Cage Match Pt 02

El Monstrosmo

versus

La Mujombre Magnifica

An erotic

Lucha Libre

Fantasy

Cage Match -- Book 2

A short novel by J.K. Ermon (jokermon)

This is a work of erotic fantasy fiction for the entertainment of adults only. It features explicit futanari (hermaphrodite) content. If that's not your thing, or if reading this type of material is illegal where you reside, don't read it. Everything in this story is imaginary and is not intended to represent any real life people, events, or medical conditions. Please enjoy this story responsibly and do not repost without permission. This story is copyright ©2007 the author.

~~~

Author's note: set in the same universe as

The Euchre Club

.

~~~

Prologue

Taken from the

London Daily Telegraph

, October 7, 1996:

DIPLOMAT'S WIFE DIES AT 75

Lady Cecilia Peddington-Younger, wife of British Foreign Office Director Sir Ambrose Peddington, died yesterday after a brief struggle with ovarian cancer. She died peacefully in her sleep at her manse in Lancashire. She was 75. Lady Peddington-Younger is survived by her husband, four adult children, and thirteen grandchildren.

She was best known for being awarded the Order of Empire in 1986 for her humanitarian work in the Peoples' Democratic Republic of Khepalisthan. Sir Ambrose was the Ambassador to that country from 1976 to 1985. Khepalisthan, formerly a sultanate, endured a stormy transition to its new democratic socialist government in the late 1970's with five years of bitter civil war. She is both a saint and a national hero to the Khepali people, credited with the resolution of their bloody conflict.

She personally engineered both the safe extraction of the royal family to Australia and the safe release of Khepalisthan's High Lama, the spiritual leader of the revolution, from monarchist forces.

Lady Peddington-Younger enjoyed tripartite citizenship as a citizen of the United States, Great Britain, and Khepalisthan itself. She was the daughter of American tycoon Ezekiel Younger and Lady Cynthia Price and was born in the Khepali capitol of Cazabar during one of her father's extended business trips there. Her mother died due to complications during childbirth. Her father's extensive mining interests in that country frequently brought him into close contact with the royal family and Cecilia grew up as a favorite of the High Court. She summered there as a child while attending private schools in England and developed lifelong ties with both the royal family and the then-newly appointed High Lama, the highest religious authority of that country.

In 1951, Younger enterprises collapsed and her father committed suicide in the midst of financial scandal. Cecilia, who was 10 at the time, was officially adopted by the High Lama Arhat-Ananda Samathabhavanna and spent the next several years steeped in the traditions of Mahayana Buddhism and other eastern disciplines. She was tutored privately and little seen during that period. She emerged upon attaining her majority with an ability and confidence far beyond her years. She moved to the United States, where she assumed directorship of her father's few surviving businesses.

While Younger Enterprises never became an international giant again, under her direction, her father's scattered companies flourished. Among her father's holdings in the entertainment industry, Cecilia took a personal interest in a small touring circus, and joined it to run her small empire from an old ringmaster's trailer. She adapted to circus life with the same aplomb she brought to the business world, and her former employees remember her with great affection.

"She could have stayed at the Waldorf-Astoria, but she preferred a little shack-on-wheels," said Charles Waczowzki, a Carnival foreman. "Said she wanted to see the real America, out there on the county roads and fairgrounds."

Following an urgent summons by the High Lama, Cecilia left her modestly thriving American business ventures in 1972 to return to Khepalisthan. There she met her future husband, then a junior diplomat at the British Embassy.

Sir Ambrose recalls fondly: "She ran away from the High Court of Khepalisthan to join the Circus. And she wound up owning it! There was no other woman like her. I am amazed every day that a scoundrel like myself won her heart."

The High Lama had called her back because of his concerns about the long-planned transition of the sultanate to a constitutional socialist democracy. A faction of the old aristocracy, headed by several royal princes and secretly abetted by the Sultan's Grand Vizier, opposed the step, and dragged the country into years of bloody civil war. Cecilia's mediating influence helped defuse the worst potential carnage.

"I became Ambassador not because I was any kind of statesman," Sir Ambrose relates candidly. "I was a cad and a gambler, to be perfectly honest. I became Ambassador because I was Cecilia's husband. The Khepalis wanted her, and made it clear they wouldn't listen to anyone else, but the Foreign Office wouldn't consider anyone without diplomatic credentials for the post. Some far-sighted Cabinet Member proposed me as a compromise, and the Khepalis accepted, thank God."

Sir Ambrose credits his late wife with the reclamation of both Khepalisthan and his own career and life.

"She saw more in me than I did myself. She was my redemption. She shamed me into standing up and being more than I was. Whatever I achieved or became, was all because of her."

Today, a twenty-foot tall statue of Lady Cecilia Peddington-Younger stands in Capitol Square in Cazabar. The Anniversary of the armistice she engineered is a national holiday, and young pilgrims pile floral garlands at the foot of her statue in tribute.

