I’ve heard it all. All about the ‘new girl’, the ‘hottest thing in the club’. All words that I’ve heard before in the past, and yeah while they naturally got my attention, and made me cast a glance in that direction, only to not get impressed, and turn back; it was a bit different in your case. For starters, you were pretty. Real pretty. None of that plastic, gym-rat, die hard types that litter Franco Calliani’s Fiesta, or FCF club, the hottest one in town. But I just tried to ignore it. Those who shine too bright, too fast, tend to die out quicker. But you just haven’t. I kept hearing about you, more and more, and it was 8 weeks later, when you came up to me.
The conversation was short, really short and brief. You came up to me, to my table, in front of my crew, standing there all preppy and pretty, and called me out. Usually when someone says that, my crew would burst out in laughter, but not this time, everyone well quiet. Are they really doubting me now? Do they actually think you have something on me; “I accept” is what I said, before grabbing my jacket, and slipping it on, adding; “Let’s go, my place, it’s only 4 blocks away.” I glanced at Bruno, patting my lashes at him, and of course, he’ll be a doll, and get the tab. He always does. And turning, I give you a quick up and down, trying to look dismissive, but I know it came out wrong. It came out… worried, as I just turn and walk to the door. And throughout the short 5 minute walk too my apartment, I don’t even turn back. I can hear your heels clicking behind me, as my heart flutters. I use the stairs, I live on the 2nd floor, so no need for the elevator, and I slide the keys in and push it open, flicking the light switch in, saying in a voice that I try to keep confident; “Let’s hope you know what you’re getting yourself into, bitch.”
Two months since I joined the club, and I’m having a BLAST! My first foray into this world, and I’ve made some friends, definitely made some enemies, and have bolstered my confidence with some impressive wins (and some easy ones as well). I got cocky, I admit, boasting of an undefeated record for quite a while, all the time knowing that eventually it would come to an end—there’s always a faster gun, as they say/said in the old west. My first loss was a close one though, but came at the hands of a vet. I made her work for it, and even though it was my first L, I felt OK about it. Same with “L” #2—very close against a vet, and I had the win but let it slip away. After that, the cockiness was balanced off with a little humility and I even publicly acknowledged those girls as mentors, having taught me lots of new things. But as with everything—the more success you achieve, the more those around you secretly (and sometimes blatantly) want to see you lose it. I started hearing the rumors about keeping me down, the ‘old guard’ concerned about losing influence and stature as newbies like me kept flowing into the club. Private challenges would start to go unanswered, and I was forced to go against girls who were, at best, ‘practice skirmishes’. The more I thought about it, the more I seethed—who the hell do those sorry old has-beens think they are!?
And then I walked in, and saw you there, with that group—not that I had actually spoken with any of you, but I knew…I just knew you were all part of it. Keep us down, retain aging vestiges of your glory days—back when your PM was besties with George Bush. I felt my face get hot as I saw you all gathered pathetically at your little table, and it was rage that fueled my socially inappropriate and public challenge to you. Why you? Probably because you were the most attractive of your group (wise, Ewa—hang out with hags to make yourself look better).
Frankly, I was surprised you even acknowledged me, and even more surprised when you accepted. So now, i am rushing behind you as we make our way to your apartment, butterflies in my stomach, my gym bag failing wildly over my shoulder as I struggle to keep up. I follow you up the stairs and catch my breath as you unlock the door to your apartment. As you try to get into my head with a veiled threat, I respond only with a smirk and a wink.
I step inside, my heart pounding. I glance over my shoulder, and there you are. Looking all confident, arrogant, but, there is something about the smile on your face, that is different. It’s not that same well-rehearsed, smirk of complete arrogance you had earlier at the club. Are you… nervous?
I just stand at the door, as you quickly adjust that, widening it to a heart-melting smirk, then winking at me with those mascara’d pretty lashes, and you step in. I push the door shut, and *click—clack* I turn the two locks. A little dramatic move, that I do to my rivals, something psychological about being ‘locked in’ with another girl that sometime phases them.
But with you, I’m not even sure that it would work. You are, different after all. I turn to you, as I see you standing there in the living room, checking it out, the interior is simple. A black leather sectional sofa pressed against two walls, with a low coffee table in front of it. Few of vain magazines, most of them starting with a ‘V’ on it, to keep the charade of being an airhead to those fellow airheads at the club. For some reason, boys are scared of smart girls, and girls, just hate me more. And I’ve got enough haters. God knows, everyone on that fucking table, hates me with a vengeance. But like they say, keep your enemies closer, and I’d rather keep an eye on their claws all the time.
I take in a deep breath, stepping forwards, walking past you, and letting my left shoulder give your right one a soft ‘bump’, a very light one though, to not provoke you too much, walking past you and to the middle of the room, I turn, and I say in a sarcastic voice; “Well. I hope you don’t sweat too much, and that you’re not a bleeder. I just got my rug cleaned.” Taunting you subtly, reaching down to the front of my jeans, I start to work the buttons, before pressing my thumbs between the hips and the denim, I start to slowly, almost painfully slowly, wiggle out of them, pushing them down my legs, exposing my baby blue cotton panties.
I step out of the jeans, and back, reaching down again, and I start to peel my top up and over my head, revealing my teal lacey bra, and I throw it to the side, giving you a a soft smile, and a ‘wink back’, I purr, placing my hands on my hips; “Think you can handle this, rookie??” My body is certainly not the biggest, or most impressive in the club. I’m not the most athletic, but I know I have my own charms, in my own ways. At 5’4″ 112lbs 36DD-24-34, I might not be a heavy weight, but I’m certainly, battle-tested.
As we enter the apartment, we are obviously in a parlor/living room—spacious, tastefully but simply furnished. Well—I eye the ‘art’ that is framed on the far wall—what the..? Unable to distinguish whatever is in those frames from what my cat vomited up earlier in the day, I note the rest of the room—the large leather sectional and coffee table strewn with magazines. How very “Better Homes & Gardens.” Until I notice the types of periodicals. A smirk, AND an eye roll—how typical, I think.
I hear you lock the door—twice. A little paranoia on your part, perhaps? Gangs of alienated girls out to get you? Hiding from bill collectors perhaps? Either way, a bit odd, but I let it pass as you make your way past me, gently bumping my shoulder with yours—so transparent, I muse. You turn to me, pointing out the rug, and toss out a taunt—“Hope you don’t sweat too much and are not a bleeder…I just had the rugs cleaned.”
Another smirk (you’re going to think that’s my only facial expression—especially after I use it a final time in my victory pose), and I cooly respond, “Oh, it HAS been cleaned then? I was afraid of dirtying the bottoms of my feet…” Nonplussed (I guess), you begin to unbutton your jeans, and I take that as a signal for me to do the same. Directly ignoring you (but secretly watching you), I unbutton mine as well, but not as seductively and sexily as you. Just not my style. A tomboy at heart, I pull them over my hips and let them drop, unaided, to my ankles, revealing my bright red thong. Slipping one foot out of the jeans, I let them hang on my other foot and kick them over to the side of the room, where they land in a ball.
