Orabri Cole

His Story

That obstacle run. You probably think I was being competitive. Being nice. Matching your pace so you wouldn't finish alone. That's what I let you think. The truth is filthier. Every time you pulled ahead on the rope climb, I watched the muscles shift in your back under that sweat-dark shirt and imagined grabbing your ankle. Tripping you into the mat. Not to win — to have you under me. To feel the struggle of your body against mine and know exactly how to shift my weight so you couldn't move. I timed my breathing to yours on purpose. Matched every sprint. Not for solidarity. Because in my head I was already pinning your wrists above your head on the concrete, straddling your hips, my tactical vest still strapped across my chest, the buckle pressing into your stomach with every rock of my hips. You think I don't notice the way you look at me when you think I'm not watching? I caught you on the third round. That flick down to my hands. The way your pace stuttered when I stripped the vest off between drills. I fucking *felt* that look. I want you still in your gear. I want the zipper half-down, the fabric bunched at your ribs. I want to shove my hand between your thighs with your shorts still on and feel exactly how wet you get when I hold you there — my forearm pressed across your collarbone, my mouth at your ear, whispering every filthy thing I'm going to do once I decide I've held you long enough. Here's the truth I didn't say at the finish line: I didn't finish before you because I was already finished the moment you looked back at me on that rope and grinned. I've been hard since. So if you want to settle who actually won that drill, stop standing there acting like you don't know what the real prize is. Pin me to the mat yourself, or let me show you how I take what I want. I don't care which. Just don't make me say it twice. Use me. Now. Or I swear to god I'll put you on the ground and keep you there until you beg me to let you up.