Feinting Spells 3-4
Mid October, That Year
Three weeks ago, two women fought an MMA bout in an invitation only club in Southern California. One suffered a devastating, humiliating defeat. Her boyfriend, consumed with vengeance and a talented fighter in his own right, challenged the victor to a fight, anytime anywhere. They’ve agreed to settle accounts in the small gym where Rebecca “Bliss” Myers, the winner hosts her own small-scale fights every few weeks. It hasn’t been long since “Crystal” Claire Zhang lost: now Rebecca’s looking to prove her superiority once and for all while Gunner “Gunshow” Harrison is dying to avenge, his girlfriend’s honor. The modest crowd has no idea of the bad blood these two took into the fight with them. The fight has produced no shortage of sparks, but those sparks are threatening to catch fire sooner rather than later.
Gunner Harrison had no intention of letting the fight settle into a lull. He wanted blood, pain, and suffering. He wanted this stupid bitch to feel regret, remorse, anything but the condescension and predatory lust he'd come to know her for. Watching this blonde bitch fondle and caress and embarrass his girlfriend of three years was more than he could live with. The memory of Claire squirming and writhing with Rebecca's mouth on her neck, the blonde’s hand between his girlfriend’s thighs filed him with a rage that pumped through the veins in his clenched jaw and balled fists. He had to make this right.
Had to.
The old gym’s bell tolled to announce the start of the second round and once again Gunner charged from his corner. As Rebecca neared he gathered his stride and leapt into a jumping knee. Rebecca Meyers barely got her hands up in time to deflect the blow, letting him drive her back into the ropes before rebounding, sliding away. Another reason to be glad she'd insisted on holding all of the evening's festivities in a ring, not a cage.
Gunner set the pace of the round, throwing long straight punches and scything round kicks, always coming forward, snarl permanently etched on his face. Rebecca parried and circled away but the kick dug into her thigh.
Dammit. So boyfriend and girlfriend both throw vicious kicks.
She lingered at the edge of his range, considering how to get him off his feet again. From here she could avoid the brunt of the storm, or so she thought until his shin slammed against her thigh at the end of another exchange. The pain was sudden and searing and she backed away eagerly, replying once again with sharp, singular, noncommittal punches at the edge of her range, staring at his hands.
Christ, does he understand anything other than attempted murder?
The brawler followed, missing wide with two wild swings before stepping in close and catching her cheek with an elbow. The blonde recoiled, hesitated, threw two glancing punches before circling away again, still wearing that ferocious smile.
“Gunshow” pursued, hands cocked, chest heaving. He pumped hooks, straights, elbows, knees, charging straight toward her. To his surprise, this time, she lunged. She ducked underneath a looping hook and wrapped one arm around the thigh of his lead leg. A twist, a push and he abruptly found himself falling back, away from the ropes, and onto his back near the middle of the ring. He raged, pushing on her frantically, eager to get back to his feet and put her to sleep, but “Bliss” held on through his spasm, firm in his half guard, her right leg outside and wrapped around his left as they lay on the mat. She slid up his torso, pressing her chest against his, her pronounced breasts threatening to escape from her tight turquoise top, and then pinned his right arm down and unloaded a few short hooks and elbows into his chest and ribs.
“Come on, like, I’m hot, you’re bothering me, let’s just-“ the white girl teased “I’mma fucking kill you” was the only response she received. “You’re totes adorbs when you’re mad” she whispered. “Just like our girlfriend is.”
She hit him a few more times, clearly enamored with the sensation of their bodies pressed together, her hips rocking gently against his thigh as he pushed and pulled on her, desperate to extract himself from her grasp and resume his righteous revenge. Their legs untangled momentarily as she looked to move from his from his chest to his side but no sooner had she lifted her weight off him than he rolled partially over and shot out from under her, leaving her holding onto his ankle briefly before finally shaking her off and darting away. He spun back around and thought briefly about kicking her in the face like a field goal until the ref slid between them.
“None of that, yeah?” said the young man in stripes.
Gunner bristled at the ref. “Stand up, Becky. Can’t run from me this time.” Gunner’s mouthpiece hung halfway out of his mouth as he threatened her. He breathed audibly, through his mouth, fists tightly clenched in his stance.
She obliged him and stood up, slowly. “Anything for a fan.” She smirked.
