Clutching the top rope with both hands, Ms. Harshwhinny flared her stance for balance and bent forward at the waist, her breathing slow and controlled as she stretched the muscles that laced her upper body. Her spine arched sensually, like that of a mare in the throes of love making, while her ass jutted up and out as if begging for attention. She wore boxing gloves and high-cut trunks, both the same deep shade of purple, a lovely color that brought out the pink of her exposed nipples.
From the opposite end of the ring, Gilda showered the mare's shapely ass with all the attention it wanted. Somehow, Whinny managed to look sexy without looking young. All the markers of age were present: the lines that bracketed her mouth, the looseness of once tight muscles, the slight sag in her heavy chest. But rather than diminish her allure, such features only rendered her more desirable.
At least they did so in Gilda's eyes. The young griffon had always been into older females.
Gilda first saw Whinny in action at a small gym in New Griffonstone: a Manehattan neighborhood settled by griffon immigrants. It was the kind of seedy hole-in-the-wall that normally repelled ponies of Whinny's social standing. But the older mare was different. She had looked right at home within those paint-peeled walls, gloves flying this way and that as she pummeled an overwhelmed opponent.
It had been quite the unexpected scene.
Because of their generally pacifist culture, the Equestrians never developed much appreciation for combat sports like boxing or MMA. One hardly ever stumbled across a pony with a taste for fighting, let alone a mare like Whinny, who was a stuffy bureaucrat by day and a bare-chested brawler by night. Her cutie mark symbolized her talent for sports, but most assumed she had been a sprinter or a distance runner in her youth - the most popular athletic pursuits in Equestria. Only her closest friends and family members knew about her past as a prizefighter.
For this reason, Gilda felt inexplicably drawn to Whinny. She had to meet this strange Equestrian pugilist for herself.
Her chance came soon enough, at the same gym where she first laid eyes on Whinny. In typically aggressive griffonic fashion, she marched right up to the older mare and challenged her to a fight. She half expected Whinny to back down, as most ponies would, but the older mare was well versed in griffonic culture. She accepted the challenge, knowing that refusal would mean shame for her and a hollow victory for Gilda.
"You've got some nerve interrupting my workout," said Whinny, having already climbed into the ring.
"And you've got some nerve even being in a place like this, herb," said Gilda.
"And what exactly is that supposed to mean?"
"Don't play dumb. A boxing gym is no place for a prissy little herb like you."
A dark cloud passed over Whinny's face, and for a moment it seemed she might discard her fancy, Canterlot-esque demeanor. To Gilda, that would've been a kind of victory all its own. The beginnings of a scowl came over Whinny's face, but she stifled it and smiled instead, refusing to lose her cool in front of this petulant upstart.
"I'll have you know I am a regular at this establishment," she said. "This city is my home, these griffons here are my peers, and this ring which we are presently standing in... this is mine as well. In fact, you are the only prissy little 'herb' I see who doesn't belong here."
Gilda's eyes narrowed to hostile slats. "I ain't no herb."
"Maybe not yet," said Whinny, smirking. "But once I've finished hammering your smug beak into the back of your skull, I doubt you will leave here with much of an appetite for meat. Or any solid food, for that matter."
Gilda adjusted her trunks, feeling the first trickles of wetness pool between her legs. "A pony with a spine, huh? Well fuck me sideways."
"Gladly."
Inside the ring, they traded literal jabs just as they had traded verbal ones, in a close fight that went back and forth. They seemed evenly matched for the first three rounds. Then everything changed in round four, after Gilda landed a haymaker that sent Whinny staggering into the corner. Soon she was all over the older mare, hammering away, counting the seconds until Whinny hit the canvas at her feet.
Her desire never became a reality. Whinny buckled but didn't break, and was even recovering as she blocked or slipped as many punches as she ate. She may have even mounted a comeback, if not for the acting referee, a local and a friend of Whinny's, abruptly stepping between them. Apparently he had seen enough.
