asconian's blog

Chapter 3: Lessons of blood

He had believed Edgar was unbeatable. But he was wrong. Daniel was the new cock of the yard.

Interesting. The Count needed strong men around him. And if Edgar had proven a worthy rival, perhaps Daniel would be something even better.

The next day, he summoned him.

The Duel in the Palace Hall

The palace hall was a sanctuary of power. Golden lamps cast a warm light over the mahogany furniture; hunting tapestries hung majestically on the walls, and the thick carpets muffled every sound beneath their feet.

Daniel advanced cautiously, feeling the tension coiled in his muscles. His boots still carried traces of mud, and his clothes smelled of rain and damp earth. He knew why he was there—or so he thought.

He stopped a few steps from the Count, a man of elegant bearing, intense gaze, and inscrutable expression. Young and robust like Daniel himself.

“My lord…” he began, bowing his head slightly. “I regret what happened in the gardens. It won’t happen again.”

The Count leaned an elbow on the armrest of his chair, thoughtful.

“Regret it?” he murmured, with an almost imperceptible smile. “Why would I want you to regret it? You’re a fine fighter. Not many men beat Edgar.”

Daniel frowned.

“You’re not dismissing me?”

“Of course not,” replied the Count calmly, rising to his feet. “What I want is for you to teach me how to fight.”

The stable boy blinked in surprise.

“Excuse me?”

The Count walked toward him with the confidence of a man used to getting his way.

“I saw what you did to Edgar. You don’t fight with technique—you fight to survive. You’re a street dog… wild. And that’s what I want to learn. I also intend to settle my score with Edgar.”

Daniel crossed his arms, studying him.

“Alright. We can try. When do you want to begin?”

The Count smiled sideways.

“How about right now?”

Before Daniel could answer, the nobleman gracefully removed his vest and began unbuttoning his shirt.

Daniel let out a low laugh and pulled off his own shirt, dropping it to the floor. The Count locked the door to ensure no one would disturb them.

“As you wish, my lord. But it’ll be rough.”

At first, it was just a game.

The Count tested the waters, probing with quick feints and shoves. He was agile, his reflexes trained by years of fencing, but his fighting style was clean—too refined.

When he tried to restrain Daniel with an elegant hold, the stable boy slipped free with ease and shoved him hard in the chest.

The Count stumbled—and smiled.

“Interesting…”

He charged again, this time with more aggression, grabbing Daniel’s arm and trying to twist it. But Daniel didn’t fight by rules or protocol. With a sharp motion, he broke free and faced him head-on, so close he could feel the Count’s breath.

“Don’t make it so pretty, my lord,” he murmured with a crooked grin. “Out here, it’s about survival.”

The Count didn’t reply. He threw a punch to Daniel’s side.

It wasn’t strong enough to hurt, but it was enough for Daniel to respond with a shove that sent them crashing against a table.

“Very good, my lord.”

And then, the fight escalated. Blows ecoed in the palace.

From grapples to holds, from holds to full-on wrestling—they were soon rolling over the carpet, smashing chairs, knocking over furniture. A lamp crashed to the floor with a loud clatter. No one could have stopped them. And blood.

Daniel ended up on top of the Count, pinning him down with his weight. But the nobleman, quick and clever, used his legs to flip him over in one swift motion.

“Are you sure you want to keep going, Your Excellency?” Daniel panted, amused.

The Count gritted his teeth, trying to submit him again.

But Daniel had street instincts. An elbow, a shove, a trip—bit by bit, the Count’s polished technique fell apart, and the fight turned dirty.

In one move, Daniel caught him by the neck, twisted, and slammed him to the floor with a heavy thud.

The Count lay on the carpet, chest heaving. Silence filled the room—then the nobleman let out a short laugh.

“Well, Daniel…” He sat up, rubbing his neck. “I wasn’t wrong about you.”

Daniel wiped his forehead with the back of his hand.

“So, are we done?”

The Count looked at him, and for the first time in a long while, there was something like excitement in his eyes.

“No. We’re doing this again.”

