Kayfabe Chapter 1 – The First Match by FTB

Get ready.”

The words come out, between panted breaths, muttered softly for her ears only. I can see by the way her jaw sets that she’s steeling herself, and that’s when my forearm smashes into her exposed breasts, flattening them against her ribcage.

The crowd roars, lapping it up.

Welcome to professional erotic lesbian fighting, where the wrestling is staged but the pain…and pleasure…is real. We’re all hardworking girls, risking life and limb to bring erotic wrestling to your computer screen, for a decent pay, good insurance and the joys of contributing to government coffers.

She sags against the post, and I draw my forearm back again, before driving it flat against her chest. She lets out a cry of pain, and I note the reddening of the skin from where the blow impacted her. Her head lolls back, and she sags against the post. The crowd jeers at me.

I’m the heel, and she’s the face. The dark haired Latina wrestles under the moniker La Sirenita, with her dark hair dyed with locks of blue, and usually sporting a cyan bikini (which I’ve torn off her). Her real name’s Angelina, and she’s raising a kid on her own (though you can’t tell that she’s had one judging from just how fit her body is). Sends him to a good school, tuition, locker riddled with his pictures.

Her body had to be seen to be believed. Her breasts were absolutely perfect, sitting at a point on the chest normally reserved for silicone. Her stomach was ultra-toned and showed the slightest outline of her abs. Whatever genes gave her skin the sexy, dark, tanned look that made her look a touch of the exotic, had no doubt contributed to the ridiculous curves of her lower body.

She’s one of the more popular wrestlers in the league – famed not just for her high flying physicality but the way her fingers can blast a pussy. A notable weakness are her nipples, which are very, very sensitive.
Something that I tap into, now that I have her on the ropes, so to speak.

My left arm presses against her neck, and she arches herself against the post. The cameras think she’s cursing me, but she’s actually telling me to press harder against her neck – one of her kinks is being choked. I comply, eager to please.

I’m new-ish – this is only my third match in the league, and the first one I’ve done solo. The storyline we’re running is a ripoff of the old Invasion series – my friend, Kate, and I were blonde upstarts running riot in the league. Or something. The owner, while a decent businessman, fancied himself the next George Martin, and he was not.

Angelina – La Sirenita – pulls her shoulders back, which has the effect of pushing her voluptuous chest out. Full natural orbs in bronze capped with dark nipples that point right at me – tempting targets. I raise my right hand dramatically, and then bring it to her left breast, my fingers closing in over a nipple. I start to tease and tweak it. It’s already hard, in that rubbery way, but the movement sends shudders through Angelina’s body. She doesn’t have to fake the moan – it comes out quite naturally, and that in itself is very gratifying.

I continue teasing her nipple, and her reactions grow more and more dramatic. Her thighs start to press together, and her knees rub suggestively. In the midst of the look of pleasure that paints her face, she takes the time to wink at me. I can barely stifle a smile of my own.

Up above, there’s a giant clock. It’s not there to tell the time, but to remind us of specific markers in the match, to time certain events. It acts to synchronize what we’re doing and what the announcer is screaming out to the fans – his words drowned out by the cheers and jeers of two thousand men (and no small number of women) who have crowded into the repurposed convention center to watch us beat and fuck the shit out of each other.

Right now, the announcer is telling the crowd that La Sirenita looks like she’s about to cum just from nipple stimulation, which was supposed to be incredibly humiliating, especially for someone with her experience. And Angelina was selling it – her face was flushed, and her hips were humping air. I risk a quick glance down – she’s visibly wet.

I can see her glance at the clock. Her lips move slowly – the clock is to my back, and I need her to count me down. “25…26…27…” Her mouth moves, for my benefit alone.

I lick my lips, mentally preparing myself for what is to come. My thighs move apart, easing access to the lower half of my body, the canvas rough under my bare soles. I feel the tingle of anticipation in my chest.
30.”

