No Holds Barred in Boston

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This story picks up from No Holds Barred in Belfast, which was based on the idea/request of a fan who wishes to remain nameless. We rejoin the action in Trish's dressing room in Belfast, shortly after her world championship clash with Victoria.

*****

Trish sat on a chair, put her head in her hands, and sobbed. She had been beaten before but not like this; not when it really mattered and she was supposed to win. She should have been furious and vowing revenge, but simply didn't have it in her. Not now, at this very moment.

I'm empty inside, she thought. I've been tricked and humiliated. And my jaw hurts.

Everyone around her was angry. Her dressing room had been invaded by unsympathetic folk and there sounded to be dozens more out in the corridor, all of them shouting at each other.

'Let me have a look at you,' a more rational voice said.

It was one of the medics. Trish lifted her head and let him manoeuvre her mandible.

'Open your mouth,' he commanded. 'That's good. Did opening it hurt?'

'No more than it hurt already.'

'Good. What about your ears? Do they ache?'

'Not so as I've noticed.'

He nodded, seemingly satisfied. 'I don't think it's broken. You could go for an X-ray but I'd bet the hospitals are like the Wild West this time on a Saturday night. Best go home and sleep it off.'

Trish recognized the Commissioner's voice as it joined in the shouting. At a guess he was having a go at Victoria, berating her for what she'd done. At another guess Victoria wouldn't give a shit. It was strange hearing him, though. He was normally dignified and in control. She hadn't known him lose it before, although as a young wrestler his temper had been legendary.

'Come on,' someone said, taking her arm, 'let's get you outta here.'

Surrounded by six enormous security officers, Trish was escorted out. It was not a pleasant experience. Dozens of cameras flashed the second she left her dressing room. Men and women reporters screeched at her, demanding answers to their unintelligible questions. Other people just yelled at her, obviously believing everything was all her fault.

Four large black limos were waiting for them outside the Odyssey Complex, only a few yards from the door. So near yet so far. They still needed the backing of another six security guys to get into them. Then they were away, readying themselves to go through the whole process in reverse, to get her into the hotel. Trish was, of course, used to attention but this was too much. If she hadn't had a wall of muscle around her, someone would have got punched.

At last they arrived outside her suite, leaving the baying mob down in the lobby.

'There's a doctor in there waiting for you,' the boss officer said. 'Apparently he's the best in the island of Ireland. We'll keep an eye on things out here. Don't bother with the Do Not Disturb sign. There ain't nobody else getting in there tonight.'

The doctor was a small man with twinkling eyes and what Trish considered to be a "proper" Irish accent. He told her he was from "Dublin, the biggest city in all of the world, because it's Dublin all the time". Then he repeated the medic's examination, but much more gently.

'Take these,' he said, passing her two blue pills and a glass of water.

She looked at him dubiously.

'For the pain,' he explained. Then, raising his lilting voice, 'Nurse . . . We're ready for you now.'

That actually brought forth two nurses, coming from the direction of the master bedroom.

'What's going on, Doc?' Trish wondered. 'Isn't this a private suite after all?'

'Your commissioner wanted to be sure you're all right. That's why he sent for us. Now, please roll up your sleeve.'

She obeyed and didn't object when one of the nurses swabbed her arm. Well, not much.

'What is that?' she asked.

'Magic juice,' the doctor replied. 'Don't worry. It's fully approved by WADA, and it will help you get to sleep.'

He wasn't joking. She felt the tiniest scratch and immediately went woozy. And that was her lot for that night.

*****

It was daylight when Trish woke from some of the strangest dreams she'd ever had. For a while she lay still, staring up at the high ceiling and ornate light fittings, trying to separate nightmares and reality.

Big mistake!

In one dreamscape she was being chased by a black-haired witch through a haunted house, with all sorts of horrors leaping at her, out of the shadows. In another she was in a New York street, a gang of crazed junkies on her heels, all other pedestrians refusing to believe she was in danger.

Reality was far nastier.

Deliberately voiding her mind, she took stock of her bumps and bruises. A little worse than after a regular fight night, she concluded, but nothing life-threatening. A hot tub and a massage and she would be good for the gym.

'Trish,' someone said, 'are you awake?'

The master bedroom had a lot of floor space. Trish had to lift her head right off the pillow to see the figure watching over her.

'Oh,' she said, 'it's you.'

