My dark chocolate hair hangs, damp and limp, framing my view: the light-colored canvas – “it doesn’t show stains as well,” they said – green knee pads, and black patent-leather boots. Dewy perspiration beads all over my pale, freckle-flecked skin, mixing with the sauna-heat of Jess’ shaved slit resting on the back of my neck. Thick, iron thigh muscles sheathed in soft skin clamp over my ears, muting the crowd’s “Finish HER! Finish HER! Finish HER!” chorus. Blood rushes to my head – Jess is a couple of inches shorter than my 5’6″ – turning my face that hot, stinging pink, perspiration beading between my cheeks and her thighs as she holds me bent over. Blinking, my blue eyes focus on an ellipsis of off-white, yellowing dots on the canvas between her feet, marking some poor guy, herm, or shemale’s probable defeat.
That’s ironic, I think, as Jess’ arms lace through the crooks of mine, the spandex of our elbow pads making a quiet shhhhhft, before she pulls, stretching my small mounds of breast taut against my ribs. Jess roars, her weight shifting as she moves – she’s signaling for her finisher – and the crowd joins her, a bead of sweat tickling its way up my spine as she draws out the drama. The roaring reaches a screaming, stomping crescendo audible even through the constricting muscles of Jess’ thighs, and her palms cup the crests of my hips – I’m a size 4, but a “hippy” size 4 . She lifts my hips and jumps, my long, toned pale legs go horizontal, and the canvas-covered boards rush to greet me.
Everything impacts the canvas at once: breasts, flat belly, shaved slit, thighs, white knee pads, and the insteps of my calf-high brown leather boots – and Jess’ knee pads and boot-covered shins – the doubled impact sending a cannon-shot thundering through the studio. Jess’ arms release mine. They flop flat with little bams, white elbow pads perpendicular to the canvas, the shallow, rapid rise and fall of my back the only sign I’m still even alive. My small cheeks ripple just a little from the impact, calling the cameraman’s attention to the pink pucker and shaved slit peeking from my slightly-spread lithe legs. The boards grumble a little as Jess scoots backward on her padded knees, making room before her hands shove on my shoulder. A skein of my dark hair crosses my face, filtering the warm overhead lights as they roll into view, and a hint of roses from my shampoo flits through my nose.
An excited, clear tenor trembles the speakers, “The Guillotine! The Guillotine! Vixen’s taken SO much punishment this match, and now the Maiden’s finisher?! This has to be it!”
A dark alto tinged by the faintest Carolina twang pours from the speakers like oily smoke, “You’re right, John, she put on a good show tonight. It looks like it’s just not enough against the Scottish Maiden.”
The rough spandex of Jess’ knee pads slides over my collarbones and onto my dark-pink nipples, grinding the pebbles between the coarse material and my ribs, a gasp forcing my lips apart. I blink up at her pale back, her reddish-blonde hair sticking to her skin, as the rubber of her boot soles frames my freckled cheeks, and her rounded cheeks rest against my pointed chin. She disappears from view a moment, and strong arms slip between my legs, lifting them, tucking the backs of my thighs under the tropical heat of her armpits. Her back reappears, with my boots and knee pads framing it, making a V-shaped shadow in my hair-filtered view. My lithe legs give a little jump, wiry muscles standing out for just a second as Jess’ hands SMACK! against my cheeks before I relax back into the pin, the crowd rewarding her with wolf-whistles and cheers.
Lukewarm air wisps over my entrance as Jess’ thumbs peel my shaved lips open, my half-hooded clit peeking out as her tongue tingles over it, tracing its way over my urethra and around my entrance. My belly muscles roll, a gasp hitching my chest as a small pink flame flares to life between my legs. Her palms knead my cheeks, spreading unnecessarily – they’re too small to offer much protection even when I’m standing and clenching them together. Jess loves her drama, though, and two fingertips from each hand poke my ridged ring, pulling it into an astonished “O”, my lips and eyes widening to match it. A thread of hair falls into my mouth as the crowd’s whistles and cheers Bostancı Escort rain down on us. Jess’s face drops, my muscles trembling again as the warm fleshy spear of her tongue impales my yawning asshole and swirls deep inside me.
