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
bam
s, 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 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 #5: 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
