Little Miss Alpha vs. Remington from FCF
Trust. They say you have to earn it. That it’s something you build up over time. Well the world’s been earning something, and it ain’t trust. Distrust is more like it.
It started after a few stays in homeless shelters. When finally those nights spent wondering if my family would ever find a place we could afford again ended. I was a little girl, maybe 8, asleep in a bed held up by milk crates. No sheets. A single, caseless pillow, and a blanket that had more tears in it than feathers.
My dad came in, kissed me on the cheek, and said goodbye. It couldn’t have been later than 3:30 AM. So I was asleep. Fast asleep. Hell, I thought the whole thing was a dream. Until I woke up and discovered my dad had left. I didn’t see him again until I was a mother of my own. He stepped back into my life and then died of Covid a few months later. Breathless. Alone. And wishing he could see his granddaughter one more time.
Then came my career choice. Westling. Pro, as if there was any other way to make money with a headlock. I trained so hard. Tried so hard, that I swear I can still feel the bruises those ring ropes of the nearby gym left on my back. Still here the wood canvas creaking and splintering from one flat back bump after another. To my surprise all of that paid off and I got a contract. Yes, I had to suck a dick or two, but my husband didn’t mind. He was too busy cheating on me to worry how I got the bills paid.
That is until I had a match with a girl I trusted deeply. Truly. Thinking she was a friend and a confidant. I gave her my body in that ring. Gave her my belly and let her get the pin, as the script laid out. And I was happy to put her over. She deserved it. She was incredible. But after the ref counted to three. She decided to take a few extra shots. Screaming to the crowd about all those secret little details I had told her. Between stomps on my lower back and chair strikes to the same.
When finally, the ref threw up his arms in an X and after a few of the ring crew brought me to the back, the promoter looked at me and sighed as he shook his head. “Don’t worry, Amber. We’ll repackage you. Give you a new name. A new gimmick. Don’t worry about all … um…. It’s gonna be fine.”
That next morning after the MRI’s came back, the doctor told me I wasn’t going to be fine. That my career in the ring full time was over.
When I told my husband he needed to get a job, he left me and my daughter — just like my father had. Reenacting that same late night visit and kiss to the forehead before heading out the door to his mistress’ car.
That was when I reconnected with a childhood enemy and fell in love again, only to have the green-haired bitch walk out on me without a word, though she did steal my cat. I guess it being named Thor went too well with her cat named Loki to pass up the steal.
So yeah, the world has been building something in my life and it ain’t trust. It’s whatever the opposite is. Which is why I should have know when you crawled into my ring to train and then lit me up with your gorgeous, technicolor smile that I should have just stayed cold. Should have just taught you how to hit them ropes and then get it again. How to lock up hard, and push into each other until the crowd has their hands on their dicks.
But instead I fell for you. Thinking that I saw that same fall happening in your eyes. For the first since Chloe left, letting myself feel something self-pity and rage. Until, when finally you pushed me into orgasm, you told me about your other. Your lover. Bailey was her name. I’ve never met her. Never seen her. But FUCK HER! And you, for earning….
For being the same as everything else in my life.
And though I say that. Screamed that into my mirror, with mascara running down my face, here I am in black leather boots, with spiked straps, tight blue jeans, and a simple white T. All of that framed by a leather jacket I stole from the homeless shelter, the last time my daughter and I had no place else to stay.
And why, you might ask, am I all dressed up at 2:00 AM? Sitting in an empty bar in the middle of downtown? Because I’m a fucking idiot. Who replied to your texts. I shouldn’t have. Should have told you to fuck off. But instead, I’m here. Waiting. Legs kicked up on the table, chair leaned back so far I can tell my friend Carmen is already getting pissed.
But she won’t say anything. She knows I’m a bitch and need to be given space. Plus, I moonlight as a bouncer for ladies night. For free, well — as long as she keeps the drinks free during the week. Drinks like the two that sit on the table in front of me. The one I sip on, and the one that sits in the seat you SHOULD be in but aren’t.
Are you late or not coming? Given what the world has earned, I’m betting on the latter.
There are times when you do things and the regret is so tangible that it becomes a physically debilitating thing. It’s a poison that pounds through your body. That flushes you full of an ugly irresistible feeling. To run to hide to flee. For all the time I’ve spent staring down the world and punching it right in the fucking face for everything its done to me and taken from me. I’m still a coward when it comes to feelings. It’s because on a certain level I know I’m unlovable. The mean girl. The monster. The twisted fucked up story about the bullied freak that finally fucking snaps and goes after the cheerleaders with a knife on prom night.
At least in my case it wasn’t a knife, I beat the hell out of six of them in a bathroom. They tried to press charges after I got dragged out of the dance in handcuffs. Thankfully for a 17 year old girl, I’d laid my plans pretty damn well. When it had all come down to it they’d gone to try and make something stick. Instead there was video evidence that they had “started the fight”. Turns out I was the victim, that I’d been bullied all along. That the world was just turning against me.
That was true but I’d goaded them into coming after me. I’d made sure the first assault wasn’t on camera. I’d been planning for months. In the end all of them ended up with their own assault charges. I didn’t have any remorse and I hadn’t ever since.
Zero remorse when I’m broken one the first of the girl who knocked me out and almost took away my chance to get into the NAFBL. Zero remorse when I’d beaten Maria to a bloody pulp on camera and claimed the title for brief moments. Zero remorse for being the blue haired avenging angel. That’s not how the world saw it of course but I didn’t give a shit what they thought.
No, the guilt started creeping in when it started being people I cared about. When I ran from their care or their love. When I did nasty things to force them back from me. To make them look away because I knew inside I was a monster. After years of that the regret started. The broken dates. The missed birthdays. All of it. It was why I’d finally used my money and bought a house and vanished.
The text messages I’d sent had been after I’d been unable to sleep.
The regret was consuming. The what if. The feeling that I’d destroyed something that could and should have been. Like I’d see love again for the first time and been utterly terrified.
Text after text. An apology first. Then an attempt to mend fences. Then the begging. The pleading. The groveling. Things I never did, never said.
I’d been sitting in the car for 45 minutes. Knuckles white on the wheel. Breathing hard and heavy. Nearly shaking. Finally the pop of my knuckles shook me out of it. I didn’t even look at my phone. I just got out of the car and walked into the bar.
