Here is a new story I am working on and presenting the intro to the main story question for the form should I continue?
Let me know.
Fight Night
Brad, a man in his late sixties, sat in his lavish study, the leather of his armchair creaking slightly as he shifted his weight. The fireplace crackled, casting dancing shadows across the ornate wood paneling. He gazed into the depths of a glass of aged scotch, the amber liquid swirling lazily as he swirled it between his fingers. His tailored suit, the color of midnight, hung loosely on his frame, the material straining slightly at the seams as if to emphasize his recent weight loss. The air was thick with tension, and the faint sound of distant moans filled the room. Brad didn't seem to notice. His attention was fixed on the large screen that dominated one wall, where a woman with long raven hair and emerald green eyes was locked in a fierce battle with another.
The woman on the screen, who Brad had recently discovered was named Amelia, ducked under a powerful roundhouse kick and countered with a swift knee to her opponent's stomach. The crowd, a mix of wealthy patrons and underground fight club enthusiasts, roared their approval. It was a scene that Brad had become all too familiar with in recent months. He had been secretly funding these underground fight clubs, orchestrating matches between women he found desirable, and watching their brutal contests with a mixture of arousal and fascination.
Brad glanced over at his therapist, Jan, who was sitting across from him. Her expression was a mixture of disbelief and horror. He could tell she was struggling to process the information he had just revealed. Brad took another sip of his scotch, trying to steady his nerves. "I'm sorry, Jan," he said, his voice barely audible above the din of the fight. "I never meant for it to go this far."
Jan's eyes narrowed as she studied Brad's face. "You've been funding these clubs, haven't you?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. "You've been paying women to fight?"
Brad swallowed hard. "Yes," he admitted. "I... I can't explain it. I just... I find the power dynamics between them so... intoxicating."
"And the money?" Jan pressed. "How much have you been spending on these clubs?"
Brad hesitated for a moment, his eyes flicking back to the screen. "I... I'm not sure. A lot. Millions, maybe." He shrugged, as if trying to downplay the amount. "It's been an expensive hobby."
Jan sat back in her chair, her expression unreadable. "And these women," she said carefully. "Do they know who you are? Do they know you're funding the clubs?"
"No," Brad replied quickly. "They don't. I've made sure of that. I don't want any connection between me and the clubs. I just... I need to watch them." He took another sip of his scotch, trying to steady his racing thoughts. "I know it's wrong, Jan. I know I should stop, but I can't seem to help myself."
Jan leaned forward, her elbows resting on her knees. "Do you think this is about control, Brad? About exerting power over these women?" she asked, her voice gentle but probing. "Or is it something else?"
Brad considered her question for a moment before responding. "Maybe it's a little of both," he admitted, taking another sip of his scotch. "I've always been successful in business, but I've never really felt... fulfilled. With these clubs, I feel like I'm finally in control of something. Like I can influence the outcome." He hesitated, then added, "And... there is something about the way these women fight. The way they dominate each other. It's... arousing."
Jan leaned back in her chair, her expression thoughtful. "So it's not just about control, then," she said. "It's also about the sexual aspect of it?"
Brad hesitated before nodding. "Yes," he admitted, his voice barely audible. "I... I never intended for it to go this far. I didn't realize how much of a hold it had on me."
Jan took a deep breath, considering her next words carefully. "Brad, I want you to know that you're not alone in feeling this way," she began, trying to meet his gaze. "There are people who can help you understand these urges, and work through them. But first, we need to confront them."
The mention of seeking help seemed to unsettle Brad. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, avoiding Jan's gaze. "I don't know, Jan," he mumbled. "I'm not sure I want to give this up. It's become such a big part of my life."
Jan sighed, understanding the depth of Brad's addiction. She knew that it wouldn't be easy to convince him to seek help. But she also knew that if he didn't, the consequences could be disastrous. "I understand that it's hard, Brad," she said gently. "But think about the harm you're doing to these women. And to yourself. You're spiraling out of control, and you need to stop before it's too late."
Brad looked away, his eyes fixed on the screen. He couldn't deny the truth in her words, but the thought of giving up his secret obsession filled him with dread. "I don't know," he muttered. "I just... I need more time."
Jan studied her husband's face, searching for any sign of remorse or hope. But all she could see was the same cold, calculating man who had built his empire on the backs of others. "Brad," she began, her voice steady despite the weight of her heart, "I love you. And I want to help you. But if you don't get help soon, there may not be anything left of you, or of us, to save."
Brad closed his eyes, trying to block out her words. He wanted to believe that he could stop on his own, that he could find a way to balance his addiction with his responsibilities as a husband and a father. But as the days turned into weeks, and then months, it became clearer and clearer that he was losing control.
He found himself spending more and more time alone in his study, lost in the glow of the computer screen, as he watched fight after fight unfold before him. The excitement, the danger, the raw power of the women in the cage, it all seemed to fuel his obsession in a way that he could no longer deny.
The weight of his secret grew heavier with each passing day, like an anchor around his neck. He knew that he had to do something, but he didn't know how. He couldn't bring himself to confess to Jan, couldn't bear the thought of losing her trust and respect. Instead, he tried to compartmentalize his life, separating his time at the club from his time at home, as if he could keep the two parts of himself from ever colliding.
But the truth was, the club had become an addiction. He needed it in the same way that he needed air to breathe. He would sit in his study, watching the fights, imagining himself in the cage with those women, feeling their bodies move beneath his fingers, their skin flush against his own. Sometimes, the images were so vivid that he could almost convince himself that he was there, that he was one of them.
The thought of going back to his old life, of sitting in endless board meetings and attending social events, seemed unbearable. He couldn't shake the feeling that something essential had been taken from him, that he had lost a part of himself in the process. And yet, he knew that he couldn't continue down this path. The consequences were too dire, for both himself and those around him.
One day, as he was watching a particularly intense fight, he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned to see Jan standing there, her face pale and her eyes filled with concern. "Brad," she said softly, "I've found some information that might help us." She handed him a piece of paper with the address of a rehabilitation center specializing in addiction recovery. "Please," she continued, her voice trembling, "consider this as a first step towards getting better."
Brad took the paper, feeling a mixture of hope and dread wash over him. He knew that he couldn't ignore Jan's pleas any longer. He owed it to her, and to himself, to try and reclaim his life from the darkness that had consumed him. "Okay," he managed to say, his voice barely audible. "I'll think about it."
To be continued.
