MMA Fighter's Obsession

by Flora Ferrari

  Prying my lips apart and pushing his tongue inside, and then sliding his hand up my skirt, finding the secret wetness in my womanhood.

  “I’m going to fuck you hard,” he’d growl in my ear, the animal inside him unleashing.

  I feel my womb quiver, and a sudden urge to milk his thick seed from his manhood darts into my mind. I see myself on my knees, both hands pumping at his girth as he strokes his hand through my hair, tingling along my scalp.

  “Save it for your womb,” he’d snarl. “I want to pump it all into you. I want you to gush for me.”

  I close my eyes, shaking my head firmly against the too harsh lights of the interview room. I say a silent prayer of thanks to the air conditioning for blasting me with cool air. This Caribbean heat is hell-hot.

  Just like Liam.

  I stamp down on these wayward thoughts as I wait for Markus Kowalski, Liam’s opponent. I cycle through the flashcards and review the questions Mom carefully plotted out, all the while trying to drag my attention away from the memory of Liam.

  I try to direct my mind to my novel instead, which I started planning in earnest two months ago when I graduated high school. Dad is keen on me to fly straight into college, into a career like accounting or something like that, something so-called safe.

  All I want to do is hide away in a cabin somewhere, reading and writing, living in imaginary worlds.

  Like the world where Liam would ever look twice at me.

  I grit my teeth, willing time to hurry up. Sitting here reviewing and remembering the fricking interview is too painful, because I’ve never felt like this about a man before, this fate-fueled wanting, as though some god is directing me with invisible hands.

  Finally, I hear a noise from down the hall, a cacophony of raised voices getting closer. I stand to my feet and rub down my skirt, and then curse the instinct.

  Every time I did it in the interview with Liam, he glanced at me with disgust brimming in his light oaken eyes, as though he was repulsed by my less than skinny body.

  Markus walks into the room, a tall man with wide shoulders, wearing a tank top that shows heavily-tattooed arms. His hair is blonde and when he grins at me, I spot the bully in his eyes right away, his smile more of an aggressive grimace.

  He stares at my offered hand without shaking it.

  “Where’s that MILF?” he asks, dropping onto the seat and throwing his arm across the back. “What’s her name? Anna-something? I thought she was doing the interview.”

  “She’s sick, I’m afraid,” I say stiffly, taking my seat. “I’ll be doing the interview today.”

  He looks me up and down slowly, and then glances off camera at a sinewy man wearing a cheap looking blue suit. Some silent conversation seems to pass between them. I try not to imagine it, but I can’t help it.

  Looks like we drew the short straw.

  Not much to look at.

  I will my cheeks not to blush, but they do, blooming red. I’ve been dealing with his type of passive-aggressive crap my whole life, especially from boys – and he is a boy, despite his age – who think that not wanting to sleep with me is something I just have to know.

  “Are you ready to start?” I ask, hoping I mask the irritation that thrums through me.

  “Whatever you want, sweetheart,” Markus yawns. “Guess it would be good to get this shit over with. I’ve got an old man to execute, you know.”

  I hope Liam beats your arrogant ass, I think but don’t say.

  “Remember to stay impartial,” Mom told me earlier, the words costing her a visible effort as she hugged her belly, as if she was going to puke any second. “I know that Liam is your father’s friend, but don’t let that cloud your judgement in the interview with Markus.”

  But it’s not just Liam making me want to slap this douche-king across the jaw. It’s him, the way he glowers at me for no fricking reason.

  The interview starts, the director counting us in, and I lean forward with the friendliest smile I can muster.

  “So, Markus, this is quite the venue for a fight, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t care where it is,” Markus says, popping his neck from side to side.

  He’s trying to project a tough guy image, but there’s something desperate about it in contrast with Liam’s quiet savage confidence.

  “An alley, an island, a cage, a bar. I don’t give a fuck. I’m going to tear this old man to pieces.”

  My fists clench against my thighs involuntarily, and I want to leap forward and slap the smug look off his face.