The boards rumble yet again as Ivy, the FPW “Senior Official” slides in, her ebony hand clapping the canvas next to my head, billowing the hair crossing my face, “ONE!!” Her hand shoots in the air, forefinger raised, for the hearing-impaired.
Jess’ tongue bores in my bottom, scouring my walls. The hair-filtered light dims as my eyes half-close – the wrestling, like “real” pro, is “fake”: mostly-safe and completely pre-planned; the fetishes and orgasms? Absolutely real. Remember the pattered yellow stain I’m probably laying on right now? Exactly! Wiry muscles through my arms and legs twitch and twinge with each deeper swirl, Jess’ tongue drilling deeper into my faintly-coppery depths (Rule : always taste yourself – both holes! – before a match), and my chest hitches, abrading my pebbled nipples under her knee pads.
“Vixen’s stuck – middle of the ring in a reverse matchbook! The Scottish Maiden completely ignores Vanessa’s velvet folds, taking a ‘darker’ path, or maybe the ‘low road’, to a sure victory tonight,” the alto explains.
“Didn’t you used to take the ‘dark road’ to victory – and defeat – most of the time yourself, Dani?”
The hint of a smile creeps into the alto, “Nessi’s not a heel, but besides that one -” a thoughtful pause interrupts her for a moment “-little shortcoming, we have a lot in common in the ring.”
Seconds pass even after the by-play – Jess’ tongue flickers deep in my dark depths, fanning that little flame in my pink depths to bright life, before Ivy’s hand BAM!s the canvas again, “TWO!!” Her hand goes up again, fingers in a V.
A twinge creeps through my belly muscles, squirming my hips against Jess’ invading fingers and flitting tongue as that pink flame grows, warming my folds. Her tongue scoops, tip gliding against my back wall, her lips suckling against the backs of her fingers and the ridges of my ring, as her tongue retreats with its liquid copper load. A quiet slurrrrft of saliva and my ass-juices drifts to the boom mic overhead, followed by a loud gulping swallow, before her lips brush my ring, and her tongue pours back into my spread asshole.
BANG! “THREE!” Ivy’s voice echoes through the speakers, the crowd counting along. A dark-fingered W shoots in the sky.
Shallow pants pass through my pale lips, washing over Jess’ curvier pale cheeks and up her lower back, my rib muscles burning with effort as she shifts her knees, dragging the rough material of her pads across my pebbled nipples, rolling them over my small, soft mounds. A quiet “Ow-ooohhhh,” slips from me as she pulls her knees back together, kneading my breasts. As her tongue pours back into my asshole, my ring trembles a complaint. Jess’ fingers curl, her nails scritching at the velvety skin lining my stretched pucker, soothing-hot saliva pouring down her tongue as it massages its way in. The pink flame burning beneath my still-spread lower lips roars to a blaze as a new sheen of perspiration glistens in the bright studio lights, my hips rocking rhythmically with Jess’ anal tongue-torture.
BAM! “FOUR!!” Ivy and the crowd count, her hand rising, fingers spread in two Vs.
“Speaking of ‘shortcoming’,” Dani’s voice drips over the speakers, “one more count and you’re a Vanquished Vixen, Vanessa!”
Laughter peals from the crowd, a “VAN-quished VIX-en!” clap, clap, clap-clap-clap! chant starts near the commentary booth, and spreads like the pink blaze burning its way to my core!
Even with a lot of Jess’ weight on my chest, deep, heavy pants huff past my lips, lifting my sweat- and saliva-damped hair from my face – just for a moment – before the limp, dark hair slaps back in place like a slamming door. My hips roll. Wiry muscles slither under my pale skin, trembling against each other in a confused contest. The pink blaze eats its way to my heart, and explodes into my brain, consuming everything in a blinding flash. My ring and walls tremble against Jess’ fingers and tongue. Everything seizes.
CLAP! “FIVE!!” Ivy holds up all five fingers. A hard squirt Ümraniye Escort of juices splashes against Jess’ neck and collarbones. Gravity pulls them in little rivers down her breasts to her nipples, droplets pattering on my still-rolling belly. Ivy pushes up to her feet, signaling for the bell. DINGDINGDING!