“That’s OK, right?” I ask rhetorically. I peel off my black t-shirt, revealing a matching bright red bra, the perfect container for my firm, perky 33 C’s. I can’t help but glance your way, noting how dwarfed I feel compared to you. There (and I would never say this aloud), is the beautiful and sexy body of a woman, and here (as I glance down at myself) is the toned and tight body of a teenager. My thoughts align perfectly with your query—“think you can handle this, rookie?” I take a breath and see my reflection in your window—my105-pound tight, tanned body on my 5’2″ frame, 19 years old, and I’m feeling pumped! Glancing over at you directly now, I respond, “Handle you? Hon, I fight girls like you as appetizers for REAL fights…”
We both engage in a strip-down, and even though you do it so dismissively and robotically (if that’s even a word), there is something utterly hot about it. It’s part of the air that surrounds you, the way that you act like everything around you is utterly unimpressive, and thoroughly boring. And I feel a jab to my confidence as you keep up that act, and in the same way, reveal your crazy hot body. Fine, I knew you were in a great shape, but not like this. My last, I don’t know…. 5 encounters were against anorexic bitches, the type that think poking ribs are the secret to beauty. But you clearly are in the healthy league.
You’re not bigger than me, and that’s really new. Something that should make me feel re-assured, but why doesn’t it? Why do I feel even more intimidated that you’re smaller, and yet this confident? Is it because I’m used to being the underdog, and now, I have no ‘excuse’ to fall on as safety net if I’m bested?
I swallow hard hearing you toss your; “Handle you? Hon, I fight girls like you as appetizers for REAL fights…” , and I shake my head, my smirk turning into a bit of anger, tossing my hair back behind my shoulder, I retort; “Cute. I wonder how long will you keep that BITCHFACE of yours when I’m grinding it into my carpet. I might keep doing it until I leave an imprint of it down there, so I can step on it every time I walk in, to remind me of the beating I’ll hand your fat ass.” (A total lie, since you’re not fat, but what girl doesn’t feel incredibly insecure hearing that insult?) And tossing my words I suddenly slip to my left, taking a wide step forwards, before twisting on my left heel and sliding to the RIGHT, trying to phase you, HOPING I can, as I crouch slightly, before lunging at you, shrieking “AAYYAAAHHHH!!”
My left hand flying forwards, towards your pretty red lace bra, trying to grab it just where the cups meet, to form a grip, and YANK you into me, while my right hand flies in a wild SMACK towards your face, determined to wipe that FUCKING SMIRK OFF!!!
I hear you blather on about your carpet, but I’m not really paying attention to your words,instead, watching your hands,as i always do—something about grinding and stepping into something—ok, I get it now, you obviously stepped in something and got it on your carpet, hence you had them cleaned. Um, great—why tell me this? To bore me into submission?
But two words DO resonate with me—FAT…ASS. That shakes me into the here and now and brings my focus back on you. Hyperaware of your movements, I raise an eyebrow as you almost do a little dance (make a little love, get down tonight) sliding to your left, moving forward, pivoting, sliding to the right—is this the hokey-pokey?—but my sardonic thoughts are interrupted as you then lunge at me, your left hand darting out and grabbing my bra between the cups, pulling me into you, and slapping your right hand into my cheek, rocking my head to the side.
Immediately, it feels as if my face is on fire, but I’ve been slapped before, and this is just the start of things. Your left hand still holding my bra, I grab your wrist with my right hand and pull YOU in hard and fast, jamming my knee up as your body approaches mine, hoping to bury it into you at your bikini line, if I’m lucky.
I move fast, as fast as I can, trying to fucking break your cocky facade. Something that I find myself failing miserably at so far. I don’t know why, but this little rookie is different than all the rest.
You act like you know about it all. And you even remain quiet, until I toss the jab about your ass, and I see your pretty brows furrowing. Fine!! I’ll take that!! And I move fast, my hands grasping your bra and I YANK, watching it stretch, and your perky perfect C’s start to swell forwards, and I can actually, very briefly, see the outline of your right aerola, pulling you to me and SMACKKK!! nailing your cheek. My lips curl in a grin, before they turn into an ‘O’…
Your fucking goddamn nail nailing me RIGHT above my bikini line, drilling in hard, and I grunt in pain, stumbling back, doubling over; “Oh you dirty cunt!!” I didn’t see that coming, who would. And with your right hand grasping my left wrist, you have the perfect balance to steady yourself, and come at me, as I’m doubled over; “GGNNNHHHH” My left hand still holding your bra, but I’m completely winded, so all I can do is pull DOWN hard on it, trying to stretch it downwards, and hopefully mis-adjust it, while my right arm fires in a sluggish hook towards your left side.
My knee finds purchase in your midsection, slamming into you. i hear the air rush from your lungs as you stumble back, taking me with you, as we are connected by our limbs and underwear, and watch you double over in pain. I’ll give you credit, you don’t fail to take advantage of any opportunity, as you pull down on my bra, stretching it further. “Looking for a sneak peek, Ewa?” I taunt, as my breasts start to tumble out from the garment that used to contain them.
“Don’t worry, you’ll get up close and personal with them soon enough..” I see your right hand start to move toward me, a slow fist arcing around. It lands on my side, hitting at least one rib, but the angle from which you threw it, and your current lack of air and orientation make it a nuisance punch at best.
I know this fight has only just begun, and you are a warrior—I cannot let my guard down or give you one iota of a chance, lest you quickly turn the tables and destroy me. So I press my current advantage still holding your wrist as you are doubled over, I twist it hard and fast to encourage you to release my tattered bra. Taking a quick step to your side, I bring my left arm down and try to wrap it around your neck, hoping to pull you close to me, head at waist level, in a side headlock. I continue to twist your wrist with my right hand, giving you, as it were, many plates to juggle simultaneously.
I’m completely taken by surprise. The way you kneed me, the way you recoiled from my initial assault and slap, to fire that perfect, and INCREDIBLY hard knee is still bedazzling me. But I need to fucking recover from it. My fist fires awkwardly at your side, and I feel it thudding against you, and I hear a weak grunt, but not the one filled with pain, but rather, ANGER. And I brace myself for worse. And worse you give me, twisting my wrist hard, as you side-step, and “UNNGGHHH!!” I cry feeling your left arm sneaking around my neck and PULLING me in, my right cheek pressing into your left boob, feeling some lace, and some skin….
“FUCCKKK!!!” I Cry out in pain, but my cry gets louder when you twist my wrist even more, and my fingers lose their grip on your bra, I caused some damage to it, sure, some seams made that ‘pop’ sound, but they were SEAMS.. fucking SEAMS… not your joints. I cry in pain as you have control of my neck and my left arm now, and my eyes shut in pain, biting my lower lower. I don’t want you to hear my pain, and right now, you are certainly gaining early control. I slap my right hand at your back hard, but you just WRENCH my neck and I buckle in pain.