  “So it’s your contention that Liam Larson is too old to be a threat? But he’s never lost a fight and he currently holds the heavyweight title, and has done so for the past eight years.”

  For a moment, a note of humanity flits across Markus’ face. But then he leans forward and stares at me. I’m familiar with the mean glint in his eyes. It’s the same one that filled jocks’ eyes in high school when they were about to spit some mean spite about my body shape.

  “You know what, sweetheart? It’s damn hard to focus on your questions with you sitting there looking so…mmm.” His voice deepens sarcastically and, behind the camera, his manager sniggers. “You should be a ring girl, getting those – ah – those curves on camera for everybody to see.”

  An instinct screams at me to jump to my feet and run the heck out of here.

  Shame erupts inside of me, surging through my body and yelling at me to leave, to go somewhere private, to bury my head in a book and forget the world exists.

  “Please can we …” I lick my suddenly dry lips, and blink away what I’m terrified might be tears. “Can we stay on topic, Markus?”

  He shrugs. “Whatever you say, hot stuff. I was just messing with you, anyway. No need to get all sensitive.”

  “That’s not a problem,” I say, resorting to an ultra-professional voice to try and dampen the effects of his douchebaggery.

  The word curves stabs in my mind, leaving me with no doubt what he actually meant.

  “You’re clearly just very passionate about the sport.”

  “Oh, I’m passionate,” Markus grins, leaning forward, so close that I can smell the sweaty tinge of him. He leers at me, eyes flitting over my body, his upper lip peeling back over his teeth as though I’ve just let off a stink bomb. “But I prefer my women a little more …”

  “Markus,” the manager mutters from behind the camera, a tight clipping note in his voice. “Let’s stay on topic, eh?”

  I swallow down another wave of shame, which is probably the most unfair thing in the universe. I want to tear this man down with a thousand insults, but I can’t do that. I can’t put Mom’s job in danger.

  Markus is the star and I’m just the lowly interviewer.

  I have to put up with it.

  A sickly feeling crawls over my skin as that realization hammers into me. I’ve got no fricking desire to be a woman who just sits here and lets a man treat her like crap, but at the same time I don’t want to throw Mom’s career in the trash. I know she’d handle it with poise, but I’m left floundering.

  I swallow again – have to stop doing that – and then glance down at my flashcards.

  “Well, at least you did your homework, hot stuff,” he chuckles. “Look, let me save you some time. That old bastard is fit for a retirement home. I’m going to send him there in a fucking wheelchair. He’s been tricking people into thinking he’s fierce, or tough, or whatever. But really he’s just been fighting piss-poor opponents his whole career.”

  I know that’s not true. But as my anxiety rockets through my body, I can’t quite summon up the necessary facts. I try to pull the names of Liam’s defeated opponents to my mind, but all I can think about is how much I hate this SOB.

  “We’re done here,” he snaps a second later, rising to his feet and shaking his head down at me. “I wish I could say it’s been a pleasure, sweetheart.”

  I watch him go as revulsion moves through me, wishing I could spit some acid barb at his back
.

  But my tongue feels tied, and not just metaphorically. It’s like the flesh has warped into a knot shape and all I can do is stare after him.

  He doesn’t even care that people will see this interview and criticize him, perhaps hate him. That’s the character he’s cultivating for himself in the sport. The one people root against, and so far it’s worked for him. Big pay days, knockout wins, a well paying MMA career.

  And I’m just the prop, something he can use in his messed-up game.

  Please, Liam, knock this asshole out.

  I almost add …

  For me.

  But that’s just craziness getting into my thoughts.

  Liam’s expression was brimming with distaste as he looked at me, as though he could hardly stand the sight of me no more than Markus could.

  Later, after trying unsuccessfully to hammer out a few thousand words in my hotel room, I take Mom’s ticket for the arena where the fight is being held. Her stomach bug is fading, but she’s still locking herself down in her room, an ice-pack on her head and a damp towel on her sweaty belly.