You’d picked. I could see why.
As soon as I walked in dressed in tight jeans, a band T-shirt and my own fabric jacket. The look on your face skewered me. I deserved it. I was late after I had begged you to meet me. Walking over to the table I asked to sit and the silence was palpable so I sat and looked at the two drinks. One clearly being worked on. The other dripping beads of shameful sweat. Untouched.
I didn’t touch it. I just met your furious glare.
“I shouldn’t have left.”
I let the statement hang in the air.
As you enter the empty bar, and my chosen safe space. You study your surroundings. The angles. The exits. The occupancy and organization of the place. It makes sense. You know I’m mad, and have heard, no doubt, that I can choose violence when stepping out of my bed in the morning.
But today, I’ve chosen to listen. To hear you out. Why? I don’t fucking know. It’s stupid to let you back in. To waste even a second’s breath on someone who in our first encounter humiliated me. Foolish as it is, here I sit waiting. Watching. And rolling my eyes as you swoop in and over to our table with all the pomp & circumstance of a Randy Savage entrance. No Elizabeth, but a new outfit. One that makes me adjust in my chair, and then drop from my far lean to having all fours on the floor. Not wanting to be off-balance when you get near.
The bottle-bent lights behind the bar leave you, as you sit and join me, silhouetted, not in shadow, but in a bath of light. Your bright blue hair, pitching the hue of the beams just enough to make you look like an angel, even though in my story, at this moment, you are the devil. A demoness. One I fight the urge to strike out at. With words. With violence.
Your lips curled, almost imperceivable, into a seemingly permanent smirk, or at least one I imagine. You’ve seen me naked. You’ve seen me desperate. You’ve seen me ravished with pleasure and wanting you to the very depths of my core. So why not smirk. Why not gloat and remind me of all of that, even as your words ring of something far more conciliatory, even an admission of what you did wrong.
It’s what I should want you to say. What I NEED you to say. But even as you say it, I search for a reason to distrust it. A reason to dismiss your perfect summation of regret and cling to my anger. It’s my defense mechanism. My shield against the world’s bullshuit. And though I can’t see anything in your eyes, or find anything in your manner or maneuvers. I dig for it.
Asking two questions that to me seem simple, but to you, might be unanswerable.
“Why shouldn’t you have left. Remi…? Why the fuck would you have stayed for me…?”
This is a trap. I can hear it in the words. I don’t see a way around it either as I sit there and stare at you. The pure fury in your body is far from unwarranted given what has happened. I know so little about you but the sense that you understand me on a truly rare level is there. Pressing in around me as your piercing eyes linger on mine. I don’t hide in shame from them. I probably should for what I’ve done but I’ve already run from this once. I won’t again not even like that.
My inhale is long and slow as I prepare words. I know this is going to get me in such trouble such pain. But I don’t care. I hurt you and I’m resolved to deal with the bear trap you are asking me to put my foot in. So I do. I only hesitate for a second. Thinking of the car out front. I could leave. Avoid this. No more pain. No more discomfort.
“Because I need you too.” They are simple words and my nostrils flare as I deliver the statement. The thing I should have said when you gave up your orgasm and your confession. The admittance that I burn for your body and am drawn in by your personality is what little of it I have seen so far. It’s intoxicating and deeply attractive. Knowing that somewhere inside you there are broken edges that will satisfy my twist of a psyche. But also knowing that it’s that wicked jaggedness that will get me. That will understand my own decisions. My own being.
“I was an idiot to leave like that. I was scared, confused, and angry as a result….” It’s not quite an apology. Its getting stuck in my throat. I want to say those words so bad. But…something is keeping them down. Holding them back. I look at you, the edges of my eyes pinched with the internal pain of this situation. Something so emotionally destabilizing its manifesting as physical pain.
That’s the thing with being broken. With being battered and abandoned. When life has bent you over and shoved the dildo deep so many times, you almost forget how to walk without a fist and forearm up your ass.
So even as you say words I would have DIED to hear when we were there in that ring. Clinging to each other in a puddle of sweat and cum, I slam my right hand down on the table hard. Our drinks both spilling in a violent splash, just as I stand up from my rickety wooden chair so emphatically my left thigh slams into the bottom of the table. Our drinks once more giving up a quick loss of liquid, as I round our table and drop to a knee next to you.
“Give me your fucking phone.”I growl while reaching beneath the table and tearing your phone away from you. You don’t fight it or resist, and yet still, in a held and heating snarl, I hold its front-facing camera up to your beautiful face to unlock it.
Its lock screen disappearing before us both, allowing me, after a flick, a stroke, and a tap, to open your messages app. And there, what do I see? Bailey. Bailey. Bailey. Bailey. Date night. Every Wednesday girl! It is exactly what I expected to find, and I hold it up to your face as once more I glare into your eyes. Making you read the texts you are already well aware of as tears form and then shed from my eyes.
The intensity in my voice and in my expression telling you how much I want you.
How much I want US.
But I am a wounded animal looking for a reason to run. Searching for a threat of pain to flee from. And as I scroll your chat with Bailey with a single finger in front of you, we both see exactly that.
“Tell me, Remi…. What do you need me for, huh…? Thursday play nights? You want a booty call on speed dial?” As I ask, I drop your phone down on the table and grab your fabric jacket and pull you into me. Nose to nose, and face to face. So close we fight for the thick, musty air between us. “I could love you…. I could … could…. The words catch in my throat as I speak them. My truth spilling out from my lips too fast and too unchecked.
What am I doing? What am I saying? How could I tell you that? Admit that when I haven’t even admitted it to myself? Before I can ask. Before I analyze, I drag you to your feet as I stand.
“You’re a liar….” I hiss, the look on my face telling you I am mere seconds away from striking.
I can take a lot of things. Like. A lot. Big fucking cock in my ass or down my throat? No problem. Whip across the back? Childs play bitch have you even seen my back piece? Emotionally I’m rock hard when I have something to lose. When I am in a fight. When I’m ready to fucking throw down. There is nothing that can touch me. So you have to understand that when you stand up and rip my phone away from me and hold it up to my face to unlock it.