“Your WINNER, by PINFALL … the Scottish MAIDEN,” John’s excited tenor announces.
Jess slows her licking, slipping her fingers from my asshole. It quivers around her tongue, my muscles still spasming with aftershocks as her tongue swirls, a drill backing out of a freshly-made hole. Lips encircle my pulsing pucker one more time, the tip of her tongue teasing the slowly-recovering ridges. The kiss continues as another wave of aftershocks zip through me; a moment later, my boot heels bang the canvas, and Jess’ weight rises from my chest. I blink up at the shadow standing over me, Ivy’s darker shadow next to her, lifting her hand.
“And once again,” Dani’s oil-slick alto drifts over the crowd’s cheering, “the Vixen’s anal ‘shortcoming’ makes her cum – up-short – bringing her to 0-2 against the Scottish Maiden. With a ‘poorly-protected’ and widely-” she leaves a pregnant pause, “-known weakness like that, maybe Vanessa should just change her ring-name to the ‘Vanquished Vixen’!”
Laughter roared again, followed by the “VAN-quished VIX-en! VAN-quished VIX-en!” chant. With Jess off of me, my right palm rubbed at my face, peeling the sweat-damped hair from my eyes and mouth, and my left arm curled over my “sore” – and actually-sensitive – breasts. Jess’ theme song, NorthundeR’s “Scotland the Brave Epic Metal Mix” electrifies the already-buzzing air, and Jess slips through the ropes, disappearing from my sight – she’s definitely high-fiving and hugging fans as she makes her way down the aisle to backstage.
Ivy’s face appears over mine as she leans in to “check on me”, “How ya doin’, babe? You put on an amazin’ show tonight!” She brushes a missed wisp of hair from my forehead.
The overhead mic’s off, but I keep my high-alto voice quiet while trying to hold back a smile. “Thank you! I try,” I answer, betraying a little south(ish)-Jersey accent. She pats my shoulder, and slips from sight. The house lights come up, Jess’ music fades out, and I lay there a moment longer, occasional shivers of aftershock still coursing through me.
“That’ll do it for tonight, folks,” John says, “but join us tomorrow night for an exciting FPW ‘Hour of Power’, and remember we’re always online at FPW.com! For Dani -” a rustle jars the speakers.
“- and for John, hashtag ‘patriarchy’, asshole,” Dani asserts, “have a good fucking night, and a good night fucking!”
The crowd murmurs as they start filing out toward the exits, and I take my time rolling to the apron for my own exit from the ring. Boot heels clapping on the thin rubber mats that surround the ring, I hold my breasts and almost-stagger back to the backstage entrance.
As soon as I slip behind the curtain into the dim red lights in “gorilla”, I straighten, my left arm dropping from my breasts, and blink to adjust to the light. A shadow moves at the corner of the curtain, and thick-muscled arms wrap around mine, trapping them and sweeping me up in a warm hug. Jess’ beaming face greets me as my eyes adjust, and a pair of stagehands glance our way before moving down the hallway. Jess’ strawberry-blonde hair is dark with perspiration, especially in the dim light, clinging to her shoulders and heavy breasts. I laugh, a quiet, happy laugh, my small mounds nestling against the damp tops of her rounded swells, still coated with the juices of my “vanquishing”. Her face rises, lips plumped in a pouty pucker, her signal for a kiss. I dip my head, my pale lips meeting hers, parting them, hot breath leaking from the corners of our mouths. Our tongues twine, and traces of my faint copper flavor linger on Jess’ tongue.
Our tongues swirl and battle, almost trying to “pin” each other, before finally declaring a draw after what seems like minutes. Jess releases me, and her left arm slips comfortably around my waist, my slender-muscled right arm wrapping around hers as we begin the walk to her dressing room.
We round the corner into the brighter hallways of the main backstage area, Kartal Escort and I blink again, this time my eye catches on the wall clock: 11:15pm. “Ugh, it’s late. I hate doing the last match of the night,” I whine. I glance at her, dark eyebrows raised in exaggerated concern, “Why did I book us as the last match of the night?”