You are fucking STRONG. And with a grit of pain, my eyes open, seeing the book shelves just to your right, few feet away. And I know I need to act desperate, this is a fucking fight, not a wrestling match, I drop my right hand to your panties, feeling the waistline from behind… Oh.. a thong.. a FUCKING THONG.. Who wears a thong to a FIGHT?? Well, time to teach that butt-wiggling tramp something then. And I grab the T-junction of the thong just above your crack and I pull UP hard, trying to wedge it into your butt, but most importantly, against your kitty, hoping for a distraction, mainly towards your lower body, while I heave and SHOVE my body into your left side, trying to send you stumbling to crash into the book shelves with your right side!
“Come on, REALLY Ewa?” I ask as I feel your hand start to paw at my waistline as I increase the pressure on your neck, hearing a gurgle and an occasional cough. “A fucking wedgie? This is your best?” I twist your wrist again, hard and fast, to express my disappointment and tighten the chokehold even more—the muscles in my arm flexed to their maximum, straining, a slight tremble as I exert whatever force I can on you to bring you down—physically, emotionally, and psychologically.
I’ll admit, the feel of the thong jamming up and into me is not the most pleasant sensation I’ve had today, its thinness cutting into me, more of a weapon for you probably than had I just worn panties. But getting dressed this morning, who knew I’d be here, kicking your ass?
I try to move us, you in my chokehold, more to the center of the room, but my timing is incredibly poor, as at that moment you shift your body weight, pushing against me, leveraging us badly to the left. I lose balance a bit, but enough to increase our speed, and as I look to where we’re going, we tumble into your bookcase, the right side of my body scraping against the wooden shelves. tearing into the flesh on my arm, books falling off the shelf.
“You fucking dirty bitch!” I cry out, the first time today that I have felt pain at your hands—well, shelves anyway, andI have trouble regaining my balance, wedged between you and your collection of the complete works of Dr. Seuss, or whatever the hell you find entertaining.
I wince as the edge of the shelf digs into my arm and hip, but I am resolute not to release the choke. My right arm does lose the grip on your wrist however, but I quickly bring my right hand over to grab my left wrist, increasing the force of the headlock around your throat, and giving me a bit more leverage around your upper body. Groaning mightily, I place my barefoot along the books on the bottom shelf of the case and push us away from it, falling to the carpet in the process, but your neck still trapped in my grip
I hear your taunts, calling me out on the wedgie, and part of me feels really humiliated. That I’m resorting to such an attack, and getting called out on it. And it doesn’t even seem to work, as you continue to wrench my neck and twist my left wrist. Pain shooting up my forearm, to my elbow now. FUCK! I grimace, and hold my breath, catching my strength and heaving us into the bookcase. And THUNKKK!!! Your body crashes into it, and I hear it rattle, it’s pretty heavy, and won’t fall for sure, but it surely shakes, and it sends few books tumbling off the shelves, one crashing on my left shoulder and I YELP in pain.
But that is hardly enough. Your damn left arm, seems to be made of concrete, and you maintain that fucking grip on my neck, although my left arm is freed and then “AARRGHH!!” You renew the grip on my neck, reinforcing it with a grip on your left wrist and a TWIST; “ARRGHHH!!! FUCK!!!” I cry again, when you shove off the bookcase sending us stumbling from it, and going DOWN. My feet unable to keep the balance and “ACCKK!K!” I crash to my left side, my legs splayed open as you fall practically on my side, wrenching my neck stubbornly!
“GAWWDD!! YOU FUCKING BITCH!!” I scream in agony, my neck hurting BAD now… You clearly have no intention of letting go of it, and right now, I don’t know if I can make you. feeling your weight laying on my left thigh, I quickly toss my right leg up and over your hip, curling it and locking my right ankle under my left and I start to SQUEEZE hard. I might be in a headlock, but I can sure as hell give this BITCH a taste of my legs, as I start to POUR down pressure on your waist. Grunting in pain, my right hand still holding the thong, giving it a harder YANK up, trying to saw into your labia with the thin string, my left hand free now, reaches to your interlocked hands.
Although I thought bringing you down to the mat may have been helpful to me, it’s proving otherwise, as i feel you shift your legs—your left one a bit under me—but your right swings up and over me quickly and you lock your ankles, trapping my waist in what I had heard were semi-lethal scissors—as FCF legend has it, anyway. A little groan pops out of my mouth as you give your initial thigh-pulse, and I realize quickly that the legend may not have been that much hyperbole—this bitch has strong gams! As I try to move the discomfort of the scissor to a happier place in my brain, I feel you start to work on my hand, your fingers trying to bend back my thumb, trying to separate my hands so the choking effect of the headlock is mitigated.
Good attention to detail, I think. The chokehold obviously is having a huge effect on you, as your breathing is wheezy and labored, sporadic coughing punctuating your grunts and groans as you struggle. You’re actually starting to hurt my thumb, you slut, doing something to its joint, and now and then you remind me that I have a cosmically large wedgie lodged within me—the fabric of my thong tearing into my tender inners, making me squirm every time you remember to pull up on it. Never one to to get into the immovable object meeting an irresistible force conundrum, I help you out by loosening the grip on my own left wrist and snapping my right hand out of your grip.
Maintaining the chokehold with my left arm, I ball my right hand into a fist and start slamming my right elbow down and back, hopefully hammering your ribs, spleen, kidney, and whatever other vital yet vulnerable body parts you may happen to have in that general target area. With each slam of my elbow, I grunt a little, just to show you how much force I am applying.
As much as many people, most my *friends* would tell anybody, being around me is always a blast! It’s fun, everyone is laughing, enjoying themselves, and basking in the sunshine that is moi. All unless they rub me the wrong way of course. If they cross me, or happen to be a brunette spitfire who is intent on dethroning me, and carving a premature notch for her in the wall of legends in the secret world of FvF fighting. For those, I always like to stretch my arms in opposite direction, and denote my tiny and cute ‘zone of terror’. The one that I promise them all the discomfort and anguish in the world, if they dare step into. And well, right now, you didn’t just step into it, you’re grinding your immensely cute butt in!!
And for that I plan to give you the grand tour of the zone of terror myself!! My legs toss around your waist, and I start squeezing, starting to feel a bit envious at how tiny your waist is, and from the initial impression, it’s not the everyday anorexic waistline I see on most chicks these days, no, this bitch is ripped! I bent your finger slowly with my left hand, my cute cheeks starting to get redder and redder. While my right keeps on yanking your thong up, my fist now almost at the middle of your back, and I start to worry that if I pull any harder, I’d rip your slutty panties, and I do *NOT* want that to happen, if they go, so will the pain and discomfort. So I start to release my grip on it, happy with the wedginess I’ve caused.
