Punching Bag Book Novels & Stories

After she was done, she came out and was ready. “First, we are going to start with the basics because you look like you’ve never visited the gym in your life,” I said with an irritated look laced around my face. “Now you’re trying to insult me,” Amber said while putting on a hard scowl. “We’ll start with the punching bag. The punching bag is great for your arm. It’ll help with your agility and your sense of reflex. It will also help in terms of rapid attacks,” I explained. “Watch me and do exactly as I do.”

he told me, motioning to the punching bag on the right corner of the ground. Well, I had no technique other than rage. So, feeling it storming through my muscles and powering my fists, I punched the damn bag. “Sh!t!” I protested, massaging my knuckles. “There is a better way to punch, a way you won’t hurt yourself,” Grant said before showing me how to do that. After a few punches, I got the right way. A quiet yell left me as my leg kicked the punch bag. Hell, I wanted to put it all out and feel alive.

My focus was on the punching bag hanging from the ceiling in the middle of the room. I walked over to it and wrapped my hands tightly before throwing the first punch. The impact sent a familiar and satisfying jolt up my arm. I didn’t stop. One punch turned into another, and then another. My fists hit the bag over and over; each blow helped to ease a fraction of the tension that coiled inside of me.

he put on some gloves and jumped into the cage. “See me as a punching bag.” I did exactly as he told me and put my one foot in front and the other one backward. “Now hit me.” he stands in front of me. I swing my right arm and he ditches the punch. “Boxing isn’t just about punching a bag, it is about doing every move with accuracy and proper form. A punching bag workout lets you experience the impact’s force when you punch, but your opponent can ditch your punch and hit you to the ground in seconds.” he punches me and I fell to the floor. He held out his hand and pulled me back up.

I needed to feel in control of my body, mind, and bones. Every punch felt like I was taking off the load and tight knot of all that was going on. Every attack I had felt like it was crushing as I hit the bag. I ignored the pain in my rib as I let everything wash over me. My bandaged hands and knuckles were pulsing from the force as I was giving one punch after the other to the bag. I could tell the bag was almost giving up on me.

My father, sometimes Chase, and Lucas fucking De Marchi. I lock the glove along my wrist and walk in front of the hanging bag. I bounce in place and hit the bag with my right hand. I bounced again and hit the bag with my left arm and the piece of shit throbbed as if it was going to fall off. But I continue to keep my cool. Like I said earlier, I won't let it tell me how I'm going to do my workout. I bear the pain and continue to punch the bag. I know I should probably rest, but the anger has been fueling me, and I doubt I could stay still even for a moment. On my 126th punch, the door in the basement creaks open.

An hour or two in here should do the trick. Slamming the door behind me, I don’t even bother turning on the lights. I strip out of my leather jacket and shirt, toss them over the bench press, and head for the punching bag. Before I start, wrap my hands to prevent myself from splitting my knuckles. The first few punches aren’t so sharp. My mind is still foggy with images of Heidi I need to force away. But when I get the hang of it, my body starts getting familiar with the movements, and I lose count of how many punches I’ve thrown.

Putting on the grey hand-wrapped gloves, I faced the freestanding punching bag and hoped that it would last long enough to endure the force that I was going to unloose. Throwing several punches, I thought about all my problems and unshackled them. Many of the hard punches were related to Charlotte and the others were based on my father’s desire to give her a second chance. The speed increases as I hurl the weight from my shoulder at this hydraulic kickboxing bag. “Heron!” Stopping, my head snapped around to see that my Beta and Delta were standing behind me. My chest heaved up and down.

I hadn't used it again until the day I took off my wedding ring—the day I met Charli. In a more refined sport of abuse, after I changed out of my suit into sweats and a t-shirt, I donned a pair of boxing gloves. Though I was confident I could take either or both of the posturing peacocks currently in the ring, I concentrated on the bag. My training came back. Pay attention. Keep my balance. Only move my feet when I'm not punching. Punch the damn bag—don't push it. Breathe. Snap punches three to six reps. Move my feet. Find my rhythm. Before I even realized it, my punches were flowing. Sweat saturated my shirt as I moved effortlessly around the bag. My power built, the snap keeping my combina

Ethan planted himself behind the punching bag with a face on it that had to be a sick joke at my expense. I swallowed and lifted my chin, and locked his eyes in a defiant gaze He stood behind the punching bag and held on to it, grinning at me like this was all a big fat joke. He watched as I wrapped a towel gauze around my fists and got in position. And then he continued. "Do twenty one-two punches, and alternate them with twenty round house kicks. Do a set, then another set of thirty punches and kicks, then forty, then fifty." I felt my lungs deflate at the task in front of me, but I met his hard, brutal gaze behind the punching bag and nodded firmly, a determined gaze in my eyes.