I ended lioness (Patreon)

1993.10.31

I have to fire a silver bullet.

I must bring this enraged, beautiful lioness to heel.

I raise both fists, wrapped in black 8-ounce gloves, in front of my chest.

Her cheeks are painfully swollen. Her face is smeared with plasma, saliva, and bodily fluids.

The face I destroyed.

And yet, deep within, her straight, unyielding eyes are blazing brightly.

Compared to my volume of strikes, her effective hits were negligible.

But just those few blows dealt no small amount of damage to my face as well.

Especially the hook I took in the fifth round.

The impact hit hard, the world went dark, and I suffered the first knockdown of my life.

For the historic “Branelnew Family”, a knockdown is something to be ashamed of.

But perhaps it also became one of the greatest forms of respect I could show her.

The mat soaked with copious nosebleed.

My mouth torn to shreds behind the mouthpiece.

That bitter taste of blood didn’t fade for three days after the match.

A stinging exchange, like a fight to the death.

But at last, the moment came.

The final rush.

With 30 seconds remaining, I won the exchange and shattered her cheek.

The instant her legs gave way, the flow to the finish flashed through my mind as a clear image.

Even I was surprised by the inspiration.

So this is what it means to “enter the zone.”

Two seconds later, just as in that image, I drove another terrifying hook into her right cheek.

The feedback was truly frightening. One such blow would reduce any fighter to mere flesh.

And I delivered it to her with absolute perfection.

And yet—she did not fall.

Staggering backward, with the corner at her back, she still raised her fists.

Her eyes were vacant, yet within them I clearly saw the will to fight still alive.

If I hadn’t caught that—my victory might not have come.

A battle of reading each other.

I slipped her punch and delivered the finishing blow—

an uppercut straight to the face.

With a dreadful gunshot-like sound, my bullet pierced through the top of her head.

Using the spring of my hips and knees, it was the finest punch I could produce.

Not something that should be thrown at someone already on the brink.

For an ordinary person, it would be enough to ensure they’d never step into the ring again.

But I chose to do it to her.

Otherwise, I could not have defeated her.

That’s how terrifying she was.

She collapsed onto the mat—at last, reduced to nothing but a lump of flesh.

I stared blankly down as the fighting spirit faded from her passionate eyes.

“Miss Brannew! Neutral corner!”

Even the referee’s shout didn’t reach me.

At the tip of my shoes, where that flame was dying out.

In my fists, still lingering with the sensation of her face.

I felt an unbearable arousal.

That sense of domination—of making her mine.

The superiority as a living being sent pleasure coursing through my entire body.

And yet— an overwhelming sense of guilt as well.

I don’t usually keep a diary.

Something compelled me—an obsessive urge.

When I close my eyes in bed at night,

that moment flashes back with intense emotion.

My tangled heart leaves me no choice but to soothe this heated body.

By turning this vivid memory into words, letting it dance across the page,

I hope it will eventually fade.