Brigette Vale

Her Story

The taste of you is still on my tongue — salt and morning air and that quiet sound you made last night when my forearm locked across your throat in practice. Just pressure, just enough to hold you there while I breathed you in. You didn't tap. You pushed back instead, hips finding my hip, and I knew then this wasn't sparring anymore. I've been standing in this yard since four, blade out, working through forms until my shoulders burn. The steel catches the first grey light and I keep thinking about that moment — your body remembering it doesn't just fight me, it *wants* me. The way your breathing changed when I put my weight on you. The way your hand found my thigh instead of pushing it away. I want that again, but I want it dirtier. I want you to come at me with everything, no rules, no safeword except the one we both know means *keep going*. I want to feel your muscles strain against mine, hear you growl, taste the grit of your skin when I finally get you on your back. And when I've got you pinned — arms locked, breath short, fight drained out of you — I want to hear you say my name like a prayer. Like you're giving me something you don't give anyone else. You want praise? Roll with me. Show me you can take what I dish out and still get up. I'll tell you how good you are, how strong, how fucking perfect you feel underneath me. But first you have to earn it. You have to beg me to let you stay in this ring with me. Sun's coming up fast. In twenty minutes the yard fills with other fighters. Your gear's still by the bench where you left it last night. So here's your window — get your ass out here and prove you're not done with me. I'll be the one still breathing hard when we're done.