Daniel smiled.

“My lord, if you really want to learn to fight tonight, come with me. But I warn you—you’ll have to come down to the real world. I hope you’ve got the stomach for it.”

The Count nodded, feeling a strange satisfaction.

Daniel was different. Not just a servant. Not a rival.

A teacher.

And perhaps—though impossible—an equal.

Fighting to death

They stepped down from the carriage onto a muddy street south of the Thames. The Count adjusted his coat and surveyed the surroundings with a mix of disgust and curiosity. The street lamps barely lit the narrow, foul-smelling alleys; the air was thick with filth, sweat, and stale beer.

“This is the place?” he muttered, arching an eyebrow.

Daniel smirked.

“Welcome to hell, my lord.”

They made their way through the crowd of ruffians, laborers, and ex-convicts huddled around a wooden platform lit by gas lamps. People shouted, pushed, bet with grimy coins and crumpled notes. In the center, within a rope ring, two men were beating each other senseless.

The Count felt a chill.

One of the fighters, a tailor, had a swollen face and a broken nose and could barely stand. His opponent, a bare-chested butcher, landed a final blow to the jaw that sent him crashing face-first into the blood-stained boards.

The Count swallowed hard.

“This is what you wanted to show me?”

Daniel leaned close.

“This is what I wanted you to understand, my lord. Down here, your title, your fortune, your family name—they mean nothing. The only thing that matters is your fists.”

The Count looked around at the combatants taking turns in the pit. They were ordinary men, but they fought as if their lives depended on it—shopkeepers against gardeners, stable hands against off-duty policemen, butlers from rival households. There was something brutal and primal in it. Something real.

“You like this, don’t you?” the Count muttered.

Daniel smiled.

“It’s the only thing I’ve ever understood.”

Then the announcer’s voice boomed above the noise:

“Next up—the undefeated of Blythish Gate! The jailer who’s broken more noses than the Inquisition itself!”

The crowd roared as a massive man with a scarred torso climbed into the ring. His sheer presence commanded fear—knuckles like rocks, eyes cold and sunken, jaw clenched tight.

The Count felt another chill.

“Well, Daniel, we’ve seen enough. Let’s go—”

But Daniel didn’t move.

The announcer grinned and pointed straight at him.

“And to challenge him… a man who wants to prove there’s no one tougher on this side of the Thames! The newcomer—Daniel!”

The Count turned sharply.

“What?”

Daniel calmly unbuttoned his shirt and took it off.

“You don’t trust me either, my lord.”

The Count glanced from the jailer to Daniel.

“Daniel, he’s going to kill you.”

The stable boy clapped him on the shoulder.

“Keep your eyes open and learn. You won’t regret it.”

Before the Count could stop him, Daniel was already stepping barefoot into the sweat- and blood-soaked ring.

The crowd erupted as the two men faced each other.

The jailer grinned, showing a row of yellow teeth.

“Sure you want to do this, boy?”

Daniel didn’t answer. He simply raised his fists.

The bell rang.

The jailer charged first, like a beast unleashed. His first punch—a brutal straight right—would have ended the fight if it had landed clean.

But Daniel slipped it by a hair.

He ducked and countered with a hook to the jailer’s ribs, feeling his knuckles sink into thick flesh. The jailer barely flinched.

Daniel dodged another crushing right hand just in time.

The blows kept coming.

The jailer fought like a runaway train, relentless and merciless, trying to crush Daniel with each strike. Daniel dodged when he could, absorbed hits when he couldn’t. A punch to the ribs knocked the air out of him; another to the brow split his skin open.

The Count felt the tension crawl up his spine.

Then—something changed.

Daniel began to move differently.

He wasn’t just enduring.

He was fighting back.

At first, quick jabs to the jailer’s face that barely slowed him. But then—heavier, more precise strikes. A right to the temple. A hook to the jaw.

The jailer grunted, annoyed, and charged like a bull. Daniel ducked at the last instant and swept his leg. The giant fell to his knees.

The crowd gasped.

