She lies there, face down, flat on the canvas, a vision of painted beauty. It takes just a few steps to bring me close to her, to bend down, bring my hands to the thong that lies wedged between those cream colored ass cheeks, and to peel it down her lithe thighs.
She barely stirs, but I know she’s awake.
I wonder if it’s the act of being stripped, relieved of her thong. Whether it’s the cool kiss of the cold night’s air against her plump, full nether lips. Or maybe the gentle peeling sensation as her thong’s material slides away from her pussy. Either way, she lets out a moan.
I stand, holding her thong aloft in the air. My bare breasts bounce on my chest, warm, with just a hint of perspiration coating them. The flush that I feel does not come from exertion alone – it is fueled also by excitement…the excitement borne from a rookie stripping an established veteran. Here I am, in my second full match in this league, and I have a four time title holder’s thong in my hands.
Her name is Laney, but she’s better known as The Collar. She’s pale as moonlight, with a brilliant orange, blue, black and green tattoo of an Asian dragon in the sky adorning her left arm, and a fanciful black and white tattoo pattern of indiscernible shape on her left side, down to her thighs. Her gimmick is that of a Goth queen, because our owner/scriptwriter has not kept abreast of shifting cultural norms and the myriad of subcultures that defy classification. He sees tattoos and long black hair, he gets Goth queen, with dark makeup and a brooding mood more suited to a vampire novella.
The Collar places a spiked collar on her losers and leads them up the ramp to the locker room to do unspeakable things to them backstage. Laney drives a hot pink Beetle and refuses to accept gas money, presumably because anyone who is foolish enough to catch a ride with her will need that money for therapy. There’s a standing instruction backstage not to drop The Collar on her head – she already drives like a person concussed.
I toss the thong out of the ring, much to the appreciation of the crowd.
Turning back, I see her stirring. Her inner thighs are slightly wetter with womanly dew. I wait until she gets on her hands and knees, on all fours, her small pert breasts hanging from her chest.
I then slip behind her, bending forward and reaching for her bare ankles. Straightening up, I pull her legs back, forcing her to balance herself with just her hands. I can see her fingers digging into the canvas, and presumably her face is pulled back into a rictus of shock, because of what I’m about to do.
I drive a foot into her cxnt. Pure brutality.
There is, unfortunately, very little room to disguise the strength of such a blow. Your leg will have to sweep back, and then sweep forward, driving the tip of your foot forward with dreadful purpose, until your toes connect to bare shaven lips. Cameras being what they are now, and fans having such sharp eyes, such a move is studied and played on repeat. They want to see the way your thigh muscles bulge, the sharp refining of the calf muscle as your foot strikes out. The HD pictures that sell (free for premium subscribers) want to capture every single detail in sharp relief.
Consequently, the person giving the blow has little choice but to try and control the point of impact, to minimize the pain to be inflicted. You don’t want to hit too hard, but you can’t fake it completely. The person receiving it is entirely at the mercy of the one dishing it out.
“Don’t worry about it too much,” Laney had said, when we ran through the script. “I can take it.” And then, with a wink – “I kinda like the pain.”
Still, it is terrifying – knowing that you are about to inflict a hard, sharp punt on another woman’s snatch. Terrifying, because the last thing you want is to injure. Terrifying, because at that moment, she’s trusting you with her womanhood completely. Trusting you with her sacred feminine, if you happened to be a voracious reader of lesbian Wicca fiction.
My toes crunch against her folds. Several of them actually slip in past her folds, eased in by her natural wetness, lubricating their entry.
She screams.
I see her back arch, her head tossed back. It’s as if her entire body trembles from the force of the blow. I imagine the ripple of pain that rushes through her. Her tattoo positively glows, the pain blossoming inside her, heating her skin, warming her through and through.
“AIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!”
There is genuine pain in her scream, but there’s also a hint – or more than a hint – of enjoyment in it. Yet the way she screams – the comical Wilhelm scream that she lets out – tells me that no, my rookie ass has timed it just right. I glance down to my hands, still holding on to her ankles. Her toes are curled tightly.
