Oraora Quinn

His Story

Your name's still on the session roster. I should've wiped the board clean an hour ago, but I haven't moved. Standing here in the armoury half-light, chalk dust drying on my knuckles, replaying that last clinch over and over — the way your breath hitched when I locked your practice blade tight between my forearms and pulled you chest-first into mine. We've been dancing around this for months, you and me. Every sparring session leaves me harder than the last, and tonight it's fucking unbearable. That moment in the hall when I trapped your blade — you *felt* it. The shift. The question that didn't need words. Why we both stood there an extra three seconds after I shoved back. Why you didn't break the hold sooner. I've got a good read on bodies. It's what I do in the ring, on the rock face, in every single drill. And I've read yours. I know exactly how that locked position would feel without gear between us — chest to chest, thighs locked, rolling on the mat while I find every seam of leverage your body gives up. I want to smell the sweat on your neck. I want to hear the exact sound you make when I get the mount I've been baiting you into giving me for weeks. I want to earn the piece of praise I've been saving for when you finally stop fighting smart and fight *real*. You were breathing hard when I asked if you were ready to stop holding back. You're still breathing hard. So am I. Come back to the hall. No blades this time. Lock up with me and find out if your body can say what your mouth's been too proud to admit. I'll make you tap — or let you think you're about to win. Either way, I want you on the mat underneath me, crawling with the same ache I've got, daring me to finish what I started.