Her half lidded eyes snap open, and up comes her hand – straight for my pussy. I throw my head back, a cry escaping my lips as her fingers close around my bared mound. She squeezes – gentle, but firm, and I let out a yell as if she were crushing my petals. To sell it further, I push myself up on my tiptoes, scrunching my face up as if in a great deal of pain (as opposed to the mild discomfort between my thighs).

La Sirenita is fighting back – and she has the blonde upstart in a dreaded pussy claw.

She pushes off the post, and I waddle back as she moves forward, our bare feet shuffling in tandem to the middle of the ring. To the crowd, I’m in pain, but the sensation is actually quite pleasant – Angelina’s thumb is pressing – intentionally, unless I’m completely wrong – against the hood of my clit, teasing my little nub. Yet I throw my head back and press both hands to the side of my head, as if tearing my own hair out in agony. It felt a little silly when I read it, but everyone assured me that the effect looked quite hot.

I hope it did.

She starts to turn us both around, in effect leading me with a grip to my pussy – the idea was to show La Sirenita using my pussy as a leash. I risk a glance at the clock – it’s been twenty seconds, and faux screaming can be quite difficult to keep up for too long. Fortunately, Angelina’s paying attention, and releases her ‘claw’. I stumble forward, swaying a little, angling my body forward just a bit, dropping my hands to my sides as if overcome with weariness.
Her hands come up, reaching for the sides of my head. She lifts a foot up, and drops a stomp to my midsection. I grunt – her toes brush my pussy by accident, and it is not too unpleasant a sensation – I make a note in my head to push for a foot fetish angle…might garner me a few more fans.

I double up from the blow, shifting my thighs apart the way I’ve been told to do. The camera would, at this moment, be focusing on my ass and the little sliver of pussy peeking out between my thighs – I’m told it’s a great shot. I push my butt back just a bit more, hoping to add to the effect. At this moment, I feel Angelina leaning over me, the undersides of her breasts brushing against my shoulder blades.

“You’re doing great, chica,” she mutters encouragingly. She knows just how nervous I was, and assured me repeatedly that she would make me look good in match. You had to trust your partner in the ring, just as your partner had to trust you. And this being my first solo match – I knew she would have to carry me throughout the match. I just hoped I wasn’t too much of a burden.

“Relax…breathe…” It’s as if she read my thoughts. “Coming up to eleven…”

She pushes my head between her thighs, and clamps them shut. Her hands roam to my midsection, lock around my waist. She stamps a foot down on the canvas – that’s the signal to tighten my core, which I do.

She heaves me up, and my feet leave the ground. I clench, straightening my legs, selling it as best as I can. She stands firm – fuck me, she’s strong – and holds steady as I lower my legs over her shoulders.

I’m inverted, with her head between my thighs. I know what’s coming, and so does the crowd. I swear the roars of approval lift the roof. They must really love her, or dislike me, or both. That’s good.

Angelina – La Sirenita – dips her head down. It’s Taco Tuesday for her. Is that racist? Cultural appropriation? The blood rushing to my head interrupts my inner monologue. And that’s when I feel her tongue.

Now, they all say that her fingers are her best asset, but her tongue must be a close second, because fuck me that is some good pussy eating.

I don’t have to fake the moan. Or the quiver. Or the tremble that runs through my body – though that may more appropriately be attributed to having to keep my core tightened while hanging suspended, upside down.

Her tongue dances over my pussy. Her lips meet mine in a delicate kiss that belies the violence that we were inflicting on one another earlier. I swear I can picture the way her tongue parts my labia, traces up my slit, with the tip now teasing the underside of my clit…oh, that’s the jumbotron. Right.

“Ooooh fuckkkkk…” I moan out, and that’s when I remember that I’m supposed to be holding on to her legs for support. Fuck, I nearly forgot. It’s a wonder she hasn’t fallen. I grasp her firm butt, and tilt my head to the side, licking her inner thigh in silent apology. She acknowledges with a firm lick against my slit, and I jerk involuntarily from the sensation.

Her hands tighten across my midsection, and I let out a groan. My hips are jerking faster and faster, and my toes are curled. I give her firm butt one…two…three squeezes…telling her that I’m close, as she feverishly lapped the wet lips of my pussy and suckled on my tingling clit. There was an almost aching chasteness about the way she ate me out.

