Punching Bag Book Novels & Stories

My family is the most harmonious one around because we're a blended family. Both my parents treat their children and stepchildren "equally". When money goes missing at home, my mother, Jessica Evans, always slaps me without even thinking of suspecting my older sister, Susan Chase. After meals, my father, Damian Chase, allows my older brother, James Chase, to rest. However, he threatens to take away my meal privileges if I don't wash the dishes. Even after they get into arguments, I always end up the sole outlet for their frustrations. Unsurprisingly, my mental state deteriorates. When Mom discovers the scarring on my arms, she looks at me with disgust. "You're too young to be acting de

PENELOPE'S POV~ "One... Two... Three!" I shouted, my fists slamming into the punching bag with a ferocity that mirrored the torrent of emotions raging within me. Sweat poured down my face, and my muscles burned with exertion, but I continued to channel my inner turmoil into each powerful strike. The leather bag swayed violently with each impact, the force of my punches sending shockwaves through the air. The rapid rhythm of my fists pounding against the bag echoed through the room, a testament to my unwavering determination.

I was counting down from 10 in my mind even though I knew not what to do nor what was about to be done to me. After swallowing hard, I felt him come closer and hold my hands from behind. It was a move I wasn't expecting. His head appears beside mine, just a little bit higher. He was bending. " This is how you punch," he said. He took my right hand and hit the punching bag from below then used the left to hit the side.

I nodded my head, ready for the task. He led me to the side where there were a lot of punching bags hung in a row. I hadn’t seen them this close. The bags were very big, bigger than me. I pushed one to feel the weight and it barely moved. My stomach twisted. They were not only big but weighty. Aiden pulled down a pair of gloves and tossed them to me. I caught them quickly, and his lips curved into a small, impressed smile. Then he wore his own gloves. “This is how you do it.” He said, steadying his posture as he lifted his hands. “You focus…” Then he began punching, easily and steadily. The bag moved like it had no weight. I really admired the way he did it. He made it look easy, very easy.

The first punch landed with a solid thud, the impact vibrating through my arms. I switched to combinations after. Jab, cross, hook, each strike landing harder than the last. My breaths came out in sharp bursts as my chest began to rise and fall quickly. The bag swung back and forth with every hit, the metal chains above it rattling softly. A guy lifting weights nearby glanced in my direction for a second, probably noticing the way I was hitting the bag like it had personally offended me. I ignored him. Punch after punch, I kept going. My arms began to burn, my shoulders tightening with the strain, but I didn’t stop. Sweat started forming along my forehead, slowly soaking through my shirt. Tw

“Show me what you can do.” I stared at him for a moment, trying to read his expression. But there was no warmth in it, no encouragement—just cold expectation. I walked toward the punching bag, confused, but determined. I pulled my arm back and threw a punch. Nothing happened. The bag didn’t even budge. “Try again.” This time, I focused, putting more force behind my punch. Still, nothing. “Keep going,” he urged, his eyes locked on me. With a deep breath, I threw my hand back and aimed for the bag again, this time with everything I had. This time, the bag moved, but barely. It was a weak punch.

There’s a full section dedicated to machines, another for free weights. And in the far corner, is my favourite space. The sparring area. A raised mat, enclosed by low padded barriers. Heavy bags hang nearby, along with speed bags and training equipment. Controlled violence. That’s what this place is for. It’s exactly what I need. I move straight to one of the heavy bags, wrapping my hands quickly, efficiently. The bag isn’t centered properly and I fix it before I start. The first punch lands hard. Then another. And another.

Now, though, I had settled into something closer to a rhythm. Stretch. Warm up. Practice punches. Practice balance. Try not to fall over. It was working. Slowly. Very slowly. But it was working. Tonight I stood in front of the punching bag again, rolling my shoulders as I tried to remember everything Bastian had told me. Feet grounded. Core tight. Rotate. Punch. The bag swung back and forth with a satisfying creak of the chain above it. I smiled slightly. Behind me, a calm voice spoke. “Better.”

With each hit, the bags swung and rocked, the steel ropes chained to them chattering and squeaking. A professional pugilist watching him would have been flabbergasted by what he saw—or perhaps questioned their understanding of how physics works. How could someone with so much strength exist? Even a heavy-weight champion might not have something comparable! And the speed of the young man’s attacks! He could attack all three punching bags at the same time and send them rocking hard like swings. So unbelievable! At the end of his attacks, he gave three consecutive punches and punctured all three of them in one go. Sand flowed out of the holes.

JAYSON Left. Right Right. Right. Left. I punch the bag with all the force I can muster. The more I punch, the angrier I feel. "Humph........Humph.......Hmmmuph" My gloves slam into the bag. One after the other I punch faster and faster. Stronger and stronger. "Humph. Humph. Humph. Humph." My exhales turn into screams and growls as I punch the shit out of the bag. It swings violently as I continue to assault it with everything I have. Sweat flies off me. Pouring off my back.