Despite never having made it to the UFC, as he had hoped, Marcos never stopped being an athlete. After all, he owned a gym that offered various fighting or martial arts modalities. As one of the teachers, he had to stay in shape and train as if he were preparing for a championship, even though he had not competed in one for five years. That's why, as the sun rose, Marcos ran about six kilometers, using the long street where he had installed his gym as a track. It ended in a steep uphill, which he loved to climb to speed up and intensify his cardiovascular exercise. It was a quiet street, full of semi-detached houses, with old gardens turned into garages, typical of the working-class neighborhoods in São Paulo. On that tropical winter morning, Marcos started running when it was still dark. Despite the cold, he wore a short black shorts, open on the sides, that facilitated the movements of his long legs and muscular thighs. He wore a long-sleeved sweatshirt but with the hood down. He knew very well the risk that his dense beard, shaved head, and dark skin tone could represent for him, in a country where any man with these characteristics is often "mistaken" for a criminal by the police.
After a long warm-up, Marcos sprinted down the deserted and still dark street, happy with the vigor he felt in his long strides and the power of his lungs, inhaling and exhaling, in the cold of that routine winter dawn. Of course, he had no idea that he was being watched. From the upper floor of her discreet semi-detached house, Dona Irene saw Marcos quickly pass by towards the hill where the street ended. Watching her former coach's routine for days, she knew that in twenty minutes he would be back, blowing the air with an almost whistle and sweating profusely. So she went down and went to the front of her house. The asbestos tiles covering the old garden were dismantled by Dona Irene's vigorous arms. And what had been improvised as a garage for decades, darkening the living room, had returned to being a small and well-kept garden.
As soon as she saw Marcos, Dona Irene straightened up in her loose sweatshirt and pants, with the hood raised, leaving only her face out. As if she were about to leave, opening the gate, she exclaimed, feigning surprise:
"Hi, Marcos! Good morning! What a coincidence! I really wanted to talk to you..."
"Good morning, Dona Irene!" There was a tone of sincere satisfaction in the ex-fighter's voice. Since he had expelled Dona Irene from his gym, he had never spoken to her again, nor had he even seen her. Deep down, he had felt guilty for the violence of that embarrassing situation, although he was more concerned about his business reputation. The fifty-year-old woman even seemed to have gained weight, certainly because she had reduced the voracity with which she had adhered to fitness. But seeing her like this, willing to talk, made Marcos very happy. "Sure! Let's talk... What time works for you?"
"Now, if you don't mind."
"But aren't you leaving?"
"Yes, I also run here in the morning, for longer... " and Dona Irene interrupted herself, for she was going to say, "more than twice your route." "But I can leave it for a little later. The important thing now is to talk to you. Don't you want to come in and have a coffee?"
Marcos hesitated for a long thirty seconds, chewing on the words until he managed to say:
"No, Dona Irene. I need to open the gym in twenty minutes..."
"But I'll be very quick, Marcos! It's important, but it's quick. And then you can have your breakfast. My breakfast table is perfect for an athlete like you."
Still hesitant, Marcos saw the small gate open and Mrs. Irene touch his arm, urging him to come in. Reluctantly, he took uncertain steps across the tiny, flowery garden with the widow close behind, repeating, "Come in, come in, it won't take long."
In the clean and simple kitchen, the four-seater table was impeccably set with the healthiest options for a first meal of the day. However, Marcos was surprised to see two cups, indicating that Mrs. Irene was already prepared to receive him. His eyebrows contracted in an unmistakable expression of suspicion. Mrs. Irene, however, was quick, serving the coffee and handing the cup to the visitor without stopping talking:
"I know you're in a hurry, Marcos... So I'll get straight to the point. Look, I want to ask for your forgiveness..."
"What is this, Mrs. Irene! Imagine! I'm the one who has to apologize to you..."
"No, no, no, you were right. I was exaggerating and it would have ended up harming me. You were professional, responsible. I was the one who seemed like a teenager. Imagine! I wanted the body of an athlete... An old woman like me..."
Marcos relaxed his jaw and sipped his coffee, relieved. The old lady just wanted to apologize to him, and she had probably been rehearsing for days. A pang of pity pricked his heart. He even allowed himself a discreet smile as Mrs. Irene offered him the ubiquitous cheese bread:
"Cheese bread can't be missing from an athlete's table, can it?"
And Mrs. Irene continued talking while Marcos savored the coffee, whose taste seemed a bit unusual to him. She remembered her son now in the USA, her deceased husband, the difficult times they had in that house, then the discovery of bodybuilding... The coach continued to listen attentively to the woman's speech, but something strange was happening. He was trying harder and harder to understand what she was saying. That chatter was getting more and more distant and meaningless. And Mrs. Irene's image was becoming distorted, blurred, as if out of focus. Some words jumped out isolated, meaningless: "muscles," "lifting," "dumbbells," "repetitions," "biceps"... "What is this woman saying?" he thought. Marcos strained his eyes. But it was no use. He tried to say something, but his mouth seemed full of a milky paste. Then he tried to stand up, noticing the movements in slow motion. His last sensation was that of the fall, along with the sound of the cup shattering on the ceramic floor, not far from his ears.