And then she dropped me, head first, to the canvas.

The pain exploded in my head, like a flare from the surface of the sun. It sparked a chain reaction, spreading tendrils of read through the roof of my head, down my spine and through my body. And throughout the microseconds between the top of my head meeting the canvas, Angelina did not stop tonguing me. And I swear…I positively swear, that as the shock and pain reached my pussy, I erupted in orgasm.

The heady mix of pain and pleasure is really…indescribable. Both are opposing sensations, on either end of the spectrum, and when occurring simultaneously – words fail me. I cried out, but whether it was in pain or pleasure, I cannot tell. But it was a scream, a primal scream of agonized pleasure, even as I felt my juices spray from my pussy, right at Angelina’s face. She took it in good humor.

I was barely aware as she tucked my ankles under her arms and pinned me down for the three count, such was the magnitude of the orgasm. I had been forewarned about this – how intense it would feel, but no amount of warning could have prepared me for that. I’m no prude – my sex life (as evidenced by what I was presently engaged in) was quite healthy, by all accounts, but orgasming for sport (no fakery, all genuine) after a physical workout, and while in the throes of the throbbing pain in my head – I cannot even begin to tell you where suffering ended and bliss began.

She poses for the crowd, allowing me to collect myself. I blink, staring up at the lights, my chest rising and falling as I gather my strength. The show isn’t done – there’s still a period of punishment – the cherry atop the metaphorical cupcake that made people pay two hundred dollars (for the cheap seats) and five hundred to be right at the ringside. The match itself was about fifteen minutes – post-match should take just about five more.

She stops, and stands by me. I just lie there. Like I said – she’s the face, and that has to translate into her post match as well. She’s choreographed this part herself, and if I’m being honest, I’m quite looking forward to it.
It’s different from what most girls do in the league.

She placed her hands behind my head and eased me to a sitting position, before pulling my face close to hers. When her lips touched mine, you could hear a pin drop, as if the crowd were all, at once, savoring the sheer innocence of the gesture. To me, still in that post orgasmic haze, I felt all reservation (of which there was very, very little) fading away to nothing.

Her lips were softer than my real life girlfriend’s, and the kiss itself was gentler but more sensual. My hands came up, and I ran my fingers through what turned out to be hair as soft as silk, and pulled her in tighter as I returned the kiss.

Parted lips gave way to a full open mouth. Angelina – La Sirenita – drew me in with sirenic subtleness, the gentleness of her becoming a deeper hunger growing in me. At some point she pulled back from the kiss, then ran her tongue lightly across my lips. My entire body went weak at the sensation – weaker even than I had felt when she dropped my head to the canvas, and I chased her tongue with my mouth, kissing and sucking it as she teased me with it. I grabbed her head hard and pulled her mouth back to mine, our tongues now meeting in the kiss.

Before I was ready to stop she pulled away again. I pulled her head back toward me, chasing her lips with my own, but she pushed my head to the side with one hand and began kissing my cheek and earlobes, and then down into the small of my neck. Chills spread across my entire body. As she focused her mouth on the sides of my neck, her hands began exploring the rest of me, caressing my stomach, then up between my breasts, then down my back. As her hands traveled downward, I anticipated the feeling of her fingers passing below my waist and caressing me where she had lapped and sucked on with such skill earlier, but when she reached just below my navel, she stopped and reversed direction. On the way back up she ran her hands up my sides and across the outside of my breasts. When she reached my neck, she pulled me back into a kiss. Now it was my turn to explore. Between her head and waist I ran my hands over everything, cupping her breasts and finding her incredibly hard nipples and even the firm but feminine lines of her stomach muscles.

One kiss, and she literally stole my breath away.

And she left me staring dumbfounded as she swayed back to the locker room, accompanied by the cheers of the crowd. Oh, it was all scripted, that ending, but there had been no acting.

My eyes followed her departing form, my jaw slack.

Hell of a first match.

To Be Continued…Read Chapter 2 Here!

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