"You have to win tonight, Tim!"
Chloe placed a succulent kiss on my lips.
"I want no part of this guy."
"Roger that!" I replied as I gazed at my opponent glowering in the opposite corner of the ring.
Chloe did her strut around the ring in a clingy top, short leather skirt, thigh-high boots with spiked heels, and a forced smile.
The crowd roared with approval. I knew just how they felt. My wife, Chloe is the total package; ebony hair, blue eyes, slim, yet amply endowed, killer legs, a fantastic butt, and a bubbly personality. When I thought about what would happen if I lost this match... well, let's just say I was suitably motivated.
Our fight club had decided to up the ante in our twice-monthly bouts. Girlfriends' and wives' names were drawn at random. If your girl's name was drawn, you had to fight the champion from two weeks earlier. If you lost the match, you lost your girl as well. There was a lavishly appointed bedroom in club headquarters for the winner to claim his prize immediately.
Guys who successfully held on to their women got on hell of a thank you fuck. Guys who lost -- well, they got their women back a few hours later, heavily soiled.
Chloe sashayed out of the ring and took her seat next to the club president. I looked at my opponent. Daryll Jenkins sat brooding on his stool. Man, was he ever an ugly cuss! A livid scar danced around the jawline of his irregularly shaped noggin, a souvenir of his time as a bouncer in one of the most dangerous liquor stations in America. He was big everywhere, with corded muscles from head to toe. His dark skin glistened under the harsh overhead lighting of the ring. Jenkins was about three inches taller than me, giving him a distinct reach advantage. He outweighed me by ten pounds. I wasn't totally outclassed, our club likes fair fights, not blowouts, but Jenkins was the odds-on favorite. I swallowed hard, I was probably faster, and I had tremendous confidence in my punching ability. If I got the early advantage... if not, try to hang on until the thirteenth round and hope for a victory on points.
The referee entered the ring and the corner men left. I strode to the center of the ring and tapped my taped knuckles against Daryll's while the man in stripes went through his spiel. Like most fight clubs, our fights had few rules. The ref was there to check for true illegalities such as hidden objects, eye gouging, and intentional bone breaking. He was also the sole arbiter of the ten counts to determine the winner. We returned to our corners and the bell rang.
I managed to get the first punch in, a hard slug on Daryll's ugly jaw. No need to break his nose, his was as crooked as a country road. The first round went better than I expected. I'm faster than Jenkins so I could evade his reach, at least most of the time. I avoided Jenkins through the first five rounds while getting in a few choice shots. I opened a cut above his right eye. Then, I began to run out of gas. By round six, I was up against it. I hadn't paced myself properly. I was out of steam and starting to take a pounding. My feet became heavier and heavier, Jenkins loomed larger and larger, and I was landing far fewer telling blows. Things started getting fuzzy around the edges. I heard and felt the impact of his fist on my chin, and everything went dark.
I came to on a cot in the back of our clubhouse. For a moment or two, I wasn't sure if I wanted to return to the realm of the living. The doctor shined a light in my eyes. I sat up,
"Chloe!" I shouted.
