I finally get a chance to escape his fierce punches.
“You giving up son? How does that feel, getting punched in your baby abs?”
“No way.” Trying to regain my breath, I lean on the rope. At 43 he is in his prime shape. Like a Greek god with beard, only in boxing gear.
Dad raises his gloves in a fighter stance. It is 1:30am in the morning. All quiet in the neighborhood. The basement we are in is lit only with a candle.
Not willing to back down, I throw a few punches at him, and take a few in my torso. He’s one damn good fighter, to be honest. My next punch aims for that delicious abs of my dad, a solid hit that lands on his sweet spot.
“Ugggghhh” that’s some sexy moan. Perhaps too sexy.
“Looking a little weak there, dad” I pull the elastic bands of my boxing shorts, trying to find a space for my harder-than-ever penis.
“Damn it…” Dad swears as he covers his thick 6-pack abs with his boxing glove, slowly massaging them.
We the two fully-developed grown-up men raise our gloves again, rhythmically circling each other. The basement is silent. You can only hear our heavy breathing. We as father and son are trying to dominate each other as a man in the ring. And this is sexy as hell.
I must have dodged like 5 or 6 blows. I’m dizzy from all that alcohol that I’ve drunk, but I’m so much hornier. That must be the reason why I fight better. I want to demonstrate my adulthood to the man who has raised me so badly.
I smack twice my opponent’s head with fast jabs, feeling the sudden surge in testosterone. From his red glowing face, I can tell he must be feeling the same.
In return I got a hard uppercut on my chin. I almost fell backward, but I was able to stand firm after some staggering.
“Had enough, son?”
“Shut up and fight.’
We fire countless punches into each other’s sweaty torso, as if the other person was a punching bag, not the father or the son. The air is filled with our grunts and groans. Shadows of our fighting bodies are cast on the wall. My dick is getting so hard. I’m almost too horny to fight. But I’m also horny enough to be a good fighter.
He fires a punch at my face.
“Getting tired?”
In response, I give him a good one in his six-pack dad abs.
‘Nope, old man.” We back off each other to regain our breaths.
Truth is, we are both tired. We trash talk while breathing heavily against the ropes, with dirty reference to the dick and the abs. Sweat runs down our neck, our torso, our biceps. It isn’t like any other argument we had before. It has a sexual layer on top of it. It’s some sexy trash talk that we’ve never had.
Soon we both walk towards each other in small steps.

Our sweaty bodies press against each other in the center of the ring. We are both exhausted, chest heaving. We slowly but heavily slug each other in the gut, allowing our fists to sink in fully, as two boxing men, as father and son, almost erotically. There are all the groans and grunts. I’m determined to show him I have a fully developed adult male body, but he is just as determined to show his 20yo son that his 43 yo torso isn’t built for nothing. This isn’t just about who’s in charge anymore. This is about who has the stronger male core, both physiologically and psychologically. And I as the son must dominate my father for the honor, to show him what evolution really means.
I have my fist buried in his gut, just as his fist is in mine. Our sweat is everywhere on our shoulders, our chests, and our torsos. We don’t care. We only focus on giving the other men the best punch we have.
He pushed his fist in my gut a little, driving a moan from me.
“Feeling it huh, son?” Dad’s voice is audibly exhausted.
I give my fist an equal push.
“Not until you are, old man. Let’s find out why mom left you.” And he responds with a sexy grunt.
We both back up a little, partly because of the push we give in the other person’s deepest core. Almost immediately, we charge towards each other. Father towards son. Son towards father.


A loud collision follows.

A second later, we stand far behind each other, facing opposite directions. All I see is that lone candlelight that lights up the entire basement and my own shadow on the wall. Here’s a moment of silence. No heavy breathing. No trash talk.
Just vacuum.
We gave each other the best gut punch we could give. I stare forward, my glare must be pretty empty. My abs feel fire. He gave me a sharp punch in that collision. I try to flex my abs in an attempt to get rid of that burn in the deepest core of my six-pack. But my legs slowly give in. Gradually I sink. Everything around me seems to fade away as my gloves touch the ground…..

My drunk mind is suddenly sober for a moment. Nope. The sound isn’t from me. My heart begins to flutter as I turn around.
My eyes are as wide as I could imagine.
To my uttermost disbelief, my muscular stud dad is on his knees, heads down. I see his back, and his body is motionless. He’s stunned from that abs punch that I just smashed at him. The definition of this 43-year-old stud’s upper back muscles is even clearer from the candlelight that shrines on it. The male that I have admired for years. The man that I regard as the most powerful male of our species– at least before this – is now on his knees from that disastrous gut punch that his son, his only successor gives him.
I grunt as I slowly stand back up, but I successfully remain the last man standing in the ring, with the other fighter kneeling helplessly behind me.
I unwrap the gloves and throw them away as I stumble towards daddy. From the basement window I see that it starts to rain outside. It doesn’t affect us, as we are in the basement, fully private.
Dad is kneeling before me as a gorgeous man with boxing gloves.
“Now, Chris William Peterson… You know this is gonna come.” I pronounce this 43 year-old man’s full name. I can’t see his face because his head is down. Sweat glide down his muscular chest and his now-red abs, lighten up by the lone candlelight behind him. His head is down, and I can’t see his facial expression.
“Let’s have this moment, as father-and-son.” With my bare hands I grab him by his throat, and mount him on the ropes. He’s unresponsive like a doll – perhaps still recovering from the deep gut punch, or a moment of reflection for him.
The man’s knees hardly support himself – he would have fallen if not for the ropes that trap him.