I hold back a lot of movements that would have left anyone else screaming for a trip to the hospital. Instead I feel my own tears building as you shove the phone in my face and scroll past the other human being that has been able to look past the fact that I’m a fucked up monster. Yes I have a date night. Yes I have thousands of messages back and forth. But she was here first. It’s not my fault I just met you! It’s not my fault that you’ve been through your own shit.
When you ask if I want a booty call on speed dial or another play mate I open my mouth to protest as my face screws up into disgust and shock. Never once have I had that thought in the short time I’ve known you. How about a friend? Maybe something more? Was I so wrong? I felt it in the ring. And…And maybe that’s what I get.
The drip of the alcohol onto the floor is the only thing I can hear as I stare into the fury of your face. You yank me up by my jacket and for mere moments I hang there. Yanked close to a body I want. I need. I can’t go without.
And then you call me a liar.
My face goes from shocked and apologetic to fucking pissed. You can almost hear the opening cords of Kid Rocks ‘Cowboy’ in that moment.
I know you’re moments from violence but I’m there. whipping my head forwards I drop my chin and aim my forehead for your beautiful mouth. At the same time as I slam my hands down on the inside of your biceps which should cause you to suddenly lurch forwards. Regardless of the result as soon as I have a little space on the rock back I swipe with a blistering right uppercut for your stomach trying to fold you up so that I can grab your shoulders and jack you backwards and away from me.
I don’t fight like this anymore.
But I can make an exception as Remi the angel because Remi the Greek Fury.
At that moment, I want to break you. Destroy you. Make you regret trying to make me your mistress. Trying to make me like the woman my husband left me and my child for. A thought that SHOULD make me feel ill, but instead I am filled with anger. Not because of what I did before I knew you were taken. Not because I fucked you when you have another woman’s name.
No, instead I am angry that I can’t have you to myself. A truth I can only silence with rage and violence. And even though both are within reach, as I hold you there in front of me, I freeze in a smoulder. Something in my brain or even heart keeping me from striking you.
A mistake, at least in terms of tactics, as only seconds later do you strike. Your head driving forward into my face, your arms crashing down on my biceps, and a fist, just as quickly delivered, slamming into my gut.
Each blow would have gotten me off of and away from you. Each blow would have given me the message to back off or else. But somewhere in their combination did you instead seal us together. Not into a moment of anger. Not into a quick flash of force and then no more. But into a fight.
The pain in nearly every part of my body, save for my legs, a challenge. A dare. Fight me, bitch. You issue without words. And as a devilish smirk takes to my face, I respond with no more.
My eyes hardening in flame, as I stop my stumble. Close my fists. And then after kicking the table and our poor poured drinks out of the way and over, drop into a defensive stance and start to circle you.
Carmen, after looking up from her cell phone just rolling her eyes at us and my newest bout of insanity made ferocity.
Pissing me off is a grade A mistake. Not because I’m explosively angry, but because I am a vicious slow boil of a person. If I snap at you. I’m irritated. If I go cold. I’m mad. As I deliver the series of strikes and send you back and away from me I shrug my shoulders and dump the jacket. It leaves me in Just the band T shirt and my jeans.
Popping the knuckles in my hands I clench them through the ache that they always have. They have that ache from doing stuff like this. That’s why my hands get wrapped and go in gloves nowadays. Again, I can make an exception.
I just groveled. I just begged. I told you that I needed and wanted you. And you called me a liar. You fucking called me a liar! You rubbed my face in the fact that I have someone else in my life. Never bothered to ask what it was I wanted. Never bothered to find out that I am Polyamourous. That me wanting someone else in my life isn’t a slight. That Bailey was the one that listened to the story. Scowled at me and told me I was sleeping on the couch for what I’d done.
You kick over the table and I promptly shove the chair I was sitting in right at you with my foot before I close with you. Hands up in a kickboxer guard and lick off with a left jab to your pretty face that I’d love to wake up to in the morning. It’s promptly followed by a crashing right hook. Then it starts. The venom.
“Bad girl with no tattoos huh? Fucking wannabe go back to your pro ring. Couldn’t just accept that I made a mistake? Fine. Fuck you too!”
Wood tables and chairs scoot and then clattering down to the floor as we two lionesses move closer. To each other. To combat. And to the moment when once again we will be setting our bodies against one another.
Your comment about my tattoos coming just as I, not wanting to be slowed down by my jacket, pull it off and toss it to Carmen behind the bar. Not wanting it damaged, as it is the nicest thing I own. An odd fact, given where I got it.
“I don’t have the fucking money for tattoes, you rich little bitch!” My volume and tone louden as suddenly you throw a punch at me. Giving me an arm to grab, to pull, to spin you with, and then when I have your back to wrap my arms around you and then back suplex you.
But you fight me. You struggle. And in all of it my perfectly executed german turns into a twisting mass of bodies crashing back and through another nearby table. Each of suffering from the blow as in the rubble of splintered wood we try to get back to our knees or to our feet. But before either of us can, I turn towards you and try to drive a hard thigh into your midsection. Knowing that if I can wind you, and keep you down, it’ll be wrestler vs. MMA star. A fight I am certain I will win.
Of course as soon as I fire off with my jab both verbal and physical you proceed to clap back at me with the fact that. Yeah I’m a bitch. It makes me hesitate on the right hook but you proceed to yank me around by my stalled left arm. What happens next is you go for a suplex and I jerk. I’m an MMA bitch but I also have a second degree black belt in a traditional martial arts and whole ton of street experience to draw on. If I’m not forced to play by your rules then a lot of things lose their edge.
That being said, you’re a fucking titan at what you do and it makes me wonder briefly before I spoil your throw and we both plow through the table.
What the fuck made you stop. Why aren’t you driving a sports car with a nice home. New workout clothes. A better jacket and tattoos instead of scraping for money at 100 dollars a private lesson…
Neither of us are terribly large people but the force though and the crash through the table terminates my line of thought.
Fucking hell. I roll over and move to stand up. You aren’t having it though and proceed to jack a knee into my side. Grunting in surprise as you slam into me I catch your leg behind your knee and suck it in tight. It leaves you mostly on top of me with me on my right side,
Planting my legs on the ground I hop from braced on my right arm to grabbing the front of your shirt. Jerking on your right knee I yank you hard. TOWARDS a mount. Trying to whip you all the way over and slam you to the floor on the other side of me. Leaving you with your legs around my waist and me with the ability to base out so I can beat you to a pulp from my position above you. Gone is the trash talk for now. Too much air devoted to my muscles and my focus.