And before I start to think what to do with my free right hand now, I feel your right arm going back, pulling the thumb out of my grip and “AWWW!!! ACCKKK!! ARRGGHH!!” Your elbow starts flying back and hammering me into my right side, just into that little bit of flesh between my ribs and hips. What did my boxing trainer call them? Oburiques?? Uberliques?? Obliques??? Fuck it!! And fuck that Russian dumbass!!! And fuck this bitch!!!” My mouth opens, and I scream out; “Elbowing me now?? Really Mish?? Dick move!! Really dick move!!” And I slide my right arm up fast, now at least you’ve given it a purpose.
I know that trying to block your incoming elbows would only lead to you striking my right arm and hurting it, and I need to do more than that, certainly more if I intend to get out of this conundrum. My arm snaking up under your right armpit, and I curl my own arm, bending it and trying to slide my own elbow on the inside of yours, lock it, and PULL, to sort of hook your arm with mine, and yank on your upper body. My own body rocking slightly to my right, trying to roll us to my back, with you atop of me, struggling to turn us in a way, so that I can slither behind you, and knot you up. My thighs, tensing and pouring more pressure on your waist.
I now stretch my left arm in front of us, balling my fist, I take a page right out of your book, and start swinging my balled fist back and right into your boobs hard, in angry, rhythmic punches to those perky girls you like to flash around so much!
Damn—for an older chick, she has some fight left in her, I think. The elbows find their target, and slam into you, causing some nice, pain-related grunts and groans to flow from your mouth. But my elation is short-lived as your right hand slithers up under my right armpit and entangles itself with my arm, locking them together. Obviously, that puts a temporary end to my elbow assault, and now it’s a struggle to try and disentangle mine form yours—at least from my perspective.
You yank back on my arm, and it becomes apparent what you’re trying to do—to roll us from our left sides to your backs, which would result with you on the bottom, scissoring me around the waist, locking my right arm up, and my left arm, at that point, would be draped around and in back of me, hopefully still around your neck, but clearly from that angle, largely useless.
Another groan as you tighten your scissors in a pulse, and I feel that for the first time in this fight, I may be in trouble! This is punctuated by a shot into my breast from your left fist, stretching out and around my body—not much force, but still—attacks from 4 fronts that are starting to overwhelm me. I feel your larger body start to roll to the right, and I know that once we pass the tipping point, gravity takes over and the roll to your—our—backs will be inevitable.
Trying to dig my heels into the mat to prevent the shift, I know I can’t win that battle, so instead I assist—lifting my feet, speeding up the roll, we fall to the right, you on your back, me mostly on top of you, also on my back. As we roll, I release my left arm from your neck, allowing you a free air passage for the first time in—well, I’m not sure.
I pull my left arm toward me, around to the front your head, and then jam my upper arm into your throat again, this time wrapping my arm the opposite way, my hand at the back of your neck, holding you in a quasi-reverse headlock. This gives me much more leverage and the added bonus of being able to pull your head up and off the mat, wrenching it forward, stretching your neck out like a turkey about to be prepped for Thanksgiving.
“Uggghhh… nngghhh… gawddd…” The words are slipping from my lips, almost uncontrolled now. And I HATE it. The feeling of your weight now slowly adjusting in this very, very, slow’mo roll, now pressing on my chest, and momentarily adding more pressure to my weary neck is sending a foray of almost sexual grunts from my lips. But they are far from being arousal-induced ones. Even though, admittedly, the feeling of your amazing butt against my crotch is enticing, the overall pain and struggle, magnified by my awkwardly bent neck is not allowing me to enjoy much. And your bitchy snotty attitude shown so far isn’t either.
But then, the unexpected happens, and you buck, sending us rolling over, assisting me to the extent that as we hit our backs, my left shoulder blade even lifts off the mat, almost rolling over and off. And I get this moment of panic, not knowing what to do, which allows you to release my neck. What the ——
Is she totally giving up now?? I tighten my legs, my right arm wrestling with yours… All I need is it hook your left arm, and you’re in a reverse crucifix, and then I will make you SING!!! But as my left arm gets greedy moving out to find your own, I feel you sliding over me, your shoulder blades surfing over my boobs, grinding them down under your weight.
And “Uugghhh!!!” Your hand creeps up behind my head, cupping it and pulling me forwards, pressing my exposed throat to your bicep, and my cheeks, that never got a chance to change their color tone anywhere below that of a tomato, get a new surge of color. “FFRRGUUUUGGHH JJHHOOOOOO” — My attempt to cry out Fuck you, completely distorted, feeling you grinding on me, and working my neck in a new and creative way. Uugghh!! This frustrating, skilled, stubborn bitch!!! My eyes are watering, the perfectly toned bulge of bicep choking me now. Think… THINK Ewa!!!
I start of course, by keeping my legs in place, I can’t pump as hard now, but, they need to be in place around you, at least keeping the same pressure is good. My right arm curling more, my hand moving, trying to creep behind your neck, fingers spreading, sliding through your pretty silky coconutty hair. Ok, maybe I can’t hammerlock you, but half a hammer lock is not bad, as I start to push your own neck forwards, using the top back of your skull as my pressure point of my palm. My left hand, the vigilant soldier, my Joker, my trump card so far, moving down, to your very uncomfortable crotch, I know that your thong is wedge halfway up your kitty by now.
Let’s go and visit the disaster zone, take some supplies with us, and I *smaccckkk* my palm softly on your crotch, pressing it hard, my fingers softly sneaking between your thighs, forming a cup with my hand, and I start to squeeeeeeze…. then release… squeeeezzzeee.. and release…. Trying to create create a little Earthquake of mostly out-of-place arousal and panic down there.
As we roll to your back, and almost overcompensate a little, but settle back down quickly, I clamp down on the reverse headlock and once again assault your primary airway. This time, not only can I add more pain by stretching that neck of yours to obscene lengths (come on, Ewa—models would kill for the long, slender neck I’m going to give you), but I also have the added benefit of being able to add to the choke by a simply flex of my left bicep, which pushes the hard little muscle directly into your throat with each flex (damn—wish I had lifted heavier weights during those interminably boring workouts!
But this will do, hehehe). The roll to your back causes the scissors to lose a bit of their bite, as you no longer have the floor/mat to help you apply pressure to my waist—it still hurts, but not quite as much. I hear some muffled, garbled words spew from your mouth, but the crushing of your throat makes them quite unintelligible. Sounds like, maybe, I love you?
Considering and quickly abandoning that possibility, i decide to ignore it, as I feel you continue to entangle your right arm with mine, bringing it up and back, securing your hold even tighter—a half-nelson type of hold, with your fingers now pressing in the back of my neck, slightly starting to push my head up. But it’s your left arm and hand that worry me, because as they are unencumbered, I need to be on guard—as best i can.
I feel your hand make its way down my body, gliding along my side, almost caressing me, alighting on the tiny piece of over-stretched thong fabric now covering my crotch. Shit, I think, not another wedgie!—I was just starting to feel a little less torture since you had released it. But it isn’t, as your palm covers my crotch, cupping it almost, reaching down, touching my soft, silky inner thighs, as you gently squeeze, and then release—over and over, gently, rhythmically, my sexual pleasure center. Fear turns to amusement, and darts in and out of actual sensual pleasure as you continue to gently squeeze, but then I worry—is this just to confuse me, to make me turn the fight into a sex fight?