After being declared the winner, Gilda stormed out of the gym in a sour mood. The damn ref had cheated her! Although Whinny hadn't complained herself, she must have also felt that the stoppage was premature. She must have!
The next day, Gilda returned to the gym hoping for a rematch, but Whinny wasn't there. Furious, she challenged the referee instead. He accepted, and for the sin of stopping yesterday's fight too early, she beat him black and blue.
*******
Their second fight didn't go much better. It was even until Harshwhinny wrested control during the sixth round, with an uppercut that stunned Gilda and then a flurry that ended with a gash opening above the griffon's eye. Gilda assured the ref that she could see fine, that she was good to go, but the cut was deep and nasty so he stopped the fight anyway. Harshwhinny was declared the winner by TKO.
And so here they were now, alone in an unpopular Manehattan gym, where no-creature would bother them. Each had officially beaten the other at least once, and yet in their eyes the score was 0-0. Tonight's match wouldn't be a tiebreaker, but a proper start to what they hoped would become an epic trilogy.
"Ain't no ref here to save you this time, herb," said Gilda.
"Or to hand you another undeserved victory," Whinny quipped.
With that Whinny backed off and assumed her go-to conventional boxing stance: gloves high, elbows in, chin tucked.
"Well, come on then," she said. "Are you going to continue staring longingly into my eyes, or will we get to fuck at some point?"
Oh yeah - Gilda definitely liked this bitch for a reason. She began bobbing in place on her toes, her gloves tantalizingly low, daring Whinny, inviting her to close the distance and line up an easy shot.
Which is precisely what the older mare did.
To lean upon the old literary cliche, if fighting really was similar to dancing, then Whinny was a superb lead. She shuffled and jabbed and shuffled some more, leading Gilda about the ring, coaxing the griffon to step where she wanted her to step, to sway how she wanted her to sway. And Gilda, to her own detriment, followed, at times more concerned with Whinny's bobbing chest than her punches.
In fact, the mare's punches weren't much to think about at all. Jabs like blown kisses peppered Gilda's jaw, her breasts, her belly and either side of her trunk. This was more than your standard feeling out process; Whinny was toying with the griffon, flirting even, face alight with confidence as she showed Gilda just how hittable she was.
This was hardly news to Gilda; she had known for years that defense was the weakest dimension of her game. According to every trainer she'd ever had, she kept her gloves too low and over-relied on slick dodges and shoulder-rolls. Even while playing defense, she liked to look as flashy as possible.
Now she rolled with a cross that bludgeoned her cheek, cutting its power in half, and then turned away at just the right time, at just the right angle, letting the follow-up hook rake lightly across her breast. Electricity crackled where leather grazed skin. She countered with a cross of her own, testing Whinny, hoping for a reaction - but the mare slipped it and danced off once again. Still leading. Still flirting.
"I thought you wanted to fuck," said Gilda, masking her frustration behind a cocky smirk. She dropped her gloves, splayed her arms and tilted her head forward, offering up her jaw on a silver platter.
Whinny took her ribs instead.
She slid into the pocket as if on ice skates, then torqued her hips, her shoulders, and whipped a left hook into Gilda's side. Leather pounded flesh with a muted thwack, sending ripples through Gilda's skin as it cratered inward.
Wincing against the pain, Gilda ate a second body shot - a right that landed hard enough to make her breasts quiver - then countered with a right of her own. She hit empty air and nothing else. As her glove sailed over Whinny's shoulder, the mare torqued her hips once more, this time in the opposite direction, then launched an uppercut that split Gilda's already flimsy guard.
A purple glove shot up between the griffon's tits, parting them, making them jiggle just before the big impact. Then it crashed into the underside of her jaw, tilting her face skyward and sending her reeling backwards.
Blackness obscured her vision. Not until she hit the deck did she realize her eyes were closed. Opening them now, she rose to one knee and glared up at Whinny, her ears still ringing, head still fuzzy from both the blow and the fall.