Alcohol really fills my head right now and the vision blurs. In front of me is a sexy as hell grown-up male torso that smells sweaty and taboo. He is my father. We are not supposed to fight erotically. But now that we are at it, it is the single hottest thing ever.
BAAM! I fire an uppercut to his chin, stunning him for a sec.
“How does that feel, dad?” I back up a little, waiting for his reply. There isn’t any. He looks stunned, eyes wide. Dad just stands here in front of me, eyes perplexed and glassy like he’s looking at a non-existent object. The basketball coach’s round, sweaty shoulders drop as if something’s weighing on it. His entire body hangs on the ropes. His gloves rest at the sides silently, waiting for my next shot.
I almost shoot my load, but I hold it back, marginally.
“How does it feel, being defeated by your own son?” I have his head in my shoulder, patting his back like he patted me the day mom left. At the same time, my fist drives upwards from still-boxer dad’s sweaty belly button, burying my forearm in his sexy torso, all the way to his diaphragm.
“Ughhhhh…..” The 43-year-old father utters a long, loud and sweaty moan as air rushes out from his lung.
“Nope, not there yet…” I contemplate as I have my fist stay in dad’s now-soft abs.
And there, I give my fist an upward, much-needed push, attacking his stomach beneath his tanned skin.
His moan stops. He simply shuts up. Instead, his drools silently slide down my back like fountain.
“Oh, water?” I step back, feeling the liquid in my back with my finger. I taste it, and then apply that liquid with my wet finger back on his lips.
“Let’s hydrate you, Chris Peterson.”
Without his consent, I head towards the fridge and took a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc. I step back in the ring, open the bottle, and shove it in my father’s open mouth.
“Drink the alcohol, dad. Fuck your no-alcohol policy.”
Dad is cross-eyed after half a bottle.
“And now your son helps you finish it.’ I drink the remaining half in steamy ecstasy.
It rains more heavily outside. Two grown-up men boxing erotically in almost darkness. I smell moisture, both from our sweat and from the rain.
I step forward, chest against chest.
“Ughhhaaa……” The cross-eyed dad looks even more confused. I signal him with a smile. Slowly, his head turns downwards, and his eyes immediately open unbelievably wide as he sees the wine bottle buried deep in his soft tanned abs, his eyes focusing on the crater around the half-bottle that emerge from the tanned ab muscles.
“Guess now who’s the boss, dad?” I can even feel his ab fiber pressing against the bottle in short squeezes.
Moan and drool come out of the defeated male’s mouth. We are standing so close we can feel each other’s breath. Dad’s back presses against the ropes, making some creaking sound from the tension.
I took out the bottle and threw it outside the ring. We as father and son stare into each other, enjoying this coming-of-age boxing match. I slowly give him a double bicep pose, to demonstrate my male dominance. This is the moment the son defeats the dad. The 43-year-old defeated man, back against the ropes, licks my bicep and my chest.
The same bicep now slowly pushes into his worn-out six-pack, creating a round crater ceremonially. As I gut punch my biological father with my 20-year-old fist, my face lurches forward, feeling his beard and his warmth, listening to his sexy moans. I am hard. And from his moans I know he must be, too.

“And I shall knock you out, Chris William Peterson, as the 43-year-old boxer standing in this match.” I whisper in dad’s ears hoarsely, almost erotically. I’m too drunk to act sober, and fuck it, I won’t.
“I will fight to the last minute, Steven Peterson….” He licks my neck as he whispers like I did. He’s drunk too, from the alcohol that I feed him. I’m never as hard as I am now. This is a whole new sensation compared to fucking the sluts in my class. He frees himself from the ropes, and raises his red gloves beside his face like a fighter.

My arms reach out to the shelve outside the ring, grabbing a bottle. I oil my dad’s belly and chest while he remains in his helpless drunk-boxer pose, still with the gloves on.

“Unfortunately, the fighter-father will be defeated…” I quietly spoke in his ears, as if I was telling him a secret. But there’s no third person.
A second later, I uppercut my fighter dad on his chin. A loud, stunned grunt comes out from his mouth, followed by saliva splashing momentarily in the air. I have my fist stay there. His chin bounces back down on my fist like it is supposed to be, only that his eyes aren’t clear anymore, but cross-eyed.

“I wish my buddies saw this…” I commented, noting that a lot of my peers train with the basketball coach. The father’s raised arms slowly drop, until both arms hang helplessly at the sides. His entire body is supported by my uppercut on his chin.
“You are defeated…Chris Peterson.” I said emotionlessly, and retracted my uppercut.
SPLAT. The defeated alpha falls face-down on the floor of the house that he has earned for us, in the ring that his son built. I admire his tanned back muscles like I always do.
But this fight must end. I kick him with my foot so that he faces me directly upwards.
“10….9….” I count.
“8…7….6…5…4…..” Dad’s eyes roll upwards. I can only see the whites, and the saliva that keep flowing out of his 43-year-old mouth.
“3…2…1…” Only now do I step on his defeated six-pack, in a show of dominance.
“The abs punch boxing match winner is the son, Steven Peterson.” I pronounce, as my foot applies pressure, feeling every remaining squeeze in my defeated father’s ab defense. I raise both my biceps. As I do it, saliva flow from his mouth accelerates even more, but I don’t care. Boxing gloves on him look sexy, but defenseless.
Making sure he is now unconscious, I shoot my load on him. I wasn’t aware that his mature man body was one that I have sexual desire for, but as I shoot my largest load ever I realize dad’s torso is a perfect target for my abs punching fetish. Mom may have left us, but we as two men form an irreplaceable bond.
See you tomorrow, dad.