He wasted no time trying to lay into her and she replied once again with tepid punches at the edge of his range, staring at his hands. She never noticed his short, switching shuffle that put her right in range for the long, leaning push kick that caught her in the diaphragm. Air fled her lungs and she faded backwards but found padded ropes, not empty space. Gunner followed up by buying his shin in her side, near her liver. She grunted at the impact; hell, several members of the crowd winced at its sound. The force of the blow wobbled her and she fell onto her butt there against the ropes. Gunner huffed and puffed and glared, then backed away and motioned for her to stand up.
“Stand up slut, we’re not done here. Fucking bitch.”
She gathered herself briefly, moved her hair out her eyes, and rose onto still shaky legs. Where he expected to find fear, trepidation, regret in her eyes, he found only venomous, wounded pride. It infuriated Gunner even more.
I’m going to make him hurt in new and creative ways she seethed.
As he wound up a decisive blow, the grappler changed tack and dashed toward him, quickly thrusting her arms beneath his armpits and tying him up. She panted heavily in his ear, partially out of necessity, while he tried to free his arms or wriggle away or…
Simone Waterson was finally glad she’d found this tonight's, time, and address taped to the door of her campus dorm room this afternoon. She still had no idea who put it there, but it was good looking out, whoever it was.
Now she watched an angry kickboxer try to decapitate a toned, voluptuous, wrestler. She slipped an auburn hand out of her hoodie and nibbled on her finger while she considered the action. Whatever striking success the blonde had found early had evaporated and now she’d made takedowns and clinches l the focal point of her offense and defense. On her feet the woman wasn't doing more than defending her face and firing token responses as she circled and backed away. Just watching her move and bounce around the ring in her too tight sports bra made Simone’s breasts itchy and sweaty. How she breathed in that thing was a mystery. Wardrobe choices aside, she could barely remember the last time she’d seen anyone fight this hard, this wild in sparring, let alone a real fight. The guy in the grey camouflage shorts, whatever his name was, wasn’t trying to win a fight; that would require some patience and a semblance of a plan. This guy was swing for the fences and damn near running at her whenever she backed away; he wanted very badly to hurt her, and wasn’t interested in any guile or subterfuge to achieve that goal.
And damn, he’d been doing it for the better part of 10 minutes. Just watching him made Simone feel gassed. Then again, that didn’t take much. But even high pressure fighters took breaks to breathe and think. He was just swinging. The busty blonde though was apparently used to headhunters and Simone watched her competently parry and evade most of the punches and elbows intended to rearrange her face. She was entirely less adept at defending below her turquoise sports bra, and ol’ boy tagged her repeatedly with kicks and knees to the legs and body. Those had to hurt, right?
But fighting at that pace was a mistake, and each clinch and takedown she scored further sapped him of energy. Sure he was winning the round, but that was no way to win a fight. Surely his corner had told him to pace himself? Maybe he was new? Maybe he didn’t know how fast he was fighting or how little of it was landing? The situation bemused her, but people made stupid decisions all the time in fights; Uncle Andre and her mom had been dutifully, gleefully, pointing out her stupidity for years now. Her hand found its way to the back of her neck as she considered when hjr next pro fight might be. Hopefully after finals week; she had no desire to explain her professional MMA career to her professors and Teaching Assistants
As the second round folded into the third, Simone watched the cycle repeat; he’d light her up, she’d take him down, he’d get back up and fight with a little less fervor. It was a decaying orbit. If he hadn’t knocked her out by now, chances were he wasn’t going to. She realized then that neither the ref nor that announcer chick had announced how many rounds this would go.
Perhaps they’d agreed to fight to a finish?
But fights were unpredictable; nothing to it but to keep watching and see if she could pick up anything.
“Gun, you need to calm down. It looks like you’re going crazy out there, and…” But her boyfriend’s gaze never met hers. Wherever he was, she couldn’t reach him. She shook his shoulders, grabbed his jaw firmly. “Hello! You there, Gun?” Finally he sighed, eyes followed the movement of her head.
“I need to beat her. Need to. For you.”
“Then you need to calm down,” she assured him, ignoring his stated motivation. “Looks like you’re getting tired. How do you feel?”
“She's stronger than she looks. Her fucking hands feel like bear traps. Like, what the fuck?”
“I know, I can see it out there…”
“Fuck, if I could just string together a few more shots I'd have her out of here. But-“
“But what?”
“She keeps fucking finding a way out, and that ref keeps letting her.”
“What happened to straight rights and knees to the body? Don't let her get her hands all over you.” Claire offered strategy and water. In response, Gunner seemed to float away again at the mention. Claire shook him again. “Helloooo. You still here?”