Or will she latch on like a talon at any moment after lulling me in with this? Either way, I start to panic, as I have little defense for whatever might go on down there. Doing what comes naturally, I have to negate any further assaults as best I can. In one fluid motion, I bend my knees, and kick up up my feet a bit, bringing my thighs up to your elbow, and then locking my ankles as my feet come down again, pulling you, by the arm, off my crotch and for the time being, trying to trap your arm, putting your body in quite a unique position, with one hand at the base of my neck, and the other trapped uselessly between my legs. “Oh, Ewa,” I purr, “there’ll be plenty of time for you to service me AFTER the fight is over.
Don’t be in such a hurry, silly!” as I flex my left arm for a little bit longer than usual, pressing it into your throat, wondering how long your all-but-total deprivation of air will take to weaken you to the point of hopeful submission.
Tears begin to fill the cavities of my hazel-green eyes. Turning them to shallow wells, as your left arm continues to tug me further on, trapping me in this… Immense…. headlock. And while the move itself is not really ingenious, the immediate coupling after the previous headlock is. My neck is sure sore and most vulnerable right now. But still, somehow, in the midst of all of this, I can feel my nipples softly peeking through the soft lace of my bra cups, that are now glued to your sweaty back. And in this position, there is nothing I can do to hide them, or the excitement this intense body on body lock up is causing me. My right hand pushing forwards on your neck, folding it forwards.
I keep grinding my palm, pushing and pushing, until your chin is now tucked in, pressed against your collar bone. The move itself not really a submission hold, not with one arm anyway, and not with this angle with my head propped against your left arm. But it’s enough to slight your left arm and angle it just enough to allow me to softly turn my head, and press the side of my neck against your bicep, my face turned inwards, lips inches from your left ear. And for a brief, long moment, we seem in a fucked up stalemate. An impossible hold that is just proving how bendy, determined, skilled and stubborn we are. But with the pressure on my windpipe fading quickly, I gasp into your ears; “Oh, someone getting damp down there.”
Referring to my left hand, that is squeezing gently against your thong. Or practically, what’s left of your thong. Seems the little wardrobe malfunction my wedgie caused, has lead to you sucking most of it into that black hole of doom that you call a vagina. And with the practice you have, night and day, day and night, I’m sure it’s not really that much of a bother for you to have your undies wedged in, God only knows what kind of stuff you’ve shoved down there. But one thing for sure, the way your body gyrates so subtly, even though if you hide it, your ass grinding against my own crotch is telling me, that you don’t really mind these squeezes.
All until your legs shoot up, wrapping around my arm, your thighs capturing my forearm, twisting your lower body to the left, and I gasp “ugghhh!! bitch!!!” I groan, air gushing from my lips, blowing the hair off the left side of your face. Heaving as you twist yourself over. And turning the little human Hero we were in, into an all out Pretzel!! My left arm trapped now, I hiss in a low voice; “Oh, I’m not in a hurry at all… By the way… Wet willy BITCH!” And I suddenly push my tongue out of my mouth, and I shove it into your left ear!! Pressing it in and I swirl it with a wet, sloshy motion, rolling it over to push it even further to distract you, or who knows, maybe turn you on!
My body twisting suddenly to my RIGHT, trying to roll us over, using my body rocking and the pressure on the back of your neck to spill us to the side, my left arm PULLING back, trying to free itself from your leg grasp mid-confusion, while my legs, tighten themselves around your sides, having slightly crept upwards over the last few moment, and I try to squeeeezee you like a near-empty tube of toothpaste, with the reinforced power our side-ways position would give.
I can’t deny that the pulsing of my sex feels sooo nice, and under other circumstances, would be a welcome interlude. But business is business, and now, your left arm secure in my thighs, I twist us a bit. At first you groan softly, your mouth close to my head as it is, but shortly after, I feel your tongue dart into my ear(!) Slithering around inside as you taunt and announce a wet willy! God, I HATE that feeling as your saliva coats the inside of my ear, the sliminess of your tongue tickling yet irritating me. I try not to show my disgust, but can’t stop my body from writhing a bit as I try and pull my head away from you.
That may have been your goal—to distract me enough—which you certainly did—so that your real move could happen—another attempt at a roll by you, this time to the right, in combination with the pressure on the back of my neck, which has been progressively increasing since you started that hold, and is now pressing my chin into my chest. You try and yank your left arm out of my thigh-lock as you turn us, and the combination of moves causes our bodies to shift a bit, my body dropping a little in relation to yours, and you take full advantage of that, easing and then tightening the scissors further up on my body—no longer around my waist, but now locked right below my ribcage.
The shift also caused me, just for a microsecond, to loosen my hold on your neck—just enough time for you to turn your head, so my bicep no longer pressed into your throat. On our sides now, your scissor digging in, I start to having trouble breathing myself, as each inhalation causes increasing amounts of pain. My right arm immobilized, my chin pushed into my chest, my thighs locked around your left arm, and my chokehold on you no longer doing too much choking, —I think I need a new plan.
I am running out of options—I can’t release your left arm, because you’ll use it to try and immobilize my left arm in a full-nelson. I can’t let go of your neck, because it’s the only semi-submission hold I have you in right now, and—well, so? Your arm is trapped, and the threat of a full nelson is zero as long as that remains the case.
Writhing in your holds, rocking my body back and forth, fighting against your scissors and half-nelson, I tighten my clench on your left arm, and release my left arm from your neck, bringing my hand down the side of your body and burrowing it under your ass. Returning the favor, I grab a handful of your bottoms and, twisting them in my hand, jam them up, following the contour of your spine, wrenching them, driving them deep into you, not just one long pull, but a rapid series of sharp, hard thrusts, hoping I am cutting into you deeply, and ultimately causing you to loosen your legs.
We buck and writhe, twisting and going from our left sides where we fell, to our backs, and now, flopping over to the right sides. All the while, every bit of our bodies is just flexed and tightened, nay, CLENCHED around the other. I don’t even recall the last time I had my body in total muscular lockdown like this. But it’s the absolute minimum I have to do, to keep this bitch at bay. I really can’t believe how much I’m stooping now, you’re forcing me to stoop to fight you off. A wedgie?? A wet willie??? 6th graders would shy off from deploying such tactics. But!! All is fair in love and war. And right now, I am in LOVE with being at war with you.
But then suddenly, my neck, my neck is free!!! Or.. or fucking is it??? The damn thing doesn’t seem to be working for few moments, even when you release it. And I groan softly, the phantom fingers still pressing on the back of my head, and even though there is no pressure forcing the left side on my neck against your arm, it sort of slumps loosely against your left shoulder, completely fatigued. And that’s when your left hand slips behind me, and…. FUUUCKKK!!! I feel your fingers around my panties. Lucky thing I didn’t wear a thong, because I’m not a street walker like you, but FUUUCKKK!!! It doesn’t matter much!!