She stumbles forward, her face kissing the canvas. Her hands slide under her body, and her fingers cup her cxnt, while she draws her legs inwards in reflex. I’m not ready for it – I lose my grip on her ankles. She curls up into a fetal pose, curled around her private pain.
The crowd roars in approval.
I raise my hands up in the air, playing to the crowd, turning around to lap up their adulation. In truth, I’m looking at the clock. Idiot that I am, I forgot to check the timing. I realize I’m about 30 seconds too early.
Fuck fuck fuck I’m such an idiot.
Fortunately, she’s far more experienced – she’s already taken stock of which stage we are in, realized that I’ve mistimed things, and is drawing it out. She flops on the canvas like a fish, howling in agony, her hands pressed between her thighs. Her legs uncurl, and her feet drum the canvas, as if trying to channel the pain away from her core. It will make for a good show – and the worst part is that she’s making me look good, making it seem like the rookie has really taken the veteran down.
Meanwhile, I’m standing there like an idiot, trying to remember what happens next.
My heart sinks when I realize that I’ve actually forgotten what to do next.
I’m not entirely stupid though. My mind works with breathtaking speed, running through my options. Thinking quickly, I drop down to my knees, reaching for her hair, grabbing a fistful in my hand and yanking her head sharply back. I lean in – oh, she’s wearing Coco Mademoiselle – and lick up the side of her face, tasting salt and sweat.
What the crowd sees is the rookie exerting such dominance, she’s toying with a former champion.
What’s actually happening is that a blonde fool is desperately whispering for a hint of what to do next.
“Pull…me…up…Chop.” There’s no annoyance in her voice, and for that I’m deeply grateful. I’m new enough to be self-conscious of every mistake I make, but forgetting the script has to be right up there at the top.
There should be steam escaping from my ears – relief and shame intermingle through me as my recollection of the script returns.
I drive her face down to the canvas, and she pounds her fist down in tandem with it, disguising with elegant simplicity the fact that the head pounding was nothing more than a controlled push down. I rest my ass on my haunches, my thong plastered against my mound, keeping my legs open to give the front seat viewers a good view of what lies between my legs. Her hand drifts over my foot, her fingers closing over my toes in an almost reassuring squeeze.
I make a mental note to buy her coffee tomorrow.
I exhale, trying to clear my mind. I lift her up, first to her knees, and then guide her up to her feet, still by her lustrous black hair. Extending my arm, I hold her away from me. I see her lips move – we both count down…3…2…1…
I release her hair, and she stumbles back. I follow up with a chop from my other hand, straight at her pale tits.
My forearm connects with a fleshy thud. She stumbles back, and a look of pain passes over her face. Too hard.
I bring my forearm down again, and the corners of her lips rise up briefly. Blink and you miss it – she nods in acknowledgement at my efforts to remedy my past mistake.
The blow has her stumbling back once again, as I bully her towards the ropes. She shuffles back, I shuffle forward, the both of us keeping time with one another.
Her face is glazed in an expression of pain. One eye droops open, and I nod, imperceptibly. Yes, I know what to do now. I can see her accept it, taking me at my word, and she resumes her half feigned act of pain.
You have to trust your partner in the ring.
My heart is beating faster now. I’m facing the clock, and time is ticking down. We’re getting closer to my big finish.
She leans back against the ropes, taking care to throw her arms out, resting her ass against the middle rope as she spreads her thighs a little wider. Her lips, plump, engorged, reddened, are visibly wet. There’s the subconscious, telltale sign of want and desire…her hips roll slightly, undulating in anticipation of what is to come.
She wasn’t lying – she is a bit of a pain slut. Though to be fair, we all are, each and everyone one of us. That’s why we do what we do.
I pause for effect, letting the crowd lap away at the sight of The Collar now entangled against the ropes, at the mercy of the newbie who has taken her with such pomp and audacity.
To the crowd, they see The Collar reacting with sudden fear, stripped nude, visibly shrinking at the sight of the blonde, bare breasted upstart. In a way, it’s as if I’m one of them, the cool air of the auditorium seems, to me, to give way to the intensity of the heat growing between us.