Standing akimbo, Whinny cocked her hips in that sexy way of hers. Her chest rose and fell with quicker, heavier breaths. A fresh sheen of sweat coated her skin, making her muscles glisten beneath tan fur.
"I would start counting now, but putting you to sleep will be so much more satisfying." She leered down her nose with uniquely upper-class disdain. "That is, assuming you aren't finished already."
"Fuck you." Gilda rose to her feet, staggered, dropped back to one knee. She pressed an open glove to her forehead, eyes shut as she waited for the dizzy spell to pass.
The mare laughed at such a pathetic display. "No no, take your time. There's no rush. I have all night to finish dismantling you."
"You talk too much."
"And you hit back too little. I came here for a good rutting, not to do all the work myself while you lie on your back and take it."
Slowly, Gilda tottered back to her feet. "Who's lying down? Not me."
"Oooh goody. I always did enjoy a nice vertical rutting."
Whinny came forward, pressuring Gilda, firing rights and lefts that forced the griffon to fight while backpedaling. Gilda landed her own punches between those of her opponent - a hook to Whinny's jaw, a cross to her breast, another hook, this one downstairs - but couldn't generate much power while fighting off her back foot.
Her punches failed to hurt the mare, failed to stop her advance or even slow it - and soon Whinny had bullied her across the ring and into a corner. Gilda tried to initiate a clinch, but Whinny shoved her back against the corner post, the way a john might shove a whore against the nearest hard surface before a deep rutting.
And a deep rutting is exactly what Whinny delivered.
A purple glove careened toward Gilda's beak, or so she thought, only to stray low the second she raised both arms to block. The blow found her solar plexus instead. A lightning bolt surged through the sensitive bundle of nerves, shocking her system to its core. Already gasping for breath, she felt her body jackknife around the glove as it sank into pliable tissue, her heels leaving the canvas, ass jutting backwards to slam hard against the corner post.
Somehow, she managed to remain upright. A decade's worth of fighting instincts seized her left glove - her dominant hand, though she fought with a conventional stance - and sent it arcing towards a blurry shape that she hoped was Whinny's face.
The older mare didn't try to block, didn't bother ducking or weaving. For the sake of maintaining position - which she needed to keep the proper distance, to maximize the leverage on her punches - she stood her ground and trusted her chin. A wrecking ball of a left hook slammed full-on into her mouth. But, somehow, her neck held and her legs didn't wobble. She celebrated her own fortitude with two more blows to Gilda's already ravaged body.
A left hook clubbed the griffon's rib cage, moving her whole body to Whinny's right.
And then a right slammed into the opposite side, moving her back again.
Whatever air had remained in her diaphragm, following the initial gut shot, emptied now. It spewed out in the form of a heavy plume - so heavy that, for an instant, it set Whinny's bangs aloft. The older mare felt it, breathed it in, basked in it.
"Still standing, are we," said Whinny. "Good. I like a partner with plenty of stamina."
"If it's stamina you like, then stay awhile," Gilda rasped back, wincing at the pain in her ribs. "I'll be here all night."
Whinny put the boast to the test. She blitzed Gilda with more power and passion than technique, throwing twice as many punches as she landed. They came from every conceivable angle - and a few inconceivable ones - landing not only on Gilda's body and head, but on her shoulders and arms and elbows as well.
The bombardment was overwhelming - thrillingly so. Every blow sent shockwaves of pain rippling through Gilda. But they also sent waves of heat and wetness crashing below her waist, breaking against the inner walls of her sex. She soaked up the barrage like a sponge, hating it, loving it, and above all, aching to return it with interest.
She got her chance soon enough.
A hook meant for her ribs veered low and struck her hip, followed by a lazy cross that came ambling at half-speed. Long before it landed, Gilda had all the time in the world to counter with her own cross.
A jet-black glove barreled into Whinny's cheekbone - a blow that she actually felt. It turned her face sideways, forcing her eye shut in the process. Skin and fur rumpled where they yielded to driving leather.
