I risked a glance out of the corner of my eye. Dad was lying on top of Mr. Anderson, holding him in a tight nelson, while Mr. Anderson was trying to reach me and his son. One of his arms was stretched in our direction, but there was nothing he could do, because Dad had him down and wasn’t going to let him up anytime soon. Mr. Anderson was cursing hot enough to blister the paint off the walls, but as long as Dad had him in the nelson, that was all he was going to be able to do.
I smirked. If he felt that he needed to save his son’s ass, then it was only a matter of time before…
And it wasn’t that much time at all. Anderson’s free arm tapped on my forearm, signaling that I’d kicked his ass one last time – and this time, it had been in a real fight, not just a stupid wrestling match.
I rolled us back over so that he was on his stomach, and then let him go. I got to my feet, using his body to push myself up, and stood over him, hands on my hips, looking down at him, letting my sweat drop off to land on his prone body.
He’d rolled over and gotten up into a sitting position, rubbing his throat. He looked up at me, pure hatred in his eyes. I smirked, but didn’t say anything—what was there to say? Besides “loser”, “little bitch”, and a whole lot of other things to describe the pathetic sack of garbage at my feet.
Dad let Mr. Anderson go and sprang to his feet, rushing over to me and grabbing me in a rough bear hug as he lifted me off my feet. “I’ve never been more proud of you than I am right now!” he crowed.
Meanwhile, Mr. Anderson was helping his son up off the mat, supporting him when it was obvious that I’d beaten his ass so badly he couldn’t even stand on his own two feet without someone helping himand I could just barely hear him mutter, “I’m going to make his father pay for this…”
I strode—yeah, yeah, with a little strut, what the fuck do you care?—off the mat; Anderson finally managed to pull his shit together and dragged himself off the mat in my wake. My dad, barefoot but still wearing his jeans, peeled off his shirt and tossed it to one side. Mr. Anderson had already taken off his shirt and was standing on the other side of the mat, his eyes alight with barely-checked fury.
Jedi (38)
04/4/2014 03:15Great 7th installment of an outstanding story!
JiminQueens2 (51)
04/4/2014 17:18(em resposta à...)
Thanks!!!!!!
JiminQueens2 (51)
03/4/2014 16:08I risked a glance out of the corner of my eye. Dad was lying on top of Mr. Anderson, holding him in a tight nelson, while Mr. Anderson was trying to reach me and his son. One of his arms was stretched in our direction, but there was nothing he could do, because Dad had him down and wasn’t going to let him up anytime soon. Mr. Anderson was cursing hot enough to blister the paint off the walls, but as long as Dad had him in the nelson, that was all he was going to be able to do.
I smirked. If he felt that he needed to save his son’s ass, then it was only a matter of time before…
And it wasn’t that much time at all. Anderson’s free arm tapped on my forearm, signaling that I’d kicked his ass one last time – and this time, it had been in a real fight, not just a stupid wrestling match.
I rolled us back over so that he was on his stomach, and then let him go. I got to my feet, using his body to push myself up, and stood over him, hands on my hips, looking down at him, letting my sweat drop off to land on his prone body.
He’d rolled over and gotten up into a sitting position, rubbing his throat. He looked up at me, pure hatred in his eyes. I smirked, but didn’t say anything—what was there to say? Besides “loser”, “little bitch”, and a whole lot of other things to describe the pathetic sack of garbage at my feet.
Dad let Mr. Anderson go and sprang to his feet, rushing over to me and grabbing me in a rough bear hug as he lifted me off my feet. “I’ve never been more proud of you than I am right now!” he crowed.
Meanwhile, Mr. Anderson was helping his son up off the mat, supporting him when it was obvious that I’d beaten his ass so badly he couldn’t even stand on his own two feet without someone helping himand I could just barely hear him mutter, “I’m going to make his father pay for this…”
I strode—yeah, yeah, with a little strut, what the fuck do you care?—off the mat; Anderson finally managed to pull his shit together and dragged himself off the mat in my wake. My dad, barefoot but still wearing his jeans, peeled off his shirt and tossed it to one side. Mr. Anderson had already taken off his shirt and was standing on the other side of the mat, his eyes alight with barely-checked fury.
“Rules?” he growled.
“Are you kidding?” Dad snorted.
“Fine.”
And Dad and Mr. Anderson lunged for each other.