Fighting for Dominance

Guilt

An hour has passed. No sign of Javier.

And I'm going mad with my thoughts.

Did I do something wrong? Should I go talk to him? Will he even say anything if I do go talk to him?

My body was still shaky as I contemplated on what happened.

"Is this the Javier you want to see?"

Yes. It was. Why were his eyes full of shame and hate, why didn't he want me to want him?

I didn't just want him now, I needed him.

And right now, I'm not sure if it's only just because of my sexual frustration. It was him. I wanted all of him.

I saw a different side of him today, and I understand him on a new level. He didn't just like to be in control, he needed control. Control was his addiction, his vice.

I accepted him..why couldn't he accept himself?

I found myself walking to his door. I couldn't not talk to him. I stuck my ear to the door, hearing loud thumps from behind it.

After hesitantly knocking a few times and a couple of cowardly runs to my room, I realized that he wasn't going to open up and I needed to take matters into my own hands.

I slowly turned the knob, giving him enough time to scream at me to go away if needed, and finally shoved myself into the room before I could change my mind.

I looked around the room, and saw that it was still nice and neat as if had been before...and empty.

Where the bloody fuck did he go?

He didn't just leave me. Good God he couldn't just leave me.

I turned on my heels to leave before I heard the consistent thumping, along with deep grunts.

I slowly walked to the wall furthest from me across the room, and put my ear to it. I almost pissed myself when it moved.

The wall moved. After gaining my composure, I peeked from behind the wall, and saw a whole new room.

It was filled with punching bags. Speed bags, weight bags, chains, weights. Javier was the one causing the thumping, and I took a moment to take him in while he didn't see me.

He was wearing the same sweats he had worn before, and the sweat slowly running down his naked, tan back was visible from across the room.

The sight had me drooling as I took in his angry expression, a deep scowl on his face. His hair was everywhere as his grunts filled the room.

His arms were moving so fast my eyes couldn't keep up with each hit he attacked the punching bags with. He growled menacingly at the punching bag, his mind elsewhere, using the bag as a materialized metaphor for his pain and anger.

He stopped abruptly, snapping his head over to me. I jumped, not expecting him to notice me.

He turned toward me, and I noticed his bloody hands, taking note that there were punching gloves hanging on the walls that he hadn't bothered using.

"Your hands." He looked down as if he were realizing the dripping blood on his bruised, cut knuckles for the first time.

He opened his mouth before closing it.

Javier Maraz was at a loss for words.

"Come here." I said, he obviously wasn't planning on bandaging them.