'Little me,' The Sioux agreed, putting her glossy mag aside and getting to her feet. 'Are you okay? Can I get you anything? Are you ready for some breakfast?'

Trish took in the sight before her. The Sioux was almost six feet of blonde Canadian beauty. She also had a body to die for, and bright blue eyes that instantly reduced men to jelly.

'What are you doing here?' she said. 'And who else is waiting in the wings? Has Slick Willie come back to laugh at the ex-champ?'

'So you know where you are,' The Sioux said cheerily. 'You're not concussed after all.'

'No, I'm not concussed; I'm just highly pissed at the world. So much so I don't think I'll ever eat anything again. And what are you doing here?'

'The Commissioner asked me to keep an eye on you.'

'Have you been here all night?'

'Yeah, I'm on my fifteenth magazine.'

'Thank you.' Trish blinked away a tear. 'At least one person still has a use for me. No, make that two: you and the Commissioner.'

'Don't do yourself down. You've made every newspaper on the planet. And your tits made it onto at least six Brit front pages. I haven't seen The Times yet, but . . .'

'What are they saying, precisely?'

'The newspapers? They're saying that your comeback's going to be the fight of the century. And that Victoria's going to be toast.'

'I wish,' said Trish.

'We're going to see the Commissioner to "discuss".' The Sioux made inverted commas in the air with her fingers. 'He's sending a limo at six o'clock.'

'I thought I was flying at four.'

'Not anymore you're not. He's changed our plan.'

Trish frowned. 'He wants to see you as well?'

'So he said. And I wasn't about to argue.'

'A very wise decision.' Trish almost managed a smile. She felt better already. Not cured . . . not completely over her shock . . . but decidedly better.

'I might be hungry after all,' she said. 'Order us two of those full Irish thingies. Then you can help me into the Jacuzzi. And then, after you've scrubbed my back, I'll let you give me a massage.'

*****

The Sioux's massage technique was exceptionally good. She was also practiced enough to apply steadily increasing pressure, which was exactly what Trish needed. The suite even had a proper massage table and, when she closed her eyes, it was easy to think she was being attended to by a trained professional.

With something classical playing softly in the background, The Sioux began by applying aromatic oil into Trish's back and shoulders. At that point her touch was as light as feathers. Then, taking a sigh as endorsement, she used both hands, starting in the small of Trish's back and pressing a bit harder as she slid them upwards. Then, feather-light once more, she slid them down again, going wider, avoiding the spine.

'Take slow, deep breaths,' she advised.

'I am doing,' Trish replied. 'And you are very good at this.'

'I know I am. And I do fronts as well as backs. Do you want to turn over?'

'Not here. On the bed.'

'You'll get oil on the covers.'

'At these prices who cares? They'll have plenty of chambermaids to clean up after us.'

So saying, she eased off the table and strutted towards the bedroom. The Sioux grinned as she watched her sexy ass. Last night she'd been a different person. Her shoulders had slumped and she'd slouched rather than walked. This was the real Trish. This was the girl she so desperately wanted to fuck again and again.

*****

Sioux's technique for fronts was even better than the one she used for backs and shoulders. But there again, it had to be because it wasn't just her hands doing the work. Her lips and tongue saw plenty of use as well. And that aromatic oil couldn't have tasted horribly horrible because she had to have licked up gallons of it.

Trish generally liked to pay her way when it came to sex. That is to say, she generally made sure she gave as much as she got. Not that afternoon, though. She kept suggesting things she should be doing and Sioux kept ignoring her.

And that was the girl who'd spent the night reading in a chair!

For once Trish blanked out her personal Jiminy Cricket. She let her fellow Canuck pay attention to her (now even-more-world-famous!) tits. She permitted tongue-tip attention to her belly button. She didn't object when a knowing nose and mouth nuzzled her secret, swollen lips.

And she squealed like crazy when that tongue entered her, coinciding with a finger pressing up and into her asshole.

Yes, Sioux knew how to give a satisfying massage all right.

*****

Time passed too quickly. They reluctantly showered, dressed and . . . in Trish's case . . . packed up their belongings.

'I left mine in my room,' The Sioux said. 'The Commissioner said he'd have everything collected.'

The rap on the door came at six precisely. Untypically cautious, Trish looked out of the peephole before unlocking.

'Well hello Miss Trisha,' the new arrival said. 'Your carriage awaits.'