Whinny's legs turned to rubber. She wobbled in place, stunned, but managed to steady herself before lurching forward on shaky legs. Gilda tried to clip her with a hook on the way in, but ever the crafty veteran, Whinny wrangled the griffon into a clinch. A frustrated Gilda tried to shove the mare away, but she held on tight, gasping for breath, neck rosy with flush as it pasted itself to that of her opponent.
They wrestled on the inside for a spell, arms entangled, hips inadvertently grinding, sweat mingling where one pair of naked breasts flattened against the other.
"You're looking a bit arm-weary, old mare," Gilda taunted. "One flurry and you've already punched yourself out."
"That," Whinny huffed, "was a lot more," huff, "than," huff, huff, "one flurry."
"You sure? Felt like one to me."
"Says the bitch covered in bruises."
Once Gilda finally managed to break the clinch, she swiveled her hips and looped a left hook into Whinny's breadbasket. The heel of her lead foot swung outward for extra torque, extra force, and she couldn't help but grin as the mare staggered backwards and took a deep breath.
Gilda had her now. Grimacing, Whinny circled to the griffon's right - away from that powerhouse left - but Gilda cut off the ring and whacked her with the stiffest combo of the night: a good old-fashioned three piece.
A jab like a hornet's sting poked Whinny in the nose.
A blistering cross struck her jaw, popped her head back.
And then a beauty of a left hook careened into her eye socket, her fragile orbital bone, with a nasty crack that echoed throughout the entire gym.
Sweat flew from Whinny's brow, blood dripped from her nose, a contusion swelled on her face and forced her eye shut. Still, she remained upright. For fuck's sake, what was this pony made of?
"Bitch!" Whinny spat through gritted teeth.
Gilda clapped her gloves together, grinning. "What's wrong, herb? I knock all the fancy words out of that big head of yours?"
Whinny said nothing in return.
"Yep. Thought so."
From there Gilda expected the mare to play it smart - to back off, dance around the ring, reestablish her jab, actually box - but instead Whinny dug her heels in to make a final stand. She bent her knees, lowered her hips and tucked her chin, making herself a smaller target. Then she waved Gilda in with one glove. Not a cocksure gesture, but a weary one. Win, lose or draw, she wanted this over with.
Gilda was more than happy to oblige her.
A shootout ensued in the center of the ring: no jabs or faints, no fancy footwork, no defense, no setups, no cute shit - just combinations thrown with the absolute worst of intentions. Such a fight favored Gilda: the brawler. Whinny was game, but she had to eat three punches just to land one of her own. And before long she couldn't even manage that; her only option was to cover up and absorb as much punishment as she could take.
And she took a whole lot. Gilda made sure of that.
The griffon went on autopilot, cruise control, her gloves moving so frequently and fluidly that she missed the punch that ended up dropping Whinny. One second she was hammering away, and the next her left was sailing over the head of a toppling Whinny, grazing her crown just before she hit the canvas.
"Get up!" Gilda barked at the fallen mare, adrenaline gushing freely through her veins. The thrill of it all had her buzzing. She could hardly think straight, hardly stand still. "I ain't done yet, and neither are you."
She seized Whinny by the mane and hauled her upright, then punched her hard in the gut. The mare coughed her mouthpiece onto the canvas; it landed in a shallow puddle of saliva.
"Th-That's... not fair," she said, wheezing.
Gilda held her at eye-level. "It's like I said before, herb: ain't no ref coming to save you this time." She pummeled Whinny's belly three more times, then knocked her back to the canvas with a clubbing blow that bruised her left tit.
"If you got a problem with my rules," said Gilda, "you can always quit."
"No. That's quite alright, actually." Down on her knees, Whinny scooped up her mouthpiece, jammed it back in her mouth. "It's not your tactics I find unfair, just your timing. You should have told me sooner what kind of fight this was."
Without warning, Whinny ratcheted her head back and swung it between Gilda's legs, butting the griffon square on the cunt. Gilda staggered backwards, cupped her sex with both gloves, gasped and dropped to her knees. And then a purple glove zipped into her face, between her eyes, and sent her sprawling across the canvas.
