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I shook with desire and anticipation as I followed the agent down a series of cinderblock corridors. My heels echoed on the vinyl floor as we walked under stark strip lighting, past fire exits and security doors. Not a romantic atmosphere to most, but it was to me; these were the corridors and tunnels that he would walk on his way to and from a fight. Finally we stopped at a red door, the same color as his shorts. I felt panic flutter in my rib cage and desire pluck at my pussy. Maybe it was a mistake to meet him. What if my fantasy man, my broken boxer, let me down in reality? But it was too late now.

"Someone to see you," the agent said, rapping on the door.

"Another journalist come to get the exclusive on my big failure?" snapped a gruff voice from inside.

"No, no," said the agent. "I'll let her introduce herself." Then he turned to me. "I'm going to the press conference. Be back in an hour or so."

I put my fingers on the door handle and opened the door. He was alone, slumped on a chair in the corner of his dressing room, with his hands covered in the bandages that boxers wear under their gloves, and still in his shorts, robe, and boots. There was dried blood on his craggy cheek, which was fast turning a rainbow of yellow and violet. The sharp tang of fresh sweat, imbued with his personal aroma, filled the room. Now that I was so close to him, I didn't have a clue what to say. I was unprepared for the way my body would react when it met him in the flesh. Now that I was near enough to touch him and smell his rugged masculine aroma, years of sexual fantasy and obsession were suddenly pulsing through my flesh, lifting me up, making my head swim and my pussy pump like a piston.

"It's you!" he said, looking surprised.

"You know who I am?" I replied, stunned.

"I've noticed you. I always assumed you were someone's wife or girlfriend. Women as beautiful as you are only at matches on the arm of their rich husbands. It's unusual for a woman to come and see a fight on her own."

"Well, I do," I replied. "Only for you."

"I see," he said. "I'm very flattered. After tonight's match I thought that nothing good would come of today, but you may have just saved it!" He tried to smile, but his mangled face winced at the movement.

"Oh!" I said. It was horrible to see him in such pain. "Let me clean that up for you."

Glad I could do something to help him, I grabbed some cotton batting from the dressing table and walked to the sink that stood in the corner of the room to moisten it with some cold water. I drew close to him and then spread my legs so that I had one thigh on either side of his lap and his head was level with my breasts. I was so close to him that the heat from his body made mine even warmer and I could see every tiny scar on his face. My whole body was singing and tingling, and I was sure he'd hear how fast my pulse was racing. My cunt hovered just a few inches away from his naked, sweaty, glistening torso. His cornflower blue eyes looked up into mine.

"Be gentle with me," he joked. "I couldn't take another blow tonight."

I didn't reply but instead bathed his wound with the wet cotton, cleaning the blood and the sweat from his broken, swollen skin. The injury beneath wasn't all that bad. I cleaned him up, touching him more tenderly than I'd ever touched anyone. Soothingly I stroked his hair and told him that it was all going to be okay. Without thinking about what I was doing, I pulled his head toward me and cradled it in between my breasts. I had meant it as a comforting rather than sexual gesture, but his soft damp cheek on my cleavage sent a jolt of arousal through me that made me gasp. Over the locker-room smell of his dressing room, I could detect another, musky scent: my own juices beginning to ooze out of my pussy. If I could smell it, surely he could, too.

I rocked him back and forth as he nuzzled his head deeper and deeper into my cleavage. When he lifted a bandaged hand to my top, pulled down a strap to expose my breast, and put his lips gently to my nipple, it seemed like the only course of action he could have taken. I tipped my head back, closed my eyes, and abandoned my body to the delicious sexual sensation. The tension had been building up for over a decade, and I was intent on savoring its release. I leaned in toward him and we kissed, a soft, salty affair that lasted for an eternity and made small talk redundant. I caressed his battered cheek. The hands that I knew could knock a man out with one blow were gentle on my breasts, my thighs, my belly, as he slowly stroked and explored my body. I felt soft and vulnerable next to him, and the roughness of the bandages that still bound his knuckles created an arousing friction on my fair skin.

He pulled away. "I'm a mess," he mumbled. "Do you want me to shower?"