You wrap it around your fingers and start yanking, pulling and jerking in quick succession. “AAHHH!! YOU BITCH!! WHAT THE FUCK!!!” I cry into your left ear, cringing, my neck arching down, almost forgetting that I did that first, but then as i remember I just hiss at you; “Running out of moves are we, Mish??? Way to be a filthy copy-caAAAAAAIIIEEE!!” Even my taunts are not allowed fully one, feeling the furious tugging, and I feel my legs tightening. Gawd.. I can’t maintain that. Not when you have released my neck, not when I’m this close!! FUCK What should I do!
But that’s when it hits me… Your hand… Behind me… Floor… Connect the dots Ewa… Connect them… 1…. 2… 3…. Okay… Got it!! And with our bodies draped to the right, I push my right elbow to the mat pivoting it against it, fingers squeezing the back of your neck, heaving, and I twist my hips, rolling them to the left, my legs, still straight forwards, still with their ankles locked, swinging like a pendulum in the air, and I send us rocking AGAIN, this time to roll flat on our backs, well, mine, and you atop of me. Trapping your left hand beneath me. And with our combined 200 lbs’ something on our left hand that should at least, hopefully, stop the series of hellish wedgies.
My left hand, still trapped between my thighs, opens up, I start to… worm it.. fingers wiggling, slowly creeping up.. Patiently… Very patiently.. Like a little tarantula crawling up your soft thighs… You know where it’s going.. and so do I… It still has some distance to go.. but… it will get there… it will… By the Gods it will!! I swallow hard, my lips against your left ear, I part them and whisper; “I….. have you… Mish…. I fucking… have you…” And right now, I realize that you’re not the only one with a wardrobe malfunction, as the lacy left cup of my bra seem to have slipped down from all the sweaty grinding, and now, you can feel my painfully stiff and aroused nipple pushing into your upper back.
My thighs, tensing, slower, slower, sliding up, trying to just wear you down, and push that lower, floating rib inwards in this ultimate test of wills.
Despite my emerging skills, my confidence spilling over to cockiness and, I won’t argue, arrogance at times, you show me why I am an 8 week newbie and you are the seasoned veteran fighter that you are. I wanted a win so badly—well, I have LOTS of wins so far, but one against an A-lister like Ewa—damn—my fight-ticket would have been punched for life. I hadn’t planned on fighting you today, but when I saw you at that table, grrrrr…I had to try. There were certainly less-skilled A-listers against whom I’d have had a much stronger chance, but, well, you play the cards you’re dealt.
I shake my head quickly to dissipated the collecting gloomy thoughts, and re-focus on my current predicament. I know the cosmic wedgie has you in immense pain and I jerk it up and into you, relax, repeat…And then that familiar rocking motion begins again. Your body starts to move back and forth, and with three or four heaves, off we go, rolling again, back to your (your back). An odd move, I think, given that your scissors are less powerful in that position.
But as we land, it becomes painfully obvious what you’ve done. My left hand, the wedgie control center, is now trapped under your immense weight, combined with my much less immense weight makes the ongoing torture from repeated thrust of panties-into you all but impossible. At best, I can move some fingers, but range-of-motion for my wrist or arm is impossible. Still, some solace is afforded in the fact that the cosmic wedgie has been frozen in time now that my hand is pretty much immobilized. So instead of short busts of agony over and over, now you suffer one long, unending tear of fabric into you, and I’m OK with that.
My glibness is short-lived, though, as I feel your own left hand start to move—fingers stretching, wrist wiggling, trying to slip out from my thighs. I know that if you are able to free that arm, it may truly be the end for me. The sweat on my body, my legs, my thighs, acts as a bit of a lubricant and despite keeping my ankles locked, your hand slowly starts to wriggle its way up, away from my knees, towards my crotch.
“I….. have you… Mish…. I fucking… have you…” you whisper into my ear, taunting me, truly believing the end is in sight. I am desperate—I have so few options left, and I hate myself for even thinking this. Who am i kidding? I LOVE myself for this—fuck you, Ewa! I think as I roll my head, chin still pressed into my chest, to the right, and then swing it fast and hard to the left just as those words escape your lips into my ear, hoping that my skull will tattoo your cheek, eye, nose—anything, hopefully, to daze you for a bit. I can only hope.
On my back again, and back to having those welled up eyes. I’m crying hard, and I can’t stop it. My body is overheated, and I’m wondering how long before the black mat beneath me would start to melt from the sheer intensity I’m radiating. My body so sore and tensed up. My neck still hurting, but I shift it lightly, right and left, moving it and hearing soft *pops* and *cracks* from the minute motions. God damn this bitch!! She almost crippled me! But it matters not right now. I have you. I fucking do. And your gasps and moans rising slowly. My left hand embarking on that slow exodus, traversing the wastelands of your thighs.
Wastelands?? Who am I kidding?? They are probably as busy as a Mexican Waterpark on a Sunday, and twice as wet!! And speaking of wet, the sweat soaking your soft thighs is adding enough lubrication for my hand to creep up, while I proceed to squeeze your sides, determined to just snap you in half. Right arms tangled, my fingers cupping the back of your skull, I lean in again, parting my lips, to taunt you some more; “You know… Now is not the worst time for you to just give u—AAWWWW!!!” Always the taunt. ALWAYS when I bring my head closer, offering a way out, does this shit happen!
You snap your head to the side, sliding it just a bit off my cupping hand and *THUNKKKK* Your temple cracks me right at the top of my right orbital bone, at the start of my eyebrow line; “FUUUUCKKKK YOOUUUUUUUUU” I cry out in pain, my head rocking to the side. And thank God my right hand was still there holding your head, and somewhat mildly mitigating the blow. Had it not been there, that would have probably knocked the shit out of me. But it still hurts. A LOOOOOOTT!! My right eye shutting, and I feel a wild migraine rocking my head. My legs pausing their squeezing, clearly giving you what you wanted, a little reprieve from my crushing scissors.
But now, I’m furious, a headbutt? Seriously? Fine. No more Nice Ewa. And with a screech I yank my left arm back, feeling my fingers pulling and slipping from your sweaty thighs. I ball my left hand into a fist, while my right hand tenses, cupping the back of your pretty head. My right eye shut completely, I can see my vision blurry, Looking through one eye that’s soaked in tears is certainly not giving me the best depth perception, not when I’m this hurt and beat. I try to focus, pausing for one second, using muscle memory, and the position of my right hand to guide than my vision now, I swing my balled left fist now, sending a wild BITCH punch to your mouth.
Mish-sion accomplished? I slam my head to the right, tagging yours, not quite knowing what parts I hit specifically, but knowing I’ve done damage, as your legs loosen a bit and I start to roll my body in an attempt to wiggle out of the scissor hold, despite the lock you have on my right arm.
But your resilience is incredible. Thinking you’d be dazed for minutes, I am astounded when your wrench your left arm out from my thighs, abandoning whatever depraved move you were contemplating, and bring it up, to—OH SHIT, I see you ball your left hand into a fist, and I writhe and buck under you—both hands trapped I have no way of blocking or deflecting.