In the ring we were confident. We were certain. Each of our own skills and the confines of the ring. The ropes, the corners, the mat, and the ringside. Even the technical prowess we each might have had was known. Maybe you catch me with a snap mare. Maybe I lock you in a sharpshooter.
Those moves can be countered and endured. Recovered from and then forgotten if handled right. But here in this empty bar, apart from its uninterested tender, we are wild. Lost in the unknown.
What will happen?
What will we inflict?
What will we become, other than the shattered messes and monsters we believe ourselves to be?
There is no time to wonder or worry. As instead, in the debris of our own making. The leavings of broken furniture I am certain will be left on my tab as an expense I won’t be able to pay, we scurry like rats.
Darting back to our knees and each other, as I drive a knee into your side. There is impact. There is damage done. But you catch it just the same, and then fall back with me atop you. Not in a hang or in an allowed straddle, but in the early moments you trying to drag me over and to my back just past the spread out splinters we fight in.
I don’t see it coming. I don’t reverse the attempt. And yet, as soon as you take your mount, no doubt assuming I will coil my legs around your waist like a catfighter and try to squeeze as you bludgeon me, I instead rise and wrap my arms around your neck. My right shoulder pressing into your throat and trachea, as my left palm presses down on my right bicep and the forearm beneath it comes up and locks into place. It is a choke, yes. But one that leaves your arms and legs free.
Legs I try to catch with my own as our heavy breasts press. The dagger-hard nipples at the center stabbing through, fighting a war of their own in our hard and vicious struggle.
It’s funny how chaos lends clarity. I already know that I am paying for the mess we make, not even because I now know you are broke but because I know internally this is my fault. All of this. Are you being a bitch. Uh. Yeah. But us sorting out our differences if that is how this ends is not a cost I’m going to let you have. Call it another attempt at controlling my existence. I don’t care but I’m not going to let you soak the hit. Well at least not that one.
As I roll you over you yank me down before I can base out to start punching you. Wrapping your arms around my neck and jamming your shoulder into the front of my throat. Interesting. Maybe you aren’t just all for show. With our breasts mashed together and our bodies locked in tight I can’t afford to let you have this choke or you’ll do the gods only know what to my limp body when I pass out.
You wrap my legs and I tuck my chin down and nuzzle in towards your neck like a lover looking for nibble. My left hand reaches over and grabs your face. Peeling it back so that I can try to get my jaw alongside your shoulder to relieve some of the choke.
The solution however is far more vicious than the defense. Dragging my right arm back I make my fingers into a rigid blade. And then I jam them into your left arm pit. It starts as a strike aimed for the brachial plexus. There are two major things located under the armpit. An artery that carries blood to the arm and a series of nerves that all flow down from the neck and into the arm. Allowing control of it. As I drive my ridged fingers into the soft underside of your arm pit I suddenly twist them HARD. Looking to disrupt your ability to hold your arm in place around my neck with either pain of numbness. At the same time I push down on your face trying to free myself from the choke.
It is true we aren’t technically alone, but at this moment, the only person in the universe that exists is you. Your body. Your breath. Your efforts against mine. My every nerve and thought focused on what I can feel and see your body doing. And though I am … or was a wrestler, and a great one at that.
And yet still, I have no roadmap as to where you are going or what you are doing. All I know is you have a plan, and you’re putting it into action. Denying me my cleverly locked on choke, or at least trying to.
Now I could ride that lightning and see if I could survive your mystery tour. But instead, and just as your dagger-tip nails dig into my armpit, I let go of my hold and go to roll us over. To put you on your back, and place me above you so that I can either dive back in or get the fuck away from you and reset. But as we turn, I feel you move from escape to aid, and with your own body weight, you turn us once, as I wanted, but then again, something I very much did not intend.
And so there, now feet from the pile of table we left broken, I find myself beneath you and open. Under you, with your body a blink away from a full straddle.
Fuck, fuck, fuck! I curse internally, as I see your eyes flash with an excitement and desire I saw last time we battled. And though then we fought with pleasure, this time, it will no doubt lead to pain.
Inches, inches away from a vicious attack on your nervous system when you release me and roll us right over. Looking for that mount but buck and follow through putting us back in the midst of the splinters. As I scramble and struggle with you I have my own internal battle occurring alongside it. This fight with the fact that I know I have feelings for you. This growing need for you. It’s blunting my edge. I can feel it and that just makes me angrier.
My back and neck ache from the suplex, from the slam down. From your arms squeezing me. So when I slither atop you I don’t bother with anything fancy at all. I just go for the most available thing.
I drop my body on yours. Tit to tit. Belly to belly. Hips to hips. Thighs on thighs. The only difference is that I use my forearm to slam the side of your head looking to bounce you off the floor of the bar room. I don’t pull it back though i hold it there looking to pin you under my body. Under my weight. To master you fully again. I want to break you in half right now. All my anger from you slapping my hand away.
Yeah I fucked up but did you really not feel anything? You really think I’m a liar? Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you! Each internal scream comes with its own pulse down of my body on top of you. It’s sloppy but I don’t care. I’m boiling mad at you.
Everything comes pouring out of me as I do it to you and I’m not sorry at this moment. I want you to hurt. That is what I want as we are pressed body to body to the floor.
It seems like an eternity in which I stare up at you. Unable to act quickly enough to escape or seize control, though you have more than enough to begin your assault. Punches? Elbow strikes? Each aimed to knock me out, and put me away.
That is what I expect.
What I plan to try to endure.
But instead, after I see your mind working, you hop back and flatten. Pressing your body full against mine.
Your every inch aligning and pinning mine down to the filthy bar floor. That is except your arms, which you use, at least on your left, to drive your forearm into my upper chest and neck. A statement of control. A statement of ownership. And one that means more in the intimate spaces of the mind, that is useful in beating me down.
I can tell it wasn’t what you would do if I was your enemy. I am certain, if you wanted to hurt me, you would have just wailed.
But instead you chose this. And when you do, I mirror your decision. Not by flipping us and trying for the same, but instead by letting you remain. My right hand moving to your beautiful blue hair and taking a hard, bound-up grip, as my left balls into a fist just above your spleen and readies itself to fire.