The Collar lies exposed, her spread arms and legs putting paid to any thought she may have had of using her limbs for protection.
“Caught ya…”, I laughed down at her, wearing a cruel grin. I bend my head and kiss the trapped Collar with savage raw passion. At first, she tries to shake her head from side to side to avoid my mouth, but she soon discover the futility of that action.
Despite her efforts to thwart me, her body is responding to my kiss. Our tongues meet and duel for power. It’s a private duel, an actual duel…not between The Collar and The Golden Star, but between Laney and me. Her tongue pushes mine back, and I let out a moan…a moan for her alone. The kiss is intoxicating, but something draws me back from losing myself in it…the gentle humping of her hips against my thigh.
Slowly, I slide my tongue under hers, still keeping our lips sealed to one another, before I utilize my position, my mobility, to tilt my head above hers, forcing her tongue back, pushing it down her throat. Slowly, but surely, I can feel and hear her breathing change to match my own.
“Are you scared, Collar?” I ask, as I slide my hand down between her legs. I tease her warm opening with my fingertips. “Do you always get this wet when you are scared?“
She looks at me, and it’s not The Collar looking at me…it’s Laney, and she’s biting her lower lip.
She moans softly at my touch. Despite her body responding to the ministration of my hand, she keeps up the pretense of resistance. She clenches her legs tightly together, as if to force me to remove my hand. This only serves to press my hand harder against her wetness.
Her hips begin to buck harder now. In spite of The Collar’s feigned protests, she craves the force, the passion, and the hot desire rising in her like a volcano about to erupt. The more control I exert on her…no, the more control I demand from her, the more I take from her, the more I humiliate her… the more desperate her body becomes for my touch.
The Collar…Laney…is moaning louder now, her hips rocking back and forth in tandem with the movement of my hand. With my free hand, I reach out for her right hand, prying it away from the ropes. The same is done with her left, and now she’s standing there, hands dropped to her sides, hanging uselessly…the perfect picture of a woman subject to the captivity of my hand.
It makes for quite a sight. The tall, tattooed wrestler standing, arms dangling on either side of her body, her face slack, her body slumped forward, as if she were being held upright by the unyielding hand of the blonde, the hand buried between The Collar’s thighs.
I move my fingers in and out of her, slow and methodical. She is positively dripping now, a trickle of her honey running down her thigh, all the way to her ankle. Gasping for air, she arches upwards, meeting the thrust of my fingers. Her hips undulate, sinuously. Her toes curl and uncurl, her inner thighs quivering, a tremor passing through her body.
I have taken The Collar to the brink of an orgasm. Cruelly, I stop.
My fingers leave her pussy. Her nectar drips to stain the canvas. I reach for her right hand, and my feet slide on the canvas.
I whip her across to the other side of the ring.
She runs, seemingly a little punch drunk, and bounces off the ropes. She stumbles back to me.
Only to be greeted with a dropkick, compressing her breasts to her chest, swiftly taking her down to the canvas. Where she lands with a loud BOOM…dropping like a sack.
I get up, my heart soaring. I stand over her. A dropkick is impossible to fake. She’s down, she’s in pain. And she’s on the verge of orgasm.
The proud Collar lies on her back, unable to stop The Golden Star from settling down on her face.
My ass rests over her face, and I make a show of shimmying my behind. I draw my feet up, planting my soles over her wrists, pinning her arms down to the boards.
She moans out, and turns her head…and pushes her nose in between the crack of my ass.
The four time title holder is sniffing the rookie’s ass.
Laney moans louder. I can feel her struggle reflexively. It’s biological – everyone wants to breathe.
And breathe she can – only, she can breathe the scent of my ass, on her face.
Her bare feet drum the canvas, sliding up and down. Her hips lift up, yearning to be touched, even as the rest of her body yearns for freedom.
She is captured…and now…as my hand cups her pussy…I gift her with release. Two fingers hooked inside her, angling them to that precise place where she told me her special spot was. My thumb sliding over a stiff clit.
The resultant spray of honey is like the cork off a bottle of finest champagne, as the Collar christens the ring with The Golden’s Star first win.
To Be Continued…