All I can do is turn my head to the side as best i can, your right hand cupping my head from the back, trying to hold it in place. Your fist slams into my face, knuckles tearing into the side of my mouth and cheek. I can tell instantly the my upper lip is spilt as my head rocks to the side, and my body stops its writhing and moving almost instantly, simply melting into yours, breathing heavy, eyes watering.
My right eye is shut, and I can feel the swelling above it, pushing against my eyebrow, as the broken blood vessels that you have nailed with your hard smack is giving me one heck of a migraine, and making me dread that moment where I look at my face in the mirror. All but the face. Everything but the face. But now, you’ve fucking done it. You showed me that you would stoop that low just to try to beat me. And that makes me mad. And mad Ewa is someone you don’t wanna meet. Surely not you. My legs are slacked around your waist, barely holding you in place now, I can feel your left arm wiggle and twist beneath me, my right arm tangling with yours. Both slipping, both moving, both pretty much on their way out.
I know I have that one shot, that one fucking blow, and I don’t know which give it out, the balling fist above your head, or the way my fingers curled around the back of your skull to hold in place. But you twitch and twist, just barely enough for my fist to not come crashing first on, but I still nail the left corner of your lips and I hear you cry and gasp, slinking in my grip. Your body shuddering, then relaxing. But should I trust you?? Should I?? Hmmm my right eye that is SWOLLEN FUCKING SHUT is telling me not to. And without really much deliberation, I pull my left fist up again, balling it even tighter, and I fire it down, this time aiming for your sternum! “SUCK IT MISHBITCH!” I cry out.
My face on fire from the punch, lip bleeding and swelling already, tears rolling down my cheek, I keep my face turned to the side, my body not quite limp but not responding to commands from my brain to …well, do something! I’m thinking that it may be over—my lack of response, and right now, your lack of offense, you may simply be waiting for me to submit. I consider it, and immediately dismiss the idea, knowing that if I can just—and quickly—get a little bit of strength back, I can easily slip out of these token holds right now. I’m certainly not at 100% (probably more like 30%), but I’m not at the point of submission.
Until, that is, the second fist rains down on me—slamming into my sternum, right above my breasts. My feet kick up involuntarily and I feel the air forced from my lungs. The pain in my chest is agonizing, combined with my swollen mouth and bleeding lip. A guttural groan is all I can muster as I try to suck in air, and I reflexively snap my right arm out of your loose hold now and try to roll out from your legs so I can roll to my side and try and breath—easier on hands and knees than on my back.
I’m hurt. WE are hurt. And this is far from the wrestling I thought we would be doing. My bra misadjusted completely now, and you can feel my sweaty boobs squished under your body, sweat smearing them and my nipples grazing and poking against your skin. My eyes glassy. Gawd, why does she have to be so tough, and stubborn. But right now, there is no room for admiration, or even contemplating on why am I SO wet despite my own thong shoved almost fully between my lips. Eyes on the prize Ewa… Eyes on the fucking prize! And with another powerful fist to your sternum you cough, gag, gasp and thrash, and this time you slip out of my grips.
Nothing is more powerful than a natural body spasm, when it’s struggling to catch air, and despite everything I’m weakened now. And with that you slip off me and roll to the right. And while I would have probably rolled to my left. Got to my knees, pulled that thong out of me, and maybe asked you if you have had enough, or even extended a hand for you to help you up. That’s what nice Ewa would had done. Not Angry Hulk-Mode one-eyed Ewa for sure. And wherever you roll, I go with you, watching you clutch your chest, and try to push up to all fours, I get to mine and pounce, sending my practically naked body crashing on your back.
My arms sliding down, just to the underside of your perky boobs, in a reverse bearhug, reaching as far as I can with my fingers around your slim torso, trying to lock my fingers against the other arm’s elbow and HUG you tightly. My hips smacking hard into your ass, to send us hopefully crashing down, with you face down and me on your back again. Thinking, hoping that with all the pressure I applied to your ribs, and that punch to your sternum, you’re out of breath, and I’d like to fucking see you try to take another breath when I’m on your back jolting hard throttling your body.
Rolling off you and to the side, I lay prone on the mat for a bit, not knowing or caring where you were, which is probably stupid, but my only focus now is to try and breathe. I slowly bring myself to my hands and knees as the air is sucked in, traveling to my lungs and oxygenating my blood. I move one hand to my chest, rubbing the area where you hammered my sternum, and another tear falls to the mat.
I slowly turn my head to the side, now that breathing has resumed, and see only a flash—your almost nude body practically in air heading towards mine, and then a thunderous crash as you land on my back, sliding your arms around me and joining your hands right under my breasts. I feel your breasts pressed into my back, and your hips pushing into my tight (and nude ) ass, the thong far out of sight and settling into its new home deep within me.
Your immense weight, combined with the force of your pounce, knock me back to the mat again, this time flat on my face, you on top of me, applying a devastating bear hug. I had only just started to take in air, and you BITCH, you pull it away again. My mouth opens and I can’t even inhale as you crush me with your arms, pressing down on my body, forcing me into the mats. Relaxing and then pulsing your arms, making me wince with each pulse, each one a show of dominance, as you have clearly beaten me down. I try to utter a submission, but no sound comes from me as I struggle to take in even the faintest amount of air.
My hands reach up and back, knowing that yours are locked under me in the bear hug, and I pound on your sides with my fists, knowing that they are token flailings at best, as most of my strength has been drained from me.
I don’t really care how this started. I don’t even give a fuck how much I hurt you now. How many moments during this match, that I had thoughts of… euughhh.. doesn’t matter now. I don’t even give a shit that I’m practically naked now, boobs sliding across your skin, my thong wedged so deep between my lips, that you can feel the soft, waxed labia brushing your butt, softly kissing your crack with each twitch and grunt. And I don’t even CARE if you figure out that the moisture on them, that is slowly forming a slightly sticky web stretching each time my kitty and your ass separate is not sweat. I DON’T CARE
Right now, all I care about is breaking you. Is proving to you, that I’m not a wall trophy. That I’m not past my prime, and that I’m certainly up there with you. And with my right eye swollen shut, my body wiggling on your back, I slide my legs down and between yours, pushing my feet inwards inside your own, and I curl them back, trying to lock our ankles, and use my legs to spread yours further and further. My knees pointed slightly outwards, and into the back of yours. I know the more I spread you, the more control I can get, and the less your chances of bucking me off are.
My lips pressed, a bit involuntarily against your neck. And with each HEAVE I do, squeezing your ribs in, you groan, twist, and my lips brush your skin softly. And with a little feedback loop, the moist webs my kitty leaving on your ass get just thicker and thicker, and my bare nipples just get stiffer. I feel you grumbling something. I can’t tell what it is, but your arms lean back and start swinging at me, you can’t angle them too high, and they just ‘knock’ on my hips and slightly above them, at the new panty-line you have raised. And I just grunt, heaving more, crushing you more; “Ugh….. knock… all you want bitch… If you want me to stop… ugghh… Suck your thumb!!”