  “But I’m feeling better,” she says, when she nods at the ticket in my hand. She’s a tall woman, my mother, with long dyed blonde hair and an open, smiley face. Even as her hair sticks sweaty to her and she draws in shaky breaths, her smile is bright. “I know I don’t look it. I just need to lie down for a few hours. I might come down after the fight, for the party. Mingle a little.”

  “But don’t force it,” I mutter.

  I go to the arena and take my seat close to the cage, glad for the air conditioning pumping cool air into the packed building. The cage sits at an angle so that I have to crane my head a little, one of the best seats in the house.

  I barely watch the fights that come before Liam and Markus’, the violence making my nerves do backflips in my belly. The spotlights are blinding and further back, away from the journalists and celebrities who sit all around me, the crowd is roaring so loudly I’m shocked the walls don’t collapse around us.

  Blood spatters the canvas as the penultimate fight ends, the timer running out after fifteen minutes of savagery.

  Then the announcer comes out, a grey haired man in a flamboyant green, red, and purple suit, holding a gold colored microphone as he announces that it’s time for Markus and Liam’s fight.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Liam

  It feels like I’ve waited a hundred years to be standing across from this man, furious fire lancing through my veins, my heart thudding steadily like an executioner’s in my chest, my palms dry, my gaze focused.

  I stare at him as he grins cockily, flexing his arms, trying to pretend that there’s no fear pumping in his chest.

  But there is.

  And I can see it.

  He shouldn’t have spoken to Lola like that in the interview.

  I watched it a few minutes after it aired, my desire to get another look at her in her prim interviewer’s outfit again too strong to resist.

  Her body made a home in my thoughts the second I swaggered out of the interview room, her breasts roaring out to me, making me want to grab them, to tease them, to taste them.

  And then this worm thought he could insult her, speak to my woman with anything other than absolute respect.

  I don’t see the lights or hear the announcer’s voice as he gives his vocal cords one hell of a workout, announcing me and all my accolades. I just hear the rushing metallic anger in my ears and see him, my opponent, a dead man walking if it were not for laws and morality.

  I’ll have to settle for breaking his bones and bringing his hype train to a violent stop.

  Past Markus, I can see Lola sitting in the crowd. The lights are dim everywhere but the cage, but I’d be able to see her anywhere. She’s wearing a black T-shirt with some white print on the front I can’t make out and her hair is tied up in an unruly bun, the sort that makes me want to pry a few strands loose and watch them spiral around her face.

  I wonder what shape her mouth would make if I stroked my hand around her ear, tickling her, and the sighing noise she’d moan out if I moved down her neck and over her T-shirt, cupping her breasts, squeezing through the fabric, tantalizing her with every sultry touch.

  I shake my head and tug my gaze back to Markus, willing myself to focus on the fight.

  The referee gestures for us both to come to the center of the cage. “We’ve been over the rules backstage,” he tells us, and I don’t even see him. He’s a blur. I focus my violent intent on my opponent like a laser. “I want a clean fight. Touch gloves if you agree and let’s do this.”

  Markus swaggers back without touching gloves, which is what I expected. I hear an ooooohhhh noise go up in the crowd as we both move to our corners.

  I move my neck from side to side and let my arms hang loose, remembering how the blush of shame moved across Lola’s neck, her face, when this worm spoke down to her.

  There is no man alive who will ever get away with talking to Lola like that.

  Ever.

  I’d fight a thousand men if I had to.

  For her.

  The bell rings and Markus almost sprints forward, starting fast like he always does. He’s a large, powerful man, but he’s overeager like most men his age.

  He comes in with two devastating body shots, but I parry them and slide to the side, and then dance back as he bulrushes me, his arms swinging in big, looping hooks.

  “Tsk,” I breathe, feeling the Zen calm fall over me now. I fire a kick to his belly and see him wince, even as he tries to cover it with a grin and waves me forward.

  “Come on, old man,” he grunts.