First there was a blue stain. Then it became clear and revealed the typical rubberized floor of a bodybuilding gym. For a split second, Marcos thought he was waking up inside his gym, strangely with his head hanging down to the ground. But soon he felt the pressure of restraints against his whole body and his mouth taken by one of those sadomasochistic gags. Then he began to grunt, muffled by the erotic gag, bulging his eyes in an expression of both horror and anger, while struggling to free himself from the ropes. Standing in front of him was Mrs. Irene, dressed in her gray sweat suit with her hands resting in her pockets. It was at this moment that the athletic ex-fighter, ashamed, realized he was completely naked.
"You can scream as much as you want. No one will hear your muffled groans. And even if someone hears you, they will think it's me moaning on the weight machines. But you can see that I lined the walls. So you better calm down.," said Dona Irene. Despite his efforts, Marcos couldn't move. His entire body was tightly bound to the chair, with his legs slightly apart. He soon noticed a hole beneath his buttocks, which increased his panic and caused him to breathe heavily. Dona Irene calmly waited for long minutes until Marcos stopped struggling and grunting desperately. "Ready? Have you understood that you can't escape? Have you realized that you can't scream or speak?" she paused, "Good boy!" The coach had another outburst of desperate movements and terrified groans. "I'm not in a hurry, Marcos. I can wait until you get tired," said Dona Irene with a condescending smile. Marcos stopped moving, and she continued speaking, "Well, let me explain what's happening. Now, you belong to me. That's right, you heard me. You'll take time, and it'll hurt a lot, but you'll learn to be mine. I've been preparing for this for four years, Marcos, ever since I left your gym. You have no idea what I've learned during this time, nor what I'm capable of doing. Anyone who sees me like this, in this loose sweatshirt and dyed hair, thinks I'm just another lonely and useless old widow waiting to die, abandoned in a nursing home. Fortunately, I woke up in time. And I became what I am now," Dona Irene stood up, moved the stool with her heel, and slowly unzipped her jacket. Marcos widened his eyes when the jacket fell to the floor. The woman hadn't gained weight, but had doubled her muscle mass. Her torso, covered only by a sports top, was as defined as his. "And there are no steroids or anabolic steroids here. Just diet, rest, and a lot of weightlifting, every day, religiously," she flexed her biceps, "See this? As hard as a rock!" Marcos remained motionless, shocked. He had never seen anything like this since he started going into sports, still in his pre-teens. He had met many MMA fighters, tough as steel, with shapes that would envy many male athletes. And one of his students was preparing for the national female bodybuilding championship. But they were all much younger women who responded quickly to diet and training, focused on competition. Dona Irene was almost 60 years old and had built a competitor's physique in four years. "I'm not preparing to compete, Marcos," she said, as if she could read her former coach's thoughts, "I mean, not in bodybuilding competitions. I want to compete with the men I choose. And you were the first." Despite the gag, Marcos smiled and even relaxed his body, as if he felt relieved by the understanding of a mere misunderstanding. If he could speak, he would say that competing with him was complete madness, only emphasizing the certainty that this woman had gone crazy. No matter how muscular she was, Dona Irene could never compete with an experienced fighter like him - a 35-year-old man with his 1 meter and 92 centimeters of height, 95 kilograms, at the height of his vigor, famous for the power of his punches, and skilled in Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu. "I know what you're thinking, Marcos. You men are all the same. You don't have to be a psychic to know what you're thinking," she said, bringing her face closer to his. "As I told you, you have no idea what I am capable of. Think about it: how do you think you ended up here, in this situation? Of course, I had to sedate you. Yes, in the coffee you had. Did it taste a bit strange? Well, I did some stretching and started my daily weightlifting routine: I lifted you and carried you like a sack of potatoes. Yes, Irene, the crazy 58-year-old woman you expelled from the gym, had no difficulty putting you in that chair, where you are very well tied up. I could have broken you already, Marcos. But I want you whole. Very whole. Because I'm going to teach you to be mine. And you'll teach me to fight.'
The coach had already given up resisting. The ropes were firm, and the more he moved, the tighter they seemed to get. As the woman spoke, he tried to think of ways to escape, while being horrified by the absurd story. Fighting had taught him to keep a cool head. It was the posture he adopted after being unable to react.
'Well, I know it's no use talking,' continued Irene. 'You'll understand in practice, little by little. It will hurt. Don't say I didn't warn you.' And she squeezed Marcos's testicles."