Readies but waits as I glare up into your eyes. Eyes which scan my face and study me. Not just to anticipate my reprisal but for something else. Something I give you in words, feeling more comfortable fighting with you than talking quietly in our seats in this dimly lit bar.
“What…do you want me to be, Remi…? What do you want us to be…?” My voice cracks and hangs in a low, hoarse grunt, as your forearm presses and harder and harder against my windpipe.
Yes, speaking and letting you sink deeper and deeper into this pin is unwise. But as I feel your hips and mine — your tits and mine press together, every ounce of me wishes to continue doing just that.
This is downright vicious and controlling. I want you and it dawns on me why I want to control you. I want you for myself. I want you away from anyone else who sees how beautiful you are. How incredible you are. How attractive you are. It’s a terrible thing for me to feel really. If I want you for a partner than thoughts like that should have no place in my mind but I’m angry and I’m jealous of no one and yet here I am feeling it even though I don’t know of anyone else who could want to claim you.
If you have any similar feelings knowing about Bailey must be agony and it’s that thought that loosens my pressure on you as you croak out at me. You ask me what it is. I want what it is. You are suppose to be to me. Girlfriend? WIfe? Partner? Something. I open my mouth and I try to force the words out. I just want to tell you so badly that I want to be there for you. I want to be yours.This. This agony can stop if only I just said the words and you accepted but the choking vines of doubt in my chest that you could ever be willing to do that. To accept me. They strangle the words and I know you see it and then.
“I…I don’t know Amber I-” CRUNCH. Or perhaps splat. The prepared punch gets me in the spleen and I slide off of you. Curling up slightly. Knowing that I had another chance to tell you the truth to tell you how I feel and I just chickened out again. Maybe the only thing I know how to do anymore is fight. Fight and hurt and inflict pain. Either way the punch has me laying on the dirty floor holding my side. It was short range and right on the money. Glandular organ hits are devastating and this one did just that as my right leg is the only thing still slung across your hips.
I lay there moaning on the ground and can’t help it. I squeeze my eyes shut and slight tears slip free. It’s not the pain from the punch but it’s my own self hatred at not being able to say a word. That I can’t seem to TELL YOU. What should be easy. What should be clear. What should be so simple. Instead. This.
We were fighting. Raging. At war like only two women with training can be. And yet, as on top of me you laid, even as your forearm pressed against my windpipe and threatened to choke me into oblivion, I was lost.
Ready to hear you say it again. To tell me you want me instead of Bailey. Me and Bailey. Me in anything that resembles something tangible. Your lips open. Your eyes glimmer. You’re going to say it, and when you do I will lean up, past the pain, past the choke and kiss you. But then nothing.
Then, you don’t know.
God, I am pathetic. Such a fucking pussy to fall for you again, and so easily. Thoughts of self-degradation that drive my fist into your spleen hard. At the blow you collapse off of me and crawl away into a ball.
But I give chase. I follow. Grabbing your bright blue hair, and dragging you onto your ass into a seated position and then cinche a deep sleeper hold, with my left bicep coiling around your neck. Leaving just enough space for my lips to press to your ear as my right hand presses to your forehead.
“Why don’t you know…?” I whisper through tears that you can not only hear but feel dripping down your neck.
“Why can’t you … you … stop playing GAMES with me…?” My heart breaking into another piece on every syllable I speak.
“Why don’t you want me…? Why doesn’t anyone WANT ME…?” From whispers and mutters to growls, as I start to squeeze. Tighter and tighter. Dragging your back into my breasts as I put all of my weight on you just beneath the bar. The stools standing tall on either side of us, as I slowly drain you of your strength. Punishing you for an indecision you can’t control.
My self loathing in this moment is unreal. To the point that when you get your arms around my neck I don’t even move to block you. My arms are still around my body as you drag me into the shadow of the bar. Berating me giving me everything I deserve to hear for being such a coward. I don’t know why I can’t and yet I do. Im paralyzed by the prospect of being rejected for what I am.
Your words strip the flesh from my bones. Leaving me bare and raw like sandpaper over skin. You squeeze me. You cradle me. You hold me so close to your perfect body and I can’t help but feel your chest against my back. The soft curve of your firm breasts rubbing on my shirt. Your arm around my neck makes me gurgle. I finally grab it and try to tuck my chin but you have me in a way that should make me wild. I HATE chokes like this. They make me feel helpless and they make me wild. I’m none of these things as you take me with the choke. Instead my right hand shakes as I hold it up. It’s almost involuntary.
I close it into a fist and my pinky sticks out. Then my far three fingers press to my thumb and my index finger raises. Then my fingers all press to my them in a curve. Then I open my hand and pull back towards my hip like I’m gripping something.
Its ASL for I do Want… the you is implied by it.
I don’t know if you even have a clue what I just did. All I know is the dark at the edge of my vision is closing in. Remington, the woman who wants to love you slowly sinks away. My viperous lizard brain seizes the reigns she just dropped. I go from pliant and submissive to frenzied in the last few movements. My right arm suddenly kicks back looking for your liver with the hard point of the arm. My left hand slams back as I try to knock your head on the bar. While my right hand grabs for a stool and then jerks it sideways trying to slam you with it as my legs spasm and I fight for air. My resistance nearly gone.
This is it. This is truly the end for both of us. My mind finally having splintered, like the table behind us. My only thought, as I choke you, is to keep you close. Is to keep you in my arms. Even if you don’t want me. Even if you don’t love me. Even if I was just a fling, I’m keeping you.
A misangled feeling of need and adoration that will end up killing you and sending me to jail. My sleeper only releasing. My bicep only uncoiling long after it is too late. When finally, a disinterested Carmen rounds the bar and finds me holding onto your lifeless body sobbing.
Still clinging to a woman who I wanted more than anything to love me.
But then it happens. You lift your arm. Not to strike. Not to attack. But in a slow forming of something. Something I know. Something I….
My eyes go wide. My lips part, as tears drip into my mouth. It is a sign, not from heaven, but of language that so very few know. My daughter was born deaf. My beautiful baby girl was given to me by the fates without the ability to hear. And for that reason alone I recognize what you are saying. “I want.”