  “You’re going to apologize,” I growl, and then feint twice, to the left. He takes the bait, his eyes moving subtly to track the strikes, but at the last second I dart in with a vicious kick to the right. I catch him on the calf and he winces again, pain tugging at his features. The kick makes a loud slap noise, like a baseball bat against meat. “You’re going to tell Lola how fucking sorry you are.”

  His eyes widen as he regains his stance. “That interviewer bitch?”

  Bitch.

  I almost see red then, my rage like a livid sun inside of me, flaming and shooting off flares of heat that riot through my body. I force myself to breathe and bring a sense of calm through me, because even the most capable fighters can’t win when they’re angry.

  “You’ll say sorry,” I growl. “You’ll see.”

  He comes at me again and again, but his technique is all wild power and blind fury. He keeps trying to step in and hit me with an overhand right, but it’s easy to just slide to the side and catch him with a vicious two-combination jab.

  His head snaps back on the second and his nose explodes with blood, a vivid shower of it dashing into the air and flecking the canvas.

  “Motherfucker,” he roars, aiming a kick to my stomach.

  Big mistake.

  I catch his leg at the ankle and flip him backward.

  He almost does a backflip but then I’m on him, grabbing him by the legs and tackling him to the ground. I leap past his full guard quickly, pinning my legs so that I’m sitting on him as he squirms and tries to escape.

  But he’s in a bad position and his face shows it, panic streaking his features. He’s never had to fight before, not really. He’s gotten quick knockouts on his last nine opponents, never having to bleed, to struggle.

  “You’re a hard man?” I snarl, smashing my fists down at his face as he pathetically tries to cover it. “Are you? Say something now. Insult my queen now.”

  I can feel the referee lingering close, ready to jump in and save him any moment if he doesn’t start defending himself. The crowd is roaring almost to the breaking point. I hear it, all those tells that the fight is almost over, that I’ve almost pommeled him into complete destruction.

  But he hasn’t apologized yet.

  I lean back slightly, looking down at his face, his nose bent sideways, his cheeks puffy from my blows.
>
  “Say sorry,” I snap. “Tell Lola how fucking sorry you are.”

  “S-sorry,” he gasps. “Sorry. Jesus.”

  I thunder down with more blows, but his arms are starting to go slack and soon the referee jumps in, stopping me from smashing his face into the canvas.

  I stand up and walk back to my corner, my chest heaving and my fists twitching at my sides. I turn and lean against the cage, the interlocked metal cool on my sweat-flecked back, and then I stare into the crowd and drink in the sight of Lola, as though I’ve just returned from a battle and she’s my prize.

  She stares back at me, her mouth open, her chest rising and falling just as dramatically as mine. It’s as though there’s an invisible connection between us. She can feel the excitement infusing every inch of me.

  The more her chest tremors, the harder it is to restrain myself from just leaping into the crowd and palming her breasts, from tearing her T-shirt open with my teeth and destroying her bra.

  I force myself to look away, because otherwise the urge might overwhelm me, and I can’t take her here, no damn way. The sight of her pleasure is for me and me alone.

  Soon, the post-fight interviewer enters the ring. He’s a bald man of about six foot, his head shining in the harsh lights. He wears a jet black shirt and talks loudly.

  “There’s been a lot of talk about you retiring at forty-two with forty-two wins. Obviously, you’ve accomplished that tonight. You have a wildly successful business and you’ve been the most dominant fighter in the history of the sport. What does your future look like?”

  I stare at Lola, now sitting down, her fingers interlaced.

  She’s what my future looks like.

  “I’d like to dedicate this fight to Lola Young,” I say, staring at her, my desire filled gaze burning into her as her mouth contorts in shock. “I did this for you, Lola, for the way this piece of dirt talked to you in his interview.”

  The whole crowd gasps and people start clamoring to turn and find Lola Young in the crowd, but nobody knows who she is, and Lola just sits there, her hands clasped together and her mouth wide open.