“Because Ah’ want’d another main-event win over ye, ye wee git,” she laughs. Jess’s voice is a few notes above mine, with a more pronounced – and stereotypical – Jersey accent that vanishes into near-perfect guttural Glaswegian on-camera, and apparently right now.
“Aye, and a pure-dead-brilliant win I gave ya,” I try. It comes out too-soft, almost a lilting “posh” like our best friend Fiona’s Edinburgh accent. We arrive at Jess’ dressing room, and step inside, a broad, goofy smile playing across my lips. “Wherever shall we go to dine, celebrate your vanquishing o’ the Vixen – again, as the good lady Dani points out – and drown my sorrows in ale and haggis?”
Jess’ eyes harden, her brows knit, and her jaw sets, her Jersey flipping into place, “I wish Dani wouldn’t fuck with you like that. It’s not funny. The crowd eats that shit up, but you’re working your ass off to put people over and-”
My finger over her lips hits the pause button on the upcoming rant, my own soft-Jersey returning, “You got yourself over, I just provided you the ass to work to do it.” A soft smile draws my lips thin, my blue eyes meet her blue-gray ones, and a little flutter skips my heart and hitches my breath. I am the luckiest girl in the whole fucking world. “Dennys? They might not have ale, but cheap beer is fine with me, and we probably couldn’t tell the food from haggis.”
Jess’ eyes hold mine for a moment before her expression softens and melts into a warm smile. “Aye, Dennys ’tis.”
My slender arms rest over her shoulders, pulling her into a gentle hug, and my teeth graze her earlobe. “But first,” I whisper, “we need a shower. You smell like a horse.”
“Better a horse than a mule, ye jackass,” comes the predictably guttural counter, a smirk tugging the corner of her lips a moment. She drops the Scots accent for her familiar Jersey: “I love you.”
“You better. You married me, so now you’re stuck with me. ‘Til death do us part’,” I recite, my face resting-bitch serious.
Jess’ blue-gray eyes roll, and her tongue slips from between her lips, mocking. “Careful what you wish for!” Her voice wavers as if sobbing, “I swear, Officer, it was a complete accident! The super-DDT off the top buckles was all her idea, I tried to warn her but – she – she MADE me do it,” her lower lip quivers in rhythm with her voice.
It’s my turn to roll my eyes, “Are you sure you’re not in the wrong business? Daytime TV and reality shows probably pay better.”
Her lips disappear in a flat line, brows curving downward, “But there’s no on-screen sex. Or fans lining the ring! Or my wife IN the ring,” she adds, slipping in and stealing a kiss before sitting down to unlace her boots.
I sit in the chair across from hers, the cool plastic greeting my saliva-slicked cheeks and glistening slit. Unbuckling the straps at the top and middle of my boots, I glance up – gaze meeting the top of Jess’ head – she’s still busily unlacing her own. “Do you ever wonder what we’d do if we didn’t have this?”
Her fingers stop a moment, and she looks up, light-strawberry hair clinging to her cheeks. “No. We DO have this. Look at how fast our studio crowds and viewership are growing; we’re going to ALWAYS have this. Someday we’ll be so popular that we won’t WANT it. We’ll just still keep doing it, because we love it, and each other…and maybe the money, too.” A sly smirk plays at the corner of her lips a moment, then she looks back down, fingers going back to work on the laces.
That’s my pragmatic Jess. Straps undone, I unzip my boots, blinking at the tropical storm of heat, moisture, and briny sweat rising to my nose. Bracing in the chair, I whip my legs, left, then right, sending my boots tumbling. They land near the doorframe with a clomp-clomp, and my fingers pick at the velcro straps holding my kneepads on, then my elbow pads, dropping all four on the floor by my chair. Padding into the bathroom, I turn, poking my head back out. “C’mon ye slowpoke, ale an’ haggis await if ye don’t take all night!”
An elbow pad whiffs past my head, my tongue lolls out in mocking response. The next one bounces off my forehead with a thwap! and flaps on the ground, as Jess stands and rushes to join me.