The jailer rose, furious, and lunged again. Daniel met him with a sharp punch to the nose that sent him reeling.

And then Daniel finished him.

A brutal sequence—fist after fist to the face, jaw, chin. One, two, three, four—until the undefeated jailer of Blythish Gate crashed onto his back with a thud.

Silence.

No one could believe it. The jailer didn’t move.

The announcer glanced at the fallen man, then at Daniel, and raised his arm.

“The winner… Daniel!”

The crowd exploded in cheers and hurried wagers.

Daniel spat on the ground, breathing hard, face bloodied but victorious.

The Count looked at him with horror and admiration.

“Good God…”

Daniel stepped out of the ring and approached him, wiping the blood from his knuckles.

“Lesson learned, my lord?”

The Count smiled faintly.

“Damn it, Daniel… I think I have.”

The Count’s Turn

Training sessions in the palace cellar became a ritual. At first, they were simple endurance drills—Daniel letting the Count strike, toughening his fists, forcing him to sweat, to move faster. The Count would finish with aching arms, split lips, bruised ribs—but each time, he lasted longer before giving up.

When they moved to grappling, Daniel found something curious. The Count was good—strong, scrappy.

Not just good—instinctive. He knew how to shift his weight, used it cleverly, and showed surprising skill at locks and holds. More than once, Daniel ended up flat on his back, growling in frustration.

But street fighting was a different game.

When the Count tried to apply fencing or boxing principles, Daniel mocked him.

“This isn’t White’s Club, my lord. There are no rules here—no velvet gloves. This is fighting for your life.”

The Count frowned, offended.

But he understood.

And he decided to prove he could truly fight.

He showed up one evening with an absurd proposal.

“I’m going to fight in South London.”

Daniel dropped the whisky bottle in his hand.

“Come again?” “I need to learn.”

“No—you’ll end up with your face smashed in an alley.”

“Find me a rival worthy of me, Daniel. I won’t take no for an answer.”

Daniel sighed.

And he found one.

Not a dockside thug, nor a professional boxer, nor a hardened ruffian.

Another nobleman.

The Baron of Whitby—a brute in gentleman’s clothing, with the same lust for fighting and the same streak of madness as the Count.

The Duel of Nobles

The makeshift ring in South London was packed. The crowd expected blood—but when they saw two well-dressed aristocrats with sharp faces and noble posture, they burst out laughing.

“Two fancy boys trading punches!”

“This’ll be good!”

The two noblemen stripped off their shirts and lunged at each other.

At first, the fight was clumsy.

Wild punches, awkward shoves. They tangled, fell, staggered.

Then they grew fierce.

The Count took a punch to the mouth; his lip burst open in blood. Enraged, he charged at Whitby and landed a blow to his jaw that made him stumble.

The Baron answered with a right to the eye.

The spectators roared.

Bit by bit, the fight turned savage. No longer two nobles play-fighting—two men fighting to dominate, with blood and sweat.

The Count wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

Hereford saw his chance.

When Whitby dropped his guard for a second, the Count smashed him on the chin with all his strength.

The Baron fell backward, his head striking the wooden boards.

Silence.

Then cheers erupted.

The Count, bleeding and gasping, looked up at Daniel.

Daniel crossed his arms and grinned.

“You’re improving, my lord… but your opponent wasn’t much.”

The Count spat blood, smiled, and wiped his brow.

“Then we’ll find someone better

To be continued..

Chapter 2: Dogfight

There are two worlds: that of counts, dukes, and lords, and that of the lower class and its ruffians. Of the first, we hear of their feats, their intrigues, and their pleasures. Of the second, few stories are told—except when fate makes them collide. Yet there, in the shadows of the palace, far from the glittering halls and refined conversations, disputes were settled the only way the men below knew how: with their fists.

Edgar had enjoyed a time of calm, a stability rarely achieved among the servants. But then he appeared.

Daniel.

A stable boy, newly hired into the count’s service. He wasn’t particularly different from others of his kind—young, strong, quiet. And yet, there was something about him that unsettled Edgar, something that sparked an inexplicable burn in his chest.

