You do.

Narrowing your eyes, your emotions get the better of you.

Snarling your intention, you lunge forward with a clothesline locked and loaded in your right forearm.

Taking her by surprise, you can almost feel her skin touching your bicep as you swing your arm towards her in a deadly arc, no wasted time or motion.

With one last cry, you extend your arm out to her, and as the audience watches on with baited breath….

…… you miss.

Instead of feeling her flesh against yours, you instead feel a sudden gust of wind caress your forearm as Kayla suddenly ducks underneath your armpit, a hint of a smile just barely catching your periphery.

Your momentum nearly carries you into a nearby turnbuckle, but you catch yourself at the very last possible second.

The realization dawns on you, that you loaded up your biggest bullet left in the chamber and couldn’t pull the trigger.

But then, another thought crosses your mind: exactly how long have you had your back to her?

Fuck, fuck, fuck….

Whirling around, you run directly into her bare foot hurtling into your face like a missile.

“Ugghhhh…” Kayla’s foot explodes into your face with a ferocious fury not indicative of a woman her size.

The top of her naked foot connects soundly and quite decisively against your cheekbone, resulting in a distinct clap of flesh against flesh.

Everyone in the audience collectively winces as the roundhouse kick connected flush against your surprised expression, a measured attack fueled by raw emotion and willpower.

At that moment, you felt everything Kayla had gone through the entire match, figuratively and quite literally exploding all over your facial features.

The next thing you feel.was a strange numbing sensation as your legs suddenly became jello underneath you, followed in quick succession by the rest of your body.

Not even a second later, the ground inexplicably rises up to greet you as you collapse to the mat at her feet.

Tossing her hair back, Kayla looks on with slight disbelief herself, perhaps that her kick connected with the amount of **** currently being felt all over your face.

“Well, he didn’t see that coming,” the announcer finally remarks, attempting to inject some levity into the now dead silent arena.

As the black woman finally makes sense of what had just happened, the confidence, the sexiness, returns to her lithe figure.

She turns to the crowd, then the referee, and finally, down on you.

And then, as you lie facedown on the canvas, Kayla merely struts over to you prone body, flips you over on your back with her leg, and then, as the ultimate sign of victory….

She plants her bare foot dominantly over your throat.

Wincing slightly as the pressure to your windpipe is only added to the avalanche of hurt currently washing over your entire face, you can do nothing but look up at her leering visage.

Dropping down into position, the referee’s counts are inevitable: 1…..2…..3.

“And it is all over, ladies and gentlemen. Kayla is victorious in the last fall of this match,” the announcer proclaims, as she continues smirking down on you triumphantly, her foot still resting on your throat.

As the spectators rise to shower Kayla with a standing ovation, she still remains focused on your grimacing, defeated expression.

Her lips only part to form two final words: I win.

You’ve lost a point for pinfall.