I hiss the words, then I pause, did I actually give you a wedgie…. a wet willie… and now… asking you to suck your thumb… We’re deteriorated from adult mature ladies, to college girls… to high school girls… and now… toddlers… What’s next?? ask you to roll in a fetal position?? But I just slide my head down more, pressing my lips against your left ear, I repeat; “Pull your right hand up…. and suck… your Goddamn… THUMB… And I will make it stop… Or I’m breaking your fucking ribs!!” I hiss the words viciously, and to make you know I’m serious I SQUEEEZE harder on you, pushing my body down to add my weight further to your struggling lungs.
I know you feel the punches into your sides, and I know that you know that they are meaningless—a final—perhaps—act of a defiant novice resolute to go down fighting, to let her opponent know she’s been in a hell of a fight. I feel an expanding concentration of moisture on my ass, and know that your domination over me in more than just physical, as you are enjoying overwhelming me just a bit too much.
Another few feeble punches from me, and you respond with a satanic hiss, “knock… all you want bitch… If you want me to stop… ugghh… Suck your thumb!!” What?! Suck my thumb!? Fuck you i think, and start to writhe a bit, trying to buck you off me, but my reduced strength, and your proactive grapevine on my legs, makes that attempt useless as well.
My hands drop limply to my sides as I am unable to breathe, and no air has been taken in for some time. I feel my body start to go slack as the words “Pull your right hand up…. and suck… your Goddamn… THUMB… And I will make it stop… Or I’m breaking your fucking ribs float above my head. I feel my body spasm and become totally flaccid. I couldn’t bring my hand to my mouth even if I wanted to—a final spasm, and I see my field of vision go from hazy to dark gray, to…
I gyrate on your back, in a little frenzy of my own… Gyrating, grinding, and pressing tightly on you… Crushing you between my arms and under my weight… Completely and utterly turning this into a one-sided, one-woman show of me playing the pipes (your lungs), and you doing the vocals (your moans and grunts). Your hands fall to the side, and you slowly spasm and flinch… I can feel you still fighting… Damn it this bitch has some heart… I cry again in frustration; “COME ON!! DAMN YOU!!! DO IT!!! I DON’T WANNA HURT YOU ANYMORE!!” I scream in frustration.. But nope…. you have some fucked up iron will…
I see your right hand moving slightly upwards… are you… are you going to do it… I can’t tell, because I hear a low croak from your lips and your body just goes limp… passing out… And I lay there for few moments, not believing it… Is it.. Is it over… My eyes blinking and then I realize that I’m still squeezing, so I loosen my grip, and slowly push up, my body battered, beat, and it feels like I’m peeling glued skin off another. Moaning I wiggle my arms off you and push up few inches, hovering over you… My hands feeling a bit numb from the weight on them, but I move them up to your shoulder blades, then shoulders, softly squeezing your shoulder muscles and shaking them… “Mish…”
I whisper lightly, but I get no response.. HOLY SHIT… I hope I didn’t break anything… “MISH!!” I repeat again with some urgency, then with some struggle, I try to roll you to your back, and Gawd are you fucking heavier than you look… Or maybe I’m just that spent… I flop you to your back, and I slide my body down, our near naked fronts touching, and I reach up with my right index under your nose, you’re breathing fine…. I just slide my fingers under your cheers, and I lightly slap them… softly.. trying to help you come to… “.. Wake up….” I say in a calmer, softer voice, seeing your eyelashes start to flutter…
I half-open my eyes, hearing my name being called softly. You’re looking down at me, and I’m now on my back, unsure how I got like this. Fuck, I think—the fight–as pain from all points in my body starts to register, and I wince as I move slightly—so slightly—the pain in my ribs unbearable, followed a close second by my mouth and cheek. I know what you want, and I denied it to you. For some, a KO is the ultimate show of dominance—taking away a girl’s consciousness. I fight for the KO myself, loving the rush of having a weaker opponent go limp in my arms or legs, the life force draining from her temporarily—because of ME! But for others, it’s the supplication—hearing the conquered admit the superiority of the victor. I know you want it. “You win,” I croak, hoping that will suffice.
I breathe hard, watching you come to, your pretty brown eyes glassy, darting around… And I almost smile seeing how confused you are to your whereabouts. But right now, your whereabouts are pretty clear…. Practically naked *UNDER* me… And then when your eyes settle on me, I feel a bit of shame and anger, that now you can stare into my face, and see my right eye shut and swollen, probably all black and blue from your head-butt, and you know that I am not walking unscathed out of this. You croak “You win,” to me, and I just lay down, staring at you, and I reach down with my left hand, grabbing your right wrist…. I softly and gently moving it up…
I keep looking into your eyes with my… well.. EYE…. With both hands now wrapping around your right hand, feeling it barely resisting, I part my lips, and lower my head, softly wrapping… *MY* lips around your thumb…. My tongue slowly swirling around it, sucking it, and watching your reaction…
Slowly sucking it throughly, before pulling it out of my mouth, a thin line of saliva stretching from its tip to my bottom lip, that I break with a lash of my tongue, and I slowly guide your thumb closer to your lips… Saying nothing… Not trying to force it in or anything… My… *EYE* patting, and blushing softly… Wondering if you understand what I meant, by sucking your thumb first…
It didn’t suffice. Hovering over me, you barely acknowledge my submission, and instead you lay next to me. I can’t help but notice the black and blue that has spread around your eye, swollen almost to the point of being closed totally and I know it’s from me. A twinge of guilt passes through me, until my next breath, when my ribs cry out in their aftermath of pain. Your hand darts out and softly grabs my right wrist. I have neither the strength nor the desire to resist, and I let you guide my hand to my mouth—I’ll give you the thumb-sucking you demand—you earned it, i muse, begrudgingly.
But it doesn’t happen. Instead, you guide my hand to YOUR mouth, taking my thumb in, the warm, wet orifice, your tongue dancing on my finger, sliding over it, sucking on it. Almost sensually, you slowly pull it from your mouth, through your lips, a trail of saliva following. Your hand remains attached to my wrist, and guides it to my mouth, my thumb glistening with your saliva. My lips part, and I take it in, mixing our fluids in my mouth, giving you what you wanted, and earned.
As my thumb approaches my own mouth, I feel my self becoming slightly wet, much lower on my body, the confusing arousal associated with being subjugated totally by the stronger woman. Keeping my thumb in my mouth, not uttering a word, I gaze into your eyes, waiting for a hint, an indication, that you have accepted my surrender.
I watch your eyes, seeing the confusion there, but also, a bit of arousal, acceptance. And then, you part your lips and wrap them around your thumb, and I smile, my lips curling at the corners despite my fucked up visage and I purrr softly, watching you suckle your thumb, slow and thoroughly, the sight, the mixture of submission, and acceptance of my token is driving me crazy, and the moisture down there is just unmistakable… I want you… bad…and now I have you.