It didn’t take him long to understand why.

The count, who had always relied on Edgar as his trusted man—despite the harsh treatment—now seemed to favor the newcomer. He no longer looked for Edgar in the kitchens or called for him to help dress in the mornings. Instead, Daniel was there, taking a place that wasn’t his.

It was absurd, Edgar told himself. Jealousy? Of another servant?

But the more he watched, the stronger the sting of contempt grew. Daniel was an intruder, an upstart who hadn’t earned his position through the proper trials. Edgar would not allow it.

The Shed: The First Round

One night, a storm raged outside, shaking the palace to its foundations. Rain lashed the roof like a volley of gunfire. In the shed, surrounded by the smell of wet leather and damp hay, Edgar and Daniel faced each other in a silence thick with tension.

“I don’t know who you think you are,” growled Edgar, arms crossed, brow furrowed. “But there are hierarchies here. And if you don’t respect them, I’ll have to teach you another way.”

Daniel, leaning against a wooden post, gave a cold, crooked smile.

“Respect them?” he scoffed. “What I see is that you can’t handle competition.”

Edgar’s muscles tightened. He took a step forward.

„There’s no room for two attack dogs here.”

Daniel tilted his head slightly.

“Then let’s settle it like animals. No titles, no orders. Just us.”

Thunder split the sky as both tough lads stripped off their jackets, letting them fall onto the soaked straw. The two strongest boys from their rough neighborhoods—the kind who always won the pub fights—were about to collide. The air was thick with raw testosterone.

Without another word, Edgar threw the first punch.

His fist shot out like a whip, striking Daniel’s cheek and turning his head. But Daniel didn’t fall. He merely rolled his neck slowly back into place, a dangerous glint in his eyes.

And then he struck back.

A straight punch to Edgar’s gut, hard enough to make him grunt in pain.

From then on, there were no more words. Only blows.

Daniel grabbed Edgar by the collar and shoved him against a beam, but Edgar drove an elbow into his ribs, forcing him back. He followed with a punch that landed square on Daniel’s jaw. Daniel staggered, then returned the favor with a savage hook that sent Edgar crashing onto a pile of saddles.

Both men got back up instantly, eyes blazing with rage.

“That all you’ve got?” spat Daniel, wiping blood from his lip with the back of his hand.

Edgar didn’t answer. He lunged, blind with fury, and the two rolled across the muddy, straw-covered floor.

The Gardens: The Second Round

With a violent shove, Daniel sent him tumbling through the open door of the shed.

The storm greeted them with a lash of icy wind and torrential rain. But they didn’t stop.

They crashed into the gardens, slipping on the drenched grass, striking like wild beasts. Each punch was a wordless scream of rage; each throwdown, a claim to territory. Edgar drove a knee into Daniel’s side, but Daniel answered with a brutal headbutt that sent stars spinning before Edgar’s eyes.

Mud covered their faces, blood mixed with rain.

For a moment, Edgar thought he might win. But Daniel refused to yield. Every time he went down, he rose again. Every blow he took, he returned harder.

The fight dragged on until, exhausted, they both collapsed side by side on the ground, gasping for air.

They lay there in silence, chests heaving, while the storm raged above them. Then Daniel delivered the final blow. The newcomer had won—and few ever did.

No words were exchanged. None were needed.

When they finally stood, swaying on their feet, each grabbed his mud-stained jacket and walked away in opposite directions.

The Verdict

The next day, when Edgar crossed paths with Daniel in the palace corridors, neither man spoke. But in a silent gesture, Edgar stepped aside and let him pass.

The war was over.

From the tallest window of the palace, the Count of Hereford watched the scene with a crooked smile.

To be continued…

Chapter 1: 

A Petulant Count Learns Humility

London, 19th century. The Palace of the Count of Hereford. The night was cold and damp when the count crossed the threshold of his home, his face still flushed with triumph. He had just defeated the Baron of Derby in a boxing match at the exclusive White’s Club —the sanctuary of London’s aristocracy, where gentlemen played cards, gambled fortunes, drank without restraint, and indulged in forbidden pleasures among shadows and whispers. But the most primitive entertainment, reserved only for the bravest, was fighting. In a secluded hall, nobles would shed their titles and become cocksure brawlers for a few minutes.