Trish smiled for the first time in twenty-four hours. Fred wasn't just "another boss" of the security officers' teams; he was the go-to man when trouble was afoot. Okay, there was a Chief Officer, but he was deskbound. Fred was the guy who ran things where it mattered, there on the ground. And he definitely looked the part. His colleagues were all built like linebackers for The Argonauts. Beside Fred they seemed like midgets. Black and handsome beyond belief, it was impossible not to return his smile.

And the way he always called her "Miss Trisha"! Apart from instantaneously making her wet, he never failed to make her feel like a character out of Little Women.

'Good to see you, Fred,' she said. 'In fact it's better than good; I feel safe at last.'

'I'm not protection enough for her,' The Sioux added gushingly, obviously just as smitten by the giant of a man, 'even though I've taken care of her all day.'

'We'll take care of both of you, Miss Sioux,' he replied. Then, gesturing towards a man at his side (a man neither of them had previously noticed), 'this is Spenser. He's along to cover "legalities".'

Spenser looked as if he'd never smiled in his life. 'This is a contractual situation,' he said, clearly not aware how pompous he sounded . . . and clearly not caring, either. 'It is essential you do not speak to members of the media, accredited or otherwise. I take it that hasn't already happened?'

It was a question (and an ominous one at that), not a sign of him having any confidence in them. Fred rolled his eyes but said nothing, leaving it to the little women to reply.

'I haven't spoken to anyone,' said Trish. 'Loads of reporters tried to push their mikes in my face, but I had good bodyguards. Nobody got near enough for me to say "no comment".'

'I had to run the gauntlet through the lobby,' The Sioux added. 'I told them I wasn't sure if Trish was staying in this hotel but, if they wanted an interview about my fight next week, they could have as much as my time as they liked. That got rid of them pretty darn fast.'

Fred laughed out loud but Spenser looked as if he'd just swallowed a wasp.

'I'll check out the hotel CCTV,' he said. 'We have to be absolutely certain about this.'

*****

Fred took them out the back way. They were inside another black limo and off before they saw a guy with a camera. And by then he was too late to get off a snap. Within five seconds he'd shrunk into a dot in the distance. Five seconds later he was gone altogether.

The plush vehicle swiftly moved out of the city, leaving behind old terraced housing with the most amazing murals painted on their gable-ends, racing through open green countryside instead.

'I like your style,' Fred said to The Sioux, seemingly out of nowhere. 'You'll go far in your chosen profession.'

'Let's see the CCTV footage before we agree on that,' Spenser said, rather predictably.

The occupants of the limo saw their destination after about three-quarters of an hour. Or, in other words, they saw it five minutes before they actually arrived.

'Holy crap on a cracker,' said The Sioux, 'it's like something out of a Brit period movie. You know what I mean, Somewhere-or-other Revisited.'

'The Brits probably did build it,' said Fred, 'using the Paddies as free labour.'

Trish looked at him closely. 'Don't you like Brits?'

'Me? I love 'em. If it wasn't for them, shipping my ancestors off across the ocean, I wouldn't be a corn-fed American, would I?'

'Look on the bright side,' said The Sioux, more gushingly than ever, 'at least your ancestors were good, honest men. All the white guys the Brits shipped across were convicts.'

'I thought the Brits shipped their convicts to Australia,' Trish put in, piqued to be edged out of the conversation.

'That was years later,' The Sioux assured her, 'after the American Colonies were full.'

'I think you'll find it had more to do with The War of Independence,' Spenser said officiously. 'Now, we're here. Let's not waste any more time and get inside.'

Trisha half-expected to find a butler and dozens of servants lined up, waiting to greet them. That didn't happen. Instead Fred led them up an impressive flight of stone stairs and inside, through an even more impressive oak doorway.

Fred seemed to have been there before. Still taking the lead, he guided them through a maze of endless corridors and into a massive room with an even more massive window facing onto well-kept lawns. The Commissioner was in there, looking lonely as he sat in a wing-backed armchair, surrounded by a square mile of plush carpet.

'I'm watching the garden for snakes,' he said.

'There aren't any snakes in Ireland,' said The Sioux, smiling at him becomingly.

'I know there aren't.' He beamed back at her. 'St Patrick got rid of them all. I'm checking to see if he did a good job. My place in Arizona is infested with rattlers. I'm thinking of asking him to help me out. But I'm forgetting my manners. Ladies . . . please take a pew.'