Whinny stood up slowly, admiring her handiwork. "I've been doing this for a very long time. Probably longer than you've been alive. I fear it will take more than cheap tricks to rattle me."
Gilda sat upright and flexed her jaw to see if it was broken. When she realized it wasn't, a wry smile turned up the corners of her beak. "Well fuck me sideways. I knew I liked you for a reason, herb."
"Heh. If only I could say the same of you."
Scowling, her pride genuinely hurt by Whinny's taunt, Gilda darted back to her feet with a strong wingbeat. She expected the sudden move to surprise the mare - and got a surprise herself when Whinny clamped both gloves around her temples and pulled her face between a pair of sweaty, bruised tits.
Gilda beat her wings in a panic, desperate to fly away, but Whinny looped an arm behind her head to hold her still. She was still trying to escape when six ounces of hard leather sank deep into her gut - so deep that her navel seemed to touch her spine.
She bellowed into Whinny's cleavage. Now she needed to move, and fast - she wouldn't last much longer otherwise. She tried to pull straight back, and when that failed to work, her feet shuffled across the mat in a graceless semi-circle, wings still flapping like mad.
Rather than lose her grip, Whinny simply turned with Gilda. A second gut-shot landed in precisely the same place, freezing the flapping wings, and then a third and fourth followed in rapid succession, the blows landing with enough force to buckle Gilda's knees. Her body sagged against Whinny, and would've hit the canvas if the mare hadn't held her upright.
Gilda went on soaking up blows to the stomach, until, abruptly, the punishment stopped all at once. A heavy sigh of relief poured from her beak, filled the gap between Whinny's breasts. She was still sandwiched between them, only now their confines felt warmer, cozier. Almost safe.
Almost.
Unable to breathe properly, Gilda sagged to her knees in a telling display of exhaustion. Teasingly, the mare ruffled her head feathers, like an older sister giving the younger a noogie.
"Earlier, when you said you knew you liked me for a reason, I responded with a nasty remark about not liking you back," said Whinny, sounding suddenly - and unexpectedly - thoughtful. "That was a lie, a silly taunt meant to ruffle you. In truth, despite my better judgment, I find that I like you quite a bit."
Cradling the back of Gilda's head, she pulled the griffon's face from between her breasts. Their gazes met, lingered. Both wanted to speak. Whinny went first.
"I... apologize if I hurt your feelings. That was not my intention."
Gilda laughed with mock disdain. "For fuck's sake, herb, what's with the sappy shit outta nowhere? You're not gonna try any of that "Magic of Friendship" bullshit on me, are you? I know how much you ponies are into that crap."
Whinny tried to fake a sneer, but Gilda could feel the warmth radiating from her smile. "No. I suppose I'm not."
"That's better. For a second there I was worried you were going all squishy on me."
"Not on your life. As if I would waste an ounce of compassion on a miserable cretin such as yourself."
"Well fuck you too, Ms. Harshwhinny."
"And you as well, Gilda."
Whinny freed Gilda's skull and sent an uppercut rocketing into the underside of her jaw. Her head popped back once more, and the last thing she saw before blacking out was a two-second snapshot of a long, pronounced crack in the ceiling. Her limp body went sprawling across the canvas; her arms and legs hitting the mat spread-eagle, open palms turned skyward, wings half-flared and half-crumbled beneath her.
And then she laid prone on the mat, with only the steady rise and fall of her breasts evidencing any signs of life.
When she came to a bit later, she looked up to find Whinny sitting on her beak with both arms raised in a double-bicep flex. From this angle the mare looked insanely hot, posing as she was, her expression and posture radiating confidence as she basked in the glow of victory.
Gilda considered shoving her off or pecking her crotch or doing something equally shitty, but ultimately decided against it. Instead she laid still, let Whinny have her fun for now. She would get the old mare next time.