The Earl of Hereford felt invincible—intoxicated not only by victory, but by power itself. He took off his jacket with an arrogant gesture and smiled to himself. Being an aristocrat was fun, but perhaps… too easy. At White’s, the blows were softened by gentlemanly courtesy, by the absurd politeness of the nobility. Even the toughest held back, as if still afraid to stain their names with something as vulgar as real violence. What would happen, he wondered, if his opponent had nothing to lose?

That thought thrilled him. He needed something more.

And he already knew whom to seek.

The palace basement was almost deserted. Only a faint light glowed from the laundry room, where Edgar, his valet, was working as he did every night. Strong, silent, resigned to his place in the world. How many times had the count struck him without getting a response? How many times had he seen in his eyes that flicker of restrained anger?

The count stopped at the door. Edgar was bent over the washing table, his shirt sleeves rolled up, revealing forearms as solid as those of any street fighter. Damn, the man was strong.

That excited him even more.

He stepped inside, and Edgar sensed his presence immediately. He turned, brow furrowed.

—My lord —he murmured, with forced deference.

The noble tilted his head with a sly smile. He was going to provoke him.

—Do you know what your problem is, Edgar? —he whispered, his voice soft and venomous—. You’ve started to think you can look me in the eye. That you’re my equal.

The young servant lowered his gaze instinctively. His jaw tightened, but he said nothing. He turned back to his work, knowing it was unwise to defy him.

But the count had not come to let him be.

He placed a hand on Edgar’s shoulder, gripping hard. The servant froze.

Then, without warning, the noble drove a brutal punch into his mouth. Blood spurted instantly. The servant fell to his knees, head bowed. He touched his split lips, tasting the iron tang of blood.

The count chuckled darkly.

—You’re not even a man with a pair of balls. I hit you and you bow your head. You can’t fight back. I’d bet they beat you to a pulp outside these walls the first chance they get.

Edgar took a deep breath, his hands trembling. He could stay on the ground. He could let things go on as always. But that day something changed. Maybe the bear had been provoked one time too many.

He rose slowly and, for the first time in his life, looked the count straight in the eye.

—My lord… —he murmured, wiping the blood from his lips—. For your own sake, you don’t want to know.

The noble blinked, intrigued.

Was he being threatened?

He smiled, amused. Brave.

—Oh, really? —he whispered, stepping dangerously close—. You want to teach me manners?

Then the count threw another punch.

But this time, Edgar dodged it.

The noble barely had time to react before a hard right connected with his cheek.

The blow made him stagger. A second punch sank into his stomach, and a third sent him sprawling backward.

For an instant, he couldn’t breathe.

What the hell had just happened? This wasn’t White’s Club.

Fury rose in him like fire up his throat. He lunged at Edgar with a roar, tackling him and bringing him down. They rolled across the floor, striking blindly, scratching, biting —like two stray dogs fighting for dominance. Edgar couldn’t take another hit.

The count seized Edgar by the nape and struck him once, twice, three times in the face—but there was no mockery in his eyes now. Only frustration.

Edgar growled, grabbed his wrist, and with a swift move flipped him onto his back.

Before the noble could react, the servant drove his knee into his abdomen.

The count gasped, struggling to draw breath.

But Edgar didn’t move. He held him down firmly, his chest heaving with fury. 

The storm raged outside, shaking the old outbuilding.

Rain hammered the roof. The count tried to rise, but his legs trembled.

Edgar pushed him gently back to the floor.

—It’s over, my lord —he said, his voice calm, without anger.

The noble lay there, panting, his face swollen, his knuckles raw, and humiliation burning in his gut.

Never in his life had he lost.

Never had he felt what it was to be the weaker man.

And he hated it.

But more than anything, he hated himself.

