Perfume and sweat. Not the bakery below. Not the fresh sea breeze outside. Not the wet stone after a rain.
Perfume and sweat. It was overwhelming in the chamber mats, and it always lingered in Agatha's nose after a match. She did not mind it, however. It was a sign of hard work, of a fight hard fought. She enjoyed the scent, unless of course she was on the losing end.
Today was batch day. The new girls had already been lined up, numbered, and quartered in the castle. Agatha barely had time to unpack her things when her number came up. She groaned at the idea of coming back to a messy room after a grueling match.
She gave herself hope by having a new bedmate, even if just for a night. Then again...
Her faint smile vanished. The thought of Iris made her uneasy. Of course, just,
of course
. Her first match had to be Iris, the stout veteran, not to mention the only other Latina. She was not pretty, she was agonizingly attractive; her velvet-rich hair, her tanned bosoms and waistline that cast the figure of a cartoonishly proportioned mistress, yet she made it natural. Everything about her screamed to be in tight silk or a bikini on the verge of slipping off. Everything about her was agonizing and seductive and beguiling and hot to the--
Agatha took a deep breath. She needed to collect her thoughts. It was bad to get turned on before the match even started, but how could she help it.
This is not to say Agatha was dull faced. Not by any means. She was just, for lack of a better term, softer. Agatha always believed this. She leaned to the cuter, innocent side of attractive. Her soft brown eyes that could melt a heart in two blinks, her warm-toned skin and peach hair were adorable and if she wished, playful.
But she was not dominating. That is what Iris was and that was what won matches.
She stepped onto the rubber mat. It was cold, it was black with a white circle. Leaving the circle forced a reset. Leaving twice was reset with disadvantage. Leaving thrice was reset with, well, Agatha smiled a little.
Her smile turned to a blush when Iris stepped to the mat after her. If anything, Agatha had forgotten details about her figure. It was wrapped tight, toned from years of conditioning and training, but that did not diminish curves. It emphasized them.
She was in a white bikini a single size too small. The straps of her tops wanted to pop open as her bosoms spilled ever so slightly over them; her bottoms were yanked up and in enough to barely make outlines of her womanhood.
Her dark hair was down and behind her shoulders. Her eyeshadow turned her lashes into wings, which made her unblinking stare almost ceremonial, a type of champion goddess.
Agatha's heart fluttered. It would not be so bad to be her bedmate, but no, wait. This was not the time to doubt.
She took another deep breath.
Iris had to notice Agatha's beauty, be it softer or innocent or whatever. It was still beauty. The warm air expanded Agatha's lungs and her chest puffed. Her black bikini concealed her own bosoms, they pushed tightly together and she could feel them bounce slightly when she walked. Her rump was nothing to laugh at, either.
She never considered it, but it was far toner and more shapely than Iris's. And if this was a contest of ass alone, she would stand more than fair chance. She chuckled.
"Something funny, darling?" Iris took another step onto the mat.
Agatha did the same. "Just thinking about how your tongue will feel on my clit tonight."
"Big talk." Iris licked her lips. "Let's see if you can back it up, darling."
Agatha did not like the names. It made her feel small. And in some ways, she was, but she made it here. She was Red Flower of the Domina Dominans. She got through so many women to get here, left them broken on the mat, but also satisfied (despite their resentment).
Iris was a vixen, but Agatha was still a fighter. She would not be taken lightly.
She offered no response as she stepped in the white circle.
When Iris entered, the bell rang. The first fight of this year's prelims had begun. Each girl knew the rules, each girl knew the stakes, and each girl had sacrificed to be here.
Agatha locked hands with Iris and the match was fully underway.
At first, Iris was a mountain. Though they pushed and pulled at each other with their arms, the real battle was a little more center.
Both girls locked bosoms, smushing and grinding; Agatha's nipple's stiffened from the constant pressure. Every time one girl moved left, the other countered right. And deep down, both girls felt the elixir working.
It was black tea that smelled like mist and tasted like licorice. Every contestant ceremonially drank it from iron mugs. It sharpened the senses, made adrenaline rush, and horribly, desperately turned the girls on. It took effort to ignore it, like an unreachable itch.
But all this motion, and her sweaty body, warmly getting closer and embracing, and tugging and tearing into--Agatha's eyes widened.
She was winning. Iris. A dark mountain, a sultry seductress, was surely being pushed down.
Agatha tightened her grip and pushed harder.
Iris fell to one knee as her arms began to fold, her chest raised higher and faster, yet her breaths were neat and controlled.
Agatha centered herself and slowed down. If this was a trap, it was a good one. If this was how the fight was playing out, she needed to be cautious. The vixen may have had one knee down, but she was a grizzled fighter.
And the bigger girl.
Agatha needed to wear her down standing up; if she got pinned on the ground, her tits, her womanhood, everything would be fair game.
But Agatha saw this too late. Iris smirked, locked her grip, and fell back, bringing Agatha down on top of her.
Iris knew this was a gambit. Being under meant she could not maneuver for angles or set up positions, or even grope her opponent. It was a gambit, but worth it as she saved one thing.
Her breath.
As long as she held Agatha down, she would work less.
And as a surprise, she would gently grind her thighs against Agatha's crotch. Presently, this did little, but over time, well, a boiling kettle only takes so much.