It’s shaky. It’s weak. But still, it is as clear as day to me. So clear that in an instant it wakes me from my madness. Pushing me to release you and then as you gasp, pull you into me and a hug.
But just as I do. Just as I once more let myself trust. You strike. My muscles letting go of their awful grip as your elbow drives back into my liver. It is painful and almost blinding. But just as I think I have weathered it, the barstool on our side comes falling down. Guided by your lower limbs, which deftly send it crashing into the center of my forehead.
The blow knocking me down. Off of you and to your side on your stomach. And into a stupor which leaves me unable to attack or defend. Your ruse having worked. Your brilliant lying fingers having broken my heart again.
Remington? Whose that? The woman who is in love with Amber? I’ll say it. She’s growing feelings for her. She wants her. She needs her. She wants nothing more than to hold her and make all the hurt go away. That’s who you’re looking for? Didn’t you just try to kill her? No. She’s not home right now. It’s just you and me, little girl. Her fingers told you the truth. She’s just not home right now to say so. No. Now you get to play with me.
My lizard brain, or perhaps for me, my viper brain had the controls. I went from seeing black around the edge of my vision to full red as I hammer you over. I’m gasping and gagging but I’m still fighting. WIth you nearly senseless across me I shove you off and then face first onto the floor. There are more than a few wrestling holds that have little place in an actual fight. Effective with rules? Perhaps.
I have my own weapons though. Things that are designed for pain and maximum damage. Wrestlers call what I go for a Guillotine. It’s a pinning technique.
We? We call it a twister…
With you splayed forwards I hook my right foot over your left and reach for your right foot rolling you forwards as I sit back into the preparation for the lock. Rolling you face up it splays your legs as I wrap my arm over your left arm and then tuck it behind my head. Locking my legs over I get right in your face as I stretch you out. “Liar? Liar?! I’ll fucking show you who’s a liar! You can take this to the bank you fucking bitch!” Clamping your whole body tight to me and grabbing on your arm, and shoulder. I extend my legs and ratched the lock into place. The result is twisting and shearing force all up and down your spine.
It’s vicious. It’s brutal. And with the head space I’m in now it’s not a submission, I have every intention of making you scream until the vertebrae in your back pop. I literally can’t even see your beautiful face as I cloud totally red with pure anger. Hugging your body to mine like a snake squeezing its prey as I twist your back and spine centimeter by centimeter towards debilitating damage. Clinging to you. Holding you and squeezing you like the vicious snake I am at heart. If you won’t see me for what I am then I’ll MAKE YOU!!!
From revelation to BAM! From Confirmation to FUCK! My world goes from one extreme to another. Not once, but back to back. As there I was, lost so deep in my own self-doubt and self-loathing that I would have just held. Just choked until someone pried me off of you, regardless of the consequences. Then came your gesture — in a language of sign that not only woke me from my madness, but seemed, for a flash, like you were telling me what I needed to know.
Until the pain came. Until suddenly stools and elbows began to rain down on me. Breaking my focus. My faith. And causing me to let you go, as after a push, you send me face-first to the floor. The filth of the bar sticking to my face and its newly sprung leak of blood from my forehead.
A wound I have no time to worry about, however, as before I can think or react, you crawl to me breathless. Wrapping your body around mine. Your legs coiling around one of mine, as your arms do the same around the base of my head and neck. Each pair of limbs then seizing hard as you arch back. Curving my spine past the point of comfort. Past the point of tolerance. And
into a very real threat of snapping it.
That pain I suffer, as my face finds itself buried in your still shirt-covered tits. Their voluminous confines cupping and framing my chin and cheeks. Leaving my glassy, pain-etched eyes to bend high to look at your straining face.
A face I try to strike at desperately. With the arm of mine that isn’t trapped under your body. My clenched fist and hard knuckles coming in a high arc before trying to hit you in that same face I look at. Knowing your arms are busy and that you won’t be able to defend yourself — well apart from tightening up and causing me even more pain.
Any other day or time if you hit me in the face like that I’d have lost my mind. It’s just something that makes me enraged. I’m literally in the process of trying to tear your spine appart with the hold and you punch me right in the face and split my lip between teeth and the knuckles of your first. It hurts like a bitch and startles me out of my death coil around your body.
I yelp and loosen you from the murderous hold. It’s at that point that I realize what it is I’m doing to you. That I’m literally on a course to permanently end your ability to do anything other than sit in a wheelchair. Shaking off the feeling part of the Remington that has feelings for you comes out of her hole. Pissed. But not ready to rip your spine into a spiral fracture and burst joints. Releasing your upper body I shift my legs higher and clamp them over your stomach and lower back. Squeezing them down I free my hands.
My left goes for your hair trying to get a hold of it while my right cocks back and tries to get you caught in a body scissor and hair pull so that I can freely punch you right in the face. This is not your mothers playground beat down but it’s close. No school girl pin and punch out but I sure as hell try to squeeze your body with my legs and get in a few good licks of my own on your face. No defense on my part just try to control you and beat the fuck out of you on the gross floor of the bar.
I can feel my anger starting to bleed away into tiredness. Into sadness. Into a want to just fucking cry and squeeze my teddy bear at home (yes fuck you I still sleep with one he loved me first). But I can’t fall apart to that degree. Not with you. Not here. Not like this so I grab and I squeeze and I try to swing away at your head and upper body as I grip you tight with my legs.
This is a fight until one of us is left laying. Until one of us is decimated. DESTROYED. Not one where we’re looking to make the other tap out, so we can prance around a ring and hit all four corners.
But as you bend my spine, and I punch at you, feeling helpless and like I am about to literally break, I think about it. Giving in. Begging you to stop. Even though I still see stars and a spinning room.
As my lips are about to part, however, one of my punches lands flush. Lands hard. And you release me. Sort of. Your limbs, only a second later pulling me into a body scissor, just as your left hand goes to my hair. It’s a catfight move. Apartment wrestling bullshit. But just as I prepare myself, somewhere in the still hanging mental fog of your blows and hold, I see your right hand come to give some payback. To punch me in the face, just as I had done to you. The blood on my face seeping and dripping to the barroom floor, just as it coats your top.
At that moment I lift my hands, my arms and go to block your fist from landing and doing even more damage to my face. All while your powerful legs squeeze hard at my midsection. Making me groan and moan, even behind my guarding forearms.