Days passed before he could move normally again —days in which he had to face his reflection and see a man different from the one he believed himself to be.

He had learned something the hard way: outside the ballrooms and noble titles, he was no one.

Edgar was never struck again.

Not because the count didn’t want to. Not because he didn’t crave revenge. But because he understood he had been a despicable son of a bitch all his life.

And maybe, just maybe…

Being a man meant more than throwing punches.

From that day on, the fights at White’s seemed like children’s games. He sought new experiences —places where life was rougher, more real. Where blows truly hurt, and victory was earned with more than a noble name. The cruel underworld of London, with its human beasts. After visiting Whitechapel, the count wept in shame.

Edgar, for his part, never spoke of what had happened. But each time their eyes met, they both knew the truth.

One of them was the real man.

And it hadn’t been the count.

To be continued

There are moments in life when everything seems to fall apart — when fortune’s wheel turns the wrong way, and you start wondering whether it’s karma, fate, or just one of those storms that life throws at us.

Some years ago, I was there. I was heavier, over thirty kilos more than I am today. I was tired, lost, and stuck in a place where even getting up in the morning felt like a battle I didn’t want to fight.

Then I stumbled upon MeetFighters. At first, it looked like just another website — a place to find opponents and share a common passion for wrestling. But I soon realized it was something much more profound.

Over time, this community became a part of my recovery. Not just physical recovery — emotional, mental, human recovery. It helped me reconnect with myself, with my energy, and with others. Through this page, I have found not only matches, but friendships — real, lasting, and meaningful connections.

All my opponents have become, and remain, my friends. Every single one. I’m an easygoing person, open and genuine, and I’ve been blessed to meet incredible men from all over the world. Many of them I’ve never even wrestled with in person, yet we’ve shared something equally powerful: connection.

Because for me, MeetFighters is not just about fighting. It’s about meeting. It’s not only about setting up matches, or chasing new partners, or even exploring the sensual thrill of physical challenge. It’s about the encounter itself — about conversation, laughter, mutual respect, and the spark of friendship that can cross oceans.

It’s about those long, honest chats late at night.

It’s about sharing ideas, encouragement, and the small details of everyday life.

It’s about filling those quiet hours of boredom with genuine human contact.

It’s about brotherhood, camaraderie, and connection.

Yes, I’ve met arrogance and rudeness here and there — but much less than in life outside. Don’t insist in choosing the wrong guys. They don’t deserve you. What I’ve truly found, and what I choose to focus on, is kindness, warmth, and strength.

So I just want to say thank you.

To the creator of this site. To the team who keeps it alive. And to every single person I’ve talked to, fought with, laughed with, or simply exchanged a few kind words. You’ve helped me rebuild more than my body — you’ve helped me rebuild my spirit.

Here’s to more stories, more matches, and more friendships that make this community what it truly is — not just a wrestling site, but a living, breathing network of human connection.

And now I’m curious:

How has your experience on this page been?

What has it brought into your life?

Punto de vista de Jorge “el principe”

Capítulo II – El Lobo y su presa

Entré en el gimnasio como siempre, con el rugido de mi moto aún retumbando en mi cuerpo. Me gustaba esa sensación: el cuero pegado a mi piel, el casco que me envolvía hasta que lo retiraba y, por fin, podía sentir el aire fresco en la cara. Ese momento en el que me quitaba el casco y veía las miradas a mi alrededor… nunca lo buscaba, pero sabía que ocurría. Sonreía, y los demás se quedaban en silencio.

Esa mañana no iba a ser distinta. O al menos, eso creía.

El tatami estaba lleno, la gente se emparejaba rápido, y yo quedé sin compañero. Miré alrededor y lo vi. Él.

Había reparado en él antes, más de lo que querría admitir. En el vestuario, con su mirada tímida, con ese cuerpo fuerte pero todavía en construcción, con ese aire de alguien que quiere pasar inadvertido… y que sin embargo me atraía como un imán. Había notado cómo me observaba en silencio. Y yo también lo miraba, aunque fingiera lo contrario.

