Silence in the Squared Circle

Today, I return to the tale of Nina and Dyehen. I hear that the real Dyehen has finished his exams (and done well!), and hopefully, this installment of the story will be a nice surprise for him.

This is a different style of erotica than I normally write. Does it still work for you? Please let me know in the comments.

Silence in the Squared Circle

Nina takes a step around the naked man in front of her, her eyes tracing up and down his body. She takes in the curves of his arm, the casual visibility of the relaxed muscles forming the kind of ridges that only those truly in shape are able to cultivate. He is strong, clearly stronger than her. A lesser woman would be concerned at being alone with the new, and clearly unbroken, slave. But Nina is no lesser woman.

“I will make you speak,” she says. She says it casually, walking behind him to examine the lines of his back, the bruises from an earlier beating a stark contrast against the otherwise healthy sheen of his body. She takes her time walking, letting her boots click loudly on the floor.

Dyehen does not turn to watch her progress. He follows her with his eyes, but even that is hesitant.

“A good slave speaks,” she says.

He doesn’t respond.

She steps around towards the front again and looks down. Then she smirks and looks him in the eye again. The way he stares back, unabashed and unafraid, making eye contact with her like a wolf seeking dominance, makes her body flush. “At least I know you’re excited,” she says, reaching one gloved hand down to tweak his erection.

Dyehen jolts and breaks eye contact, but still does not speak.

“This is going to be fun,” Nina says. She steps back so that he can see her entire form, from the tapping toe of her boot, up the laces to her knees. Over the patch of pale flesh before the flowing skirt appears, then further up still, where the skirt disappears into the leather corset, and finally her face, her eyes burning with the anticipated joy of breaking the man in front of her.

“I’ll tell you what,” she says, as if he had spoken. “I’ll give you a chance. We’ll box a bit. If I win, you tell me your name. If you win, you won’t have to speak. Ever.”

He looks at her, still determined and wrapped in his silent armor.

“Any additional conditions you’d like to add?” she asks.

He doesn’t respond, as she knew he wouldn’t.

Dyehen waits for some way that the fight will be made impossible for him. Will he be hobbled? Shackled hand and foot? Hog tied? He knows that in a straight boxing match, he will destroy the pretty woman who thinks that she can own him like a piece of meat. But there is nothing. The ring looks normal, and the gloves that are tied onto his wrists look normal. A little bit heavier than he expected, but that weight seems to be the only difference, the only concession given to make up for the size difference between them.

That size difference is far more obvious now that she is not wearing heels. The boots she wears now, laced up just above her knees, are flat and comfortable, designed to allow her to move. Her knuckles are wrapped in tape, but she wears no gloves. Her corset has been replaced by a light shirt, her skirt with a pair of exercise shorts. Dyehen tries not to stare, tries to remind himself that he should not be attracted to the woman.

He puts up his hands when the bell rings, but she just stands there. She has moved to the balls of her feet, and is bouncing lightly on them, but makes no move towards him. Her hands remain at her sides, and she has that smirk painted on her face.

Dyehen makes a dart forwards, feinting an attack. She doesn’t move.

He begins moving around, hopping from foot to foot, literally dancing circles around her. She only moves enough to keep herself faced towards him. Otherwise, there is nothing. She waits for him, watches him, but makes no move to attack.

Dyehen holds up his hands and makes a few quick jabs, gauging the distance between them but still not close enough to make contact. The urge to taunt her flows up in him, that desire to tease her, to demand that she attack him.

But that would break his silence.

Her own silence presses against him, as she does no teasing of her own. No showing off. No jerks forward to make him flinch. She does not remind him that he is still barefoot, nor that he is still naked. She doesn’t mention his erection, and does not even ask him if the gloves are getting heavy.

He feels the strain of the gloves and knows that he has no time to keep dancing. Sooner or later, his fists will feel like they are weighted down with hundreds of pounds, and he won’t be able to raise a defense, let alone actually strike back. If he wants to win, he has to put her down, hard, as soon as possible.

He slaps his gloves together and moves directly towards Nina. She keeps her arms down until the last possible moment, when his hand is already bulleting towards her face.

She slaps his wrist aside and across his body with her right hand, then hammers a blow to his floating rib with her left. The force of it knocks him back a few steps and makes him gasp out his breath, but nothing feels broken. Not yet, anyway.

He looks up at her, and she has returned to her neutral stance, hands at her side. Smirking at him.

He steps forward again, throwing a quick hook. She leans back, and the glove misses her by inches. He jabs at her gut, but she twists to the side. Another punch clips her shoulder, but not with enough force to do anything other than stagger her a bit.

She looks at him with a barely contained fury, hardly able to believe that he had the audacity to actually hit her. Her smirk fades, replaced with an angry snarl, and she puts her hands up above her head, spread wide, the fingers relaxed.

Thinking he has her rattled, that she is fighting in anger now, Dyehen moves in again. She is facing him full on, presenting a huge target. She isn’t bouncing on her toes anymore. She looks like a statue.

He moves forward, ready to jab with the left, hoping to snap her head back a bit, then follow through with a hard swing of his right hand, putting her down without much of a fuss. He focuses on her pretty nose, tensing his shoulders for the one-two combination.

And she kicks him.

All air blasts out of his body, and a kaleidoscope of pain lances through his body. His knees hit to the floor hard, his gloved hands reaching down to protect his groin, a little bit worried whether or not any permanent damage was done.

Nina looks at him, the smirk back on her face. His face is twisted in pain, but he still makes no sound. “Impressive,” she says. “But we had a deal.”

Then she spins on her toe, and the last thing Dyehen sees is the tread of her boot as it rushes towards him. Her heel hits him square in the temple, and he doesn’t even feel the ground when his unconscious form lands on it.

Nina smiles down at him. “Leave the gloves on him,” she says. “And put him in the weight rack. I’ll be by to talk to him in the morning.”

Her slaves move quickly to obey, appearing as if from nowhere. One of them has the audacity to speak. “What if he wakes up before then?”

Nina grabs the slave by the throat, squeezing until his eyes bulge a bit. “I said I’d be there in the morning,” she says. The slave nods desperately, and doesn’t resist when she pushes him away, doesn’t even try to dodge the foot she slid behind his. He falls over and lands heavily on the floor. He rises quickly, and is still desperately gasping for breath as he carries the unconscious Dyehen out of the room.

Nina looks down at her hand, then rolls the shoulder where she had been hit. “This,” she says, “is going to be fun.”