Fred muttered something about "securing boundaries" and withdrew. Trish and The Sioux sat in exceptionally comfortable chairs (exactly matching the Commissioner's) while Spenser went over to the window and stood, scowling miserably as always.

'That one spoke to the media,' he said, pointing at The Sioux. 'We're commandeering footage to see what exactly she said.'

'I fucked them off,' The Sioux retorted. 'And I never put a word out of place.' Then, after a short and uncomfortable silence: 'And sorry for swearing.'

'Forget it,' the Commissioner said, giving her another flash of his trademark grin. Then, rounding on the legal eagle, 'So what's the score, Mister Spenser? Are you fishing or is there cod to be caught?'

Cod to be caught? Trish frowned. Was that a really old saying or one he'd just made up? And it was "Mister" Spenser after all. She'd been wondering if it was a surname or not. Now it was plain as could be: the sad bastard didn't have a first name. Not unless it was "Asshole".

'I know this is painful,' the Commissioner began, 'but we need to go through the tape. A drink is in order first, though. What's your poison?'

The Sioux went for a glass of white wine. Trish, not trusting herself with alcohol, asked for a cup of tea.

'You're in Ireland,' the Commissioner said. 'Don't you mean a mug of brown stuff strong enough for you to stand your spoon up in?'

She said yes and he pressed a button on what looked to be a TV remote control. Less than two seconds later a butler bustled in, carrying a silver tray with the agreed drinks on it. And, best of all, Spenser didn't get one. That lifted Trish's heart . . . and not before time. It had dropped out of her boots the night before. Halfway back up her legs was a big step in the right direction.

The Commissioner pressed a second button on his remote and a large screen rolled itself down from the ceiling. Then he pressed a third and the curtains automatically closed behind Spenser, making him jump.

'This is a brilliant toy,' said the Commissioner. 'I'm going to get one for all of my places stateside. Now, here goes with the tape.'

'Feel free to talk us through it,' Spenser said insensitively. 'Point out anything Victoria does that was not in the script. What is it she says to you? Did you notice anything odd about her? Had she a funny look in her eyes?'

'You don't know a lot about her Mister Spenser, do you?' Trish shook her head. 'Victoria always goes mad when she's in the ring. She's yelling insults all the time. And yes, her eyes had a funny look in them. They invariably do when she's fighting.'

'What about the script? Does she get mad enough to disregard it?'

'She never has before. Not with me, anyway. And she didn't disregard it last night. Not until the very end.'

They watched the match all the way through, Trish occasionally confirming it was going as planned, the Commissioner agreeing it was as he'd expected.

'Here we are,' she said finally. 'Can you freeze it?'

The Commissioner stopped the action with Trish holding Victoria's arm, about to swing her into the ropes.

'It was supposed to end with me clotheslining her,' Trish explained. 'She was supposed to come off the ropes upright and . . . kerpow! But watch what happens.'

Unfrozen, Victoria hit the ropes hard, stretching them like the rubber strings of a catapult. Then she lowered her head and launched herself horizontally, torpedoing back at Trish, hitting her in the midriff and driving her across the ring, smashing her against a corner post.

'That first impact knocked the air out of me,' Trish said, grimacing, 'and I was totally unprepared for the posting. It can hurt at the best of times, but I do not recommend trying it unprepared.'

With the posting the fight was, as a contest, over. Even so Victoria wasn't done. While Trish was on her knees, gasping for breath, she approached and hammered her elbow into an unprotected jaw. Then, after pinning her stunned victim until the referee (reluctantly and very slowly) counted to three, she ripped Trish's evening gown down the front. Then, laughing crazily, she tore it off altogether and tossed it into the audience.

And then she ripped off Trish's sexy sports bra and leapt up onto the ropes, holding it over her head as if it were a trophy. The crowd, meanwhile, were going crazy with her.

'I was out of it,' Trish told the Commissioner. 'She didn't need to hit me. I hadn't enough wind to stop her pinning me. A babe in arms could have pinned me just then.'

'So you want us to believe you were unable to resist,' Spenser said sceptically.

'I give you a posting if you like,' The Sioux offered. 'Then I'll pin you . . . six months later, after you're out of intensive care.'

'All this is a daze,' Trish went on. 'All I can remember is her singing.'

'Singing?' The Commissioner looked at her. 'I can't hear her singing.'