I get one really good smack to your face and I can see that it rings your bell and sends your blood to the floor of the bar. Internally, I am dying and hating all at once. I don’t want to hurt you but at the same time I also REALLY want to hurt you. To the point where I’m happy to beat on you to the point of drawing blood. As you guard your face and I squeeze with my legs I hear you moan at the crushing force of my legs around your stomach.
Releasing you with my left hand I grab your arms so that I can tell where they are going to be before I move. Yanking on them I loosen the scissor. Pushing off with my right hand on the floor I try to climb into a mount on top of you.
I have a distinct memory of an unofficial MMA tournament when I was a freshmen in college. It was a full contact event and I just remember thinking that my opponent must be a freak in bed. She was lean and perky.
I kicked her ass. The end of the fight I full body slammed her to the mat. Climbed into a mount and punched her until she went limp sitting on her chest. I remember how they had pulled me off her and took her out of the ring limp on a stretcher. It had been thrilling. What happened after that had given me my real first taste for things. I’d been in the locker room and she approached me. Beat up and still clearly out of it. She’d handed me a strapon and begged me to fuck her. I of course said yes.
So as I pull myself up trying to find that mount to pummel you into senselessness I can’t help but thrill to the feeling of your body between my legs. The want for you to beg me to fuck you again is unstoppable. I know that despite all the pain and energy. I’m starting to soak my thong. I’m such a freak but I can’t help it. I need you. Badly.
I try to block, not something I have ever had to do in my wrestling career, at least not for real. The worse thing I would be guarding against would be working punches, most of which, as Jim Cornette says, couldn’t crack an egg. But still, one of your punches make it through and blasts me in the face hard. Your knuckles, in a single, perfect strike causing my nose and lips to bleed, joining my forehead in that endeavor.
It dizzies me. Staggers me, even though I am laying on the floor. Each such effect leaving me defenseless as you adjust yourself. Releasing my hair and your body scissor as you move to mount me in a roll.
A roll you initiate and complete, and then without spending a second on mercy you throw a punch with your right hand at my face. It’s a hard punch. A good punch. But as it comes, I lean up, even though the pain from our last few moments, and then slam the left side of my head into the inside of your right elbow, just your attempted blow looks to touch down.
That side-first headbutt kicks your arm out, yes, but as I follow through and hook, it also drapes it around the back of my head. A headlock! You could lock on me. A guillotine! You could trap me in. But you don’t have time and aren’t expecting my offense. And so just as you sought to finish me, I use my leverage and your arms position behind my neck to snap you back and over me with a drag suplex.
Your back and body crashing against the hard bar floor, before I, in a call back to my younger, more agile days, roll back, up and over, and then on top of you in my own mount. But there I don’t punch. Don’t move to end you, but instead, as blood drips from my nose, lips, and forehead, I reach for your wrists and try to pin them to the floor.
The mount is a sweet thing that I savor as I slide in and then move to punch you and get the fuck out of this battle. It’s over. I see you lift your face and I know I’m going to have your limp body at my mercy in mere moments. Oh I’m going to torture you for how you’ve reacted to my attempt to fix things. Fuck you bitch. Fuck- your head slams into the side of my arm and then you duck up under it and in the moment I can’t even fathom what the hell you are doing until you suplex me from underneath mount.
My brain doesn’t even register as I slam to the ground and then you land on top of me smashing breasts and stomach with your magnificent ass. I naturally arch under you. A thrill of pleasure in that moment as you crush down on me. That is so wrong I shouldn’t be getting off to this as you slam my wrists to the floor and loom above me. I pant and I lay there staring up at you.
Blood from my cut lip staining my shirt and the bottom half of my face. I want this. I want YOU. God so much and yet all I can do is pant and snarl like an animal. I’m exhausted. I didn’t curve my back at all for the suplex. You just fucking flopped me. I can still feel my legs tingling as I lay there. Glaring up at this gorgeous creature atop me as she glares down at me. Your blood dripping on my shirt and face as you hang over me.
I should keep you straddled. Keep you pinned perfectly. Not giving a centimeter of space for you to escape. But instead, once I have your wrists pinned, I slide my right leg back and then balance my entire press down, with our jean-covered womanhoods as our fulcrum. Why? It is instinct. Primal fucking instinct.
Not the Genesis game.
Not fight or flight.
Not defense and protection.
But, instead, my soul-tugging desire to feel what we had in that ring again. To satisfy the lusts that have been growing this entire fight. From the closeness and intimacy of our struggle.
Do you want that? Do you need it to? I don’t ask, but rather take it without permission. Thrusting my sex into yours and then dragging forward. Using my arms and yours. My body and yours to weigh me down and pull me forward and into you
“You’re such a fucking, bitch, Remi….” I growl like a tigress, as I snap my neck and head back. Throwing the various collections of matted, sweat and blood covered blonde hair out from in front of my eyes.
“You can fight, but you’re a fucking bitch….” Not a growl this time, but a gutteral utterance, dipped and coated in a pleasure I needed so bad. My pussy, already wet. Already seeping into my panties and denim, leaving a visual wet spot that I do not have time to notice we share.
There is a gravity to things. I sense of density and mass that pulls all things together and towards some sort of terminal end and with your decisions with your movement and the return of some of my mild senses. I can feel that moment suddenly closing in. Pressing around us as I lay under you and you slide down me. Pressing that wonderful womanhood of yours to mine as you crush down on me. I give just enough resistance in my arms to remind you that I am here and to give you some balance.
Then you begin to scrub. I know I’m already soaked through my thong and my denim. But this movement makes me realize that you’re at the same spot. That you are here and ready for me. Prepared to hammer this out with me in whatever form that might take. It makes me arch. It makes me pant. It makes me grit my teeth and pant like an animal as you continue to grind yourself against me.
The moment in the ring that I destroyed. You’re chasing it and it makes me momentarily blissful in the lull of this literally bloody fight. Your hair flick illustrates that as you spray droplets of body fluid all over.
I want you, I need you badly and I don’t even know how to begin to express that which is possibly the saddest part of this. This beating back and forth is probably the purest form of expression we’ve had to date and now its come down to us grinding away on each other in this moment. Scrubbing and writhing over one another on the floor of this bar. The moan that comes from my lips is unbidden unrestrained and pure as my azure hair soaks up the grime of the floor.