Ese día decidí acercarme. Me gustaba jugar con el destino, y en ese instante sentí que debía hacerlo. Caminé hacia él y le sonreí.

—¿Entrenamos juntos? —pregunté.

Su cara se encendió como si hubiera esperado ese momento toda la vida.

Comenzamos los ejercicios. Era disciplinado, se dejaba corregir, pero lo que más me llamó la atención no fueron sus movimientos, sino sus reacciones. Cada vez que mis manos lo tocaban para ajustarle la postura, lo notaba estremecerse. Cada vez que mi torso rozaba el suyo, su respiración se agitaba. No era solo concentración. Era otra cosa.

Me excitaba verlo así. Su vulnerabilidad era un espejo de mi propio deseo. Porque yo también lo había sentido en silencio: cada vez que luchaba con él en mi imaginación, cada vez que lo veía salir de la ducha, con esa piel húmeda, ese aire casi inocente y esa fuerza contenida… yo también quería probarlo.

Llegó el momento del combate. Era mi terreno. No tuve que esforzarme demasiado: mi cuerpo sabía cómo dominar, cómo anticipar, cómo encerrar. Lo llevé al suelo con facilidad. Él forcejeaba, buscaba escapatorias, pero en el fondo yo sabía que no quería librarse del todo. Y yo tampoco quería que lo hiciera.

Entonces lo sentí. Su erección contra mi cadera. No podía disimularla. Su cuerpo hablaba más que sus palabras. Y yo sonreí, sin decir nada. Lo supe: no estaba solo en esa tensión.

Esa fue la confirmación. Tenía que llevarlo más allá del tatami.

Cuando la clase terminó, no le di opción.

—Ven, te llevo en la moto.

Sentí sus brazos rodeándome, su pecho contra mi espalda. Su corazón golpeaba tan fuerte que lo sentía vibrar en mi propia piel. Y sí, también sentí cómo crecía otra vez su deseo, apretado contra mi cadera. Aceleré un poco más de lo normal, porque quería volverlo loco, porque quería que ese contacto lo enloqueciera tanto como a mí.

Lo llevé a un lugar que siempre había sido mío: un claro junto al río, escondido, íntimo.

Me desnudé sin miedo, porque no tenía nada que ocultar. Caminé al agua y lo esperé. Sabía que dudaba, que le daba pudor mostrar lo que sentía. Pero al final me siguió, y allí, en el agua fría, volvimos a enfrentarnos.

Esta vez no hubo tatami, ni reglas, ni ropa que nos separara. Piel contra piel, roce contra roce. Y entonces él lo descubrió: yo también estaba duro, yo también lo deseaba con la misma intensidad.

Lo sujeté por la nuca, lo miré a los ojos y le dije lo que llevaba tiempo guardando:

—Lo supe en el gimnasio. Lo noté cuando entrenamos. No eres el único.

Sus ojos se abrieron, incrédulos, pero yo ya no tenía freno. Jugamos en el agua, pero pronto la orilla nos reclamó. Allí, sobre la hierba húmeda, lo dominé por completo.

Lo inmovilicé, lo mantuve bajo mi peso, mis manos sujetando sus muñecas. Él jadeaba, se resistía solo para excitarme más. Yo lo tapé la boca con mi mano, mirándolo con la fiereza de un lobo que atrapa a su presa:

—Ahora eres mío. Voy a devorarte poco a poco.

Y lo hice. Lamí su cuello, mordí su piel, recorrí su pecho y su abdomen con mi lengua como si fueran territorio conquistado. Su cuerpo temblaba bajo el mío, y cada jadeo me pertenecía.

Nuestras erecciones chocaban, duras, en un vaivén desesperado. Lo miré fijamente, respirando fuerte, sabiendo que estaba perdido. Que ya no había escapatoria.

Lo besé con violencia, con hambre. Y en ese beso lo supe: ya no era el príncipe del tatami. Era el lobo alfa que había encontrado a su presa.

Y él, en su rendición, me regaló la victoria más intensa de mi vida.