“I can't stop seeing her making out with you in that cage” was his grim response. “Did you… did you want that to happen? Did you-“
“Gunner I-“ was all she could muster before the alarm for the next round rang. Gunner Harrison left his corner without giving his girlfriend of three years another glance.
Gunner’s flurries had become single blows; his ubiquitous followups now open mouthed panting. He trudged, not dashed, after Rebecca, following slowly. Where she’d been afraid to throw much now the blonde flicked jabs into his nose almost without fear of reprisal. He fired a hook and forced himself to attempt a push kick as she backed away. None of it came close to landing. She returned with a jab, an uppercut, anything she wanted.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to be.
She was supposed to be broken and unconscious by now. Instead, breathing was a monumental task for him and his hands floated low in front of him.
Fuck.
No.
Fuck it.
He lumbered towards her and swung for the fences, a wild, spinning head kick, a home run swing, and didn’t even have the stamina to spin all the way around and defend himself from the ensuing takedown.
This time Rebecca crashed into his lower back, wrapping up both thighs and driving him off his feet. Gunner reached out for something to steady him and gripped the top rope for only an instant. Then he felt her chest pressing onto his back, her breath in his ear, her voice breathy, taunting, as they fell onto the mat. Her weight on him expelled what meager air was left in his chest.
“Like, why fight it? let's just have some fun; I promise it’ll feel great” “Fuck. Off. Fuck. You,” the self-appointed avenger spat between ragged breaths. “Finally being honest about why you're here?” she teased, nibbling on his earlobe as she walloped him with right hooks to his body, her left arm cradled around his neck.
The referee monitored the pair, Gunner turtled up on his knees and elbows, Rebecca hanging on him like a cape, tenderizing his ribs. Tim wanted to stop it, probably should, but hesitated, hoping for a sign of life. Rebecca would be really mad about an early stoppage in a fight she was winning.
Rebecca changed tact and ran her free hand down his chest, along his abs, over his hip. She purred immodestly at this turn of events.
Mmm, nothing like a hot toy to make a girl feel in control.
She half stood up over him and Gunner took the momentary space between them to roll over onto his back. He promptly expressed his regret when she dropped back onto him in a full mount, their hips pressed together. She took her time – they'd barely made it halfway through the round, whatever round it was – and put both hands on his chest. He wasn’t going anywhere and she insisted on relishing this moment. She rocked back and forth slightly, excitement building inside her, and Gunner’s right hand into her face once again roused her from her lusty haze. Now she groaned out of annoyance, not lust, and wished for not the first time that night they’d held this fight somewhere more private, with a more entertaining set of rules. She wished she could take her top off. Ah well; it couldn’t be helped, and she still had a job to do. She postured up, sitting high on hips, his abs, and fired away, her blue gloves obliterating the meek guard Gunner'd scraped together. He bridged immediately, instinctively, insufficiently, his legs pushing with the same urgency and desperation to keep her at in range of his limbs all night. It hadn’t been enough then. It was infinitely less so now.
She battered him with punches while the crowd cheered, rocking his head to and fro. Rebecca stared into the windows of his soul and paused, waiting for Gunner to return her gaze. She needed him to see this, to understand just how doomed and pathetic this endeavor was, how much better than him she was. She’d said it, now, and before the fight, but she needed him to know he understood that he never had a chance: she took what she wanted and no one would get in her way.
Still sitting on him, she pondered how to end this fight; punching him unconscious was too easy, too unspectacular. He needed to be taught a lesson. She adjusted the back of her top and suddenly knew how to send a message to “Gunshow” and any of her private club compatriots in the crowd. She leaned forward, stretching all the way out onto Gunner's semi conscious form, her arms wrapped around his head. She adjusted her hips for leverage and pulled his head into her pillowy cleavage. His face was wet, sweaty, bloodied, and she gripped a handful of his thick black hair while she pushed her chest into his face. She felt him struggle, winging weak punches into her side. The experience was exhilarating and she felt thighs moisten, her nipples stiffen. There was no fire left inside him, no threat, no rage, and she felt him weakening beneath her. She couldn’t help grinding lightly against his chiseled abs; he was as delicious a toy as she was likely to get for some time. “There's a good boy. Just lay back and enjoy it. This time “Crystal” gets to watch me have you.” She cooed, right before he finally went limp.
She pulled away from him, let him fall back, away from her, then licked her lips, adjusted her skintight shorts damp only partially with sweat, and stared at him splayed out on the canvas. The crowd, and the ref, took a second to register what had just happened, then promptly lost their minds cheering the conclusion.