It is a betrayal of our anger. A dagger strike in the back of our prideful battle of ways, waylays, and wits. And yet, as on that filthy barroom floor I grind myself against you, through the light denim between, I want it forever. To fuck you. To writhe with you. In this way and any other we can come up with.
And so I lean in, once more, against my better judgment — which was already pretty terrible, and then after letting my how, left cheek brush against your own, I whisper in your ear. A plea. A desperate, wounded prayer for you to make clear your intentions.
“Just say it…. Just tell me…. What you want me to be….” With the words spoken, I begin to nibble at your ear. Showing you what I want. What I need. No hiding. No prideful denial. I am willing to put it all on the line for more of this. For ALL of this….
But it is up to you now. Another chance for you, after so many, as we thrust into each other in hard, heavy, firing of hips. Our labia spreading, and clits, even through panties and jeans,, finding a way to one another in the sticky, hot, wetness that surrounds.
Internally there is a part of my viper brain that sees where this is going. Another peeling off of the armor. Another moment of vulnerability. Another chance for things to take a step forward. A way out of this mess. The grinding. The pawing. The moaning. I’m sure Carmen is still ignoring us as we do this.
Then you move pressing your cheek to mine and whispering. Giving me another chance to make my needs and wants known. In a moment that can’t be fouled unless I do so. Unless I let my fear rule me. Unless I let guilt choke me. The viper brain moves for the controls but I manage to get it under control before it daggers your heart as a threat to me. As an enemy. A weakness. A gap in the armor.
“I need you. I want you to be mine. Mmmmgawd Amber…” I barely get it out as my hands clamp on your body and I look up at your bloodied face. Knowing its my fault. Knowing that this is another off ramp from the mutually assured destruction we’ve been chasing. With us both reaching for truly lethal weapons to turn on each other from our arsenal and narrowly missing maiming and murdering each other.
My eyes plead. My body pleads. My hips rut. I peeled back my armor. I’ve told you that I need you in my life.
“Be mine…” I squirm and I hold my breath….
God, fucking you through jeans and on this bar room floor is so hot. And after such a battle, it’s even hotter. All of my defenses melting away in this closeness. This intimate struggle of purpose and pride.
All of that and more that I can’t even self diagnose, pushing me to give you one more chance. One more opportunity to give me what I wanted in that ring so badly. In my mind I picture such calamity. Such venom pouring from your mouth, even as below, our centers come together again and again in long, slow, drags of confined clits and swollen lips.
But instead you give it to me. You say it. What I wanted to hear. What I have basically begged you for. And when you do, our thrusting stops and I pull back. Leaning up and then looking soul-deep in your eyes, as I try to process. My bloody upper lips quivering, my eyes watering, and my every fiber telling me this is right. This is perfect.
Until suddenly, from your fabric jacket, which lays only a foot from us, I hear it. Your phone. Vibrating and speaking. Not in song, but with a voice. A cooing, confident, sexy as hell voice that repeats like a nightmare made real “Hey, Bride, it’s Bailey. Call me. Fuck me. Whatever.”
“Hey, Bride, it’s Bailey. Call me. Fuck me. Whatever.”
“Hey, Bride, it’s Bailey. Call me. Fuck me. Whatever.”
As the customized ringtone plays again and again, my watering, love-filled eyes harden into a fiery, rage-filled glare. Memories of my husband and his lover filling my mind. How on so many nights I had to explain to my daughter why daddy left for a woman named Ewa. Nights where she cried until she fell asleep and then I did the same as I rocked her.
Bitch. I would call you if I could even process words or feelings. Cunt. I would blurt out if I had even a semblance of self-control. But without any or all, I release our clasped hands, and grab your blood-covered shirt. Dragging your face up to mine, as I snarl.
A low, tiger-like growl hanging in my throat as I stare into your reacting and emotion filled eyes. Tears rolling down my bright red cheeks as I bring you so close that our bloody lips hang only an eyelash’s width apart.
So much of me wants to kiss you. To ignore what I just heard, and to block out how painfully it drug over the shattered edges of my heart.
But I can’t….
I … won’t….
My brain tries to find an answer. A direction. Something to do as anger, hate, and jealousy once more fill my heart. Feelings which should lead me to reengage you and hurt you once again, but something in your face. Your eyes. Your words “be mine….” makes me hold back. Makes me release your shirt, and drop you back to the floor.
Your body landing in a soft, fabric-muffled thud as I stand up off of you, reach for you jacket and then toss it at the bartop in front of Carmen, whose eyes only then lift to me and the goings on.
“Blue bird is paying for the mess. If she doesn’t have the cash, cut off a few of her tattoos.” At the words, Carmen smirks subtly, but then replies in her deep hispanic accent. “Whatever, beetch. If she doesn’t have money, you work two weekends.”
I don’t respond to her counter offer, just grab my own jacket and then take off into the cold night. Making sure the waist tie for my leather hangs just right to hide the wet spot I earned. Not giving a fuck about the blood splattered on the rest of clothes or face.
Some people think they have bad luck. Like truly believe they have bad luck. They have not even begun to experience the total Calamity of the moment that is utterly out of my control.
I’m a freak about control. I need it. I crave it. Without it I’m wild animal. A total mess. So when my phone goes off. Reality collapses. Everything I just went through is annihilated in that moment of realizing that my beloved. My first and firm love calling to make sure I am okay. To make sure I told Amber how I felt and make sure she understands that I’m a total coward and utter moron. To make sure I haven’t irreparably scared someone who might genuinely have feelings for me. The phone call. Destroys it all.
It’s not her fault. It’s not mine. But it breaks something. I can see your eyes go from wanting to fury again in a second.
Bailey I’m not coming home. I’m sorry, I tried to do the right thing and it cost you both.
And then you let go.
No murder. No weeping Wife in a viewing room. No frothing trip to a jail cell for you after you squeeze the life out of me.
Instead you get up. Tell Carmen that the mess is on me. And you’re gone.
I lay there for a long moment before I finally scrape myself off the ground. Carmen runs my card.
I walk out into the night.
I sit in my car for far longer than I should. Long enough to see daybreak over the L.A. skyline.
And then, I go home to the couch I got kicked to.
Life…moves on. For now.