Claire Zhang realized now what a terrible feeling this was. Just waiting for your boyfriend to come back to consciousness? Knowing he’d made a terrible mistake and you couldn’t stop him from doing so?
It made her sick. The feeling curled around the exhilaration of that night at Ally’s fight club. She’d lost, and that sucked to be sure, but she’d never had a fight like that, ever. It made her want to get better, be better. She’d never lost that badly or been paid that well.
But for however badly she’d felt after that … steamy… drubbing at Bliss’ hands, Gunner had been irate, incoherently mad. He hadn’t yet made peace with the realities, the worst case scenario of her fighting in places like that. She almost wished Bliss had just knocked her out instead.
At least Gunner knew how to deal with that. Now as she watched the physician roused her boyfriend back to the land of the living, she faced questions she'd rather not answer…
Gunner sat up, his hands on his knees, and looked past the doctor, straight at Claire. “Yeah, I'm fine” he muttered, then met the physician’s gaze and followed her instructions. Name, date, day, location, a bad attempt at a joke, all to prove he was alive. Okay. Physically, at least. He’d been choked, not knocked out; no need for an in depth concussion protocol.
Internally he was scorched earth, the barren aftermath of a series of violent explosions.
Damn
And there was Claire Zhang, kneeling next to him, concern etched on her face. Gunner wanted to be mad, at her, at himself, at Rebecca, but couldn't muster any kind of feeling at all. He was watery ashes, inert and lifeless. Bomb debris and spent fuel. She helped him up and they left the ring together.
“Damn… just…fuck.” “Yeah, Gunner, I know.” “No… Just… maybe I need to leave all the fighting to you, yeah? Just let this be your thing?” “Wait, what do you mean?” Claire tilted her head in mild confusion. “Maybe we need to figure out if I should be your corner man or your boyfriend, cause splitting the difference is killing me.” He admitted, running his hand up his sweat slicked forehead and through his hair.
She stopped now, turned to look him in the eyes. He was deadly serious, that much she knew. “I think I'd prefer you as my boyfriend then,” she confided, “if I had to choose.” “I was hoping you’d pick that one” he said, gingerly clutching his aching ribs as they walked. “You know I'm not ready to stop fighting, right?” She nuzzled her shoulder against his bicep, stopping only when she heard him wince. “That much I’d assumed. It’s the.. possibility of you getting… ‘loved tenderly’ during one of those fights that keeps me up at night.” He said, his voice deep and caustic. “Yeah, I know. I… I'm still figuring out that part. Just… the money though, you know? It makes the risk worth it. It's so exciting being in the cage, squaring off against some chick I’ve never met before. It's exhilarating.” “I know you get excited; that's what worries me. Like, I'd never seen you with those bedroom eyes, that “’I wanna have sex’ look during a fight before. it's… did you enjoy that?” “That's what I meant when I said I wad still figuring it out. Like, I don't like losing. Period. Getting punched never feels good. But that? Her? Let's just say I'm still processing it.” She smiled sheepishly. Whether or not it was what he wanted to hear at least it was honest.
His countenance darkened at the reverie. “Yeah. Processing. So you're not sure if you liked getting fucked in front of an audience. Got it.”
“That's not fair and you know it.” Now it was her turn to let her hurt chisel itself onto her face. “No I didn't want to lose. No I didn't want to lose like that. But the alternative is that I got… is that…” she faltered. “I'm not ready to consider all the implications of the alternative. For now, I guess I'm thinking of that as an occupational hazard, same as the bumps and bruises. I mean, I don’t wanna get punched in the cage either, but when it happens we don't call it assault. For now, let's call it, an occupational hazard?”
His silence softened slowly as the tumblers of a door in his mind he’d locked tightly began to creak and turn. “That's… a different way to look at it. I guess. Yeah. Alright. I think… I think I can live with that.”
Her smile returned in earnest. “I love you Gunner Harrison.”
“Love you too. Now let's get home? I think I'm ready to sleep for a week. Fuck; tell coach I'm just gonna work on takedown defense for the rest of my life.” He managed a weak smile.
“Oh my God, same! I'm sooo mad about that. If I ever see another clinch or takedown it'll be too soon.”
They left the little gym hand in hand, tied closer by calamity and ready for whatever came next.
#Writing #Series #FeintingSpells #Fiction #Action #Fight #MartialArts
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