-Reuters News Services

~~~

1

Miguel de Pepes y Colorón tugged at his fierce wrestler's mask - bright yellow with flaming red curlicues around the eyes and mouth, the trademark of a

Luchador

- so that he could see straight. He wished, for the hundredth time that he had heeded Carlos' advice and shaved off his beloved bushy mustachios, which were now smushed down uncomfortably over his mouth and hampered his breathing. The poorly-made mask's nose-hole was off-center. He had no idea how difficult the coming fight might be, but it would be doubly so if he couldn't breathe properly.

It was hot in the tent, and the noise of the circus was very loud and festive. Miguel felt a pang, hearing the excited cries of the children, and the cheerful song of the calliope.

There would be no happy day at the circus for Miguel.

"God did not give you much in the way of brains,

mijo

," he could remember his old

papi

saying, in the days before the cancer took him away, "but he made you

strong

. All the more reason for you to think first and act second. If you lose your temper, you may hurt the wrong people."

Sí Papi

, he thought to himself.

But in the ring, there is only the enemy

.

He could feel himself start to sweat in the afternoon heat of Tehuantepec.

Think of the children

, he told himself. The orphaned

niños

of Blessed Virgin who had lost their parents and now stood to lose the very roof over their heads.

He pulled himself erect. At five-foot four inches, he was shorter than most of the people of his village. He had the broad, strong back of an ox and great muscular arms with biceps like hams. He gave the odd impression of being wider than he was tall. The children would always run to him laughing for rides and he could easily carry four of them at a time across his battleship shoulders. Aside from the mask, he was bare to his slim hips in matching red-and-yellow tights, and thick dark hair covered the brawny triangle of his torso.

He thought of the woman, the fair skinned, dark-haired

guera

whom he had accosted earlier today outside the owner's trailer. She was a beauty, with flashing blue eyes and proud, generous curves thrusting through the tight purple dress she wore. He had felt his enormous manhood stir at the sight, and now once again, at the memory.

A secretary

, he thought.

Or perhaps one of the

jefe's

mistresses. Or both

.

In his halting, terrible English, Miguel demanded to know when and where the circus was holding its after-hours wrestling match. He thrust a flyer at her, a scrap of ornately- printed paper that one of the older boys had picked up and brought to him. Miguel couldn't read, but the boy had read it to him. It hadn't specified a time or a place, but it had specified a cash prize for the winner: one thousand Yankee dollars to the

Luchador

who could beat their champion, which in this year of 1961, in this small Mexican town, was an unheard-of sum.

To his surprise, the woman had answered him in perfect Spanish, spoken with a startling European lisp. It was what old brother Dominic, the orphanage's administrator who taught the children their Latin and mathematics (the most learned man Miguel knew), would have called a

Castiliano

accent. It was the autocratic tongue of Madrid and Barcelona. Her voice was beautiful to hear.

"And what would you want with a wrestling match,

osolito?

" she asked, her eyes throwing him a challenge.

Little Bear

, she had called him. Miguel cocked an eyebrow at her. He had been called worse in his time, and even the tease in her voice was not unpleasant.

"There is a purse. I wish to win it," he answered simply.

"Do you know who it is you would fight?" her tone of voice implied he would be a fool to challenge whomever it was.

He shrugged. "It does not matter. I will beat him."

"You seem very confident."

"Will you tell me who it is, and where, and when, please, or must I stand here talking with you until I am disqualified for advanced old age?"

She looked at him then, a hard, gauging look, and Miguel could almost see the wheels turn in her head, thinking, reassessing.

"You would have to fight a woman. Does that bother you?"

Miguel grimaced in disgust. So it was to be one of

those

. The thought of a woman being thrown about a ring and physically humiliated before a crowd of jeering men was barbaric to him. He understood such things happened, and worse things besides in the sleazier corners of the

Lucha Libre

world. Ordinarily, he took no part in them. In this case, however, the

niños

' need was more important than his sensibilities.

"It does not bother me," he answered her.

Her look was coolly appraising. "Do you find the prospect...arousing?"

Her question angered him, but he held his temper. "I only wish to be paid."

Her look grew archer. "A very

pleasant

way to make money, no?"

Miguel drew a deep breath. The woman's beauty, combined with her taunting manner, was rousing him to an uncomfortable degree.

"The match. Where and when?"

"That large tent over there," she waved over Miguel's shoulder. "Midnight tomorrow." Miguel turned on his heel and marched off.

People had told him all his life that he was not terribly bright, that he had to watch out or people would take advantage of him. He believed it, but that did not mean he had to stand there and be mocked by some insolent-eyed

norteña

. A man, even a not-so-bright man like Miguel, had his pride.

He tilted his battered, broken-nosed face to the sun and squinted. He was not a young man any more, but not so old that he had any doubts about the outcome of tonight's match. He had wrestled many times over the years, in the enormously popular bouts held during the celebrations on various saints' days and Cinco de Mayo. Not even the so-called professionals could defeat him.

The Church did not approve of

Lucha Libre

, but it could not fight the people's love of the sport.

When he was young, he had found an old

Luchador

costume in an old trunk of theatrical odds and ends in the orphanage's attic. When he put it on, he could not believe how it transformed him. In the mask, cape and tights he was no longer stupid little Miguel, the caretaker's son, but rather a fierce, otherworldly superman of both stirring and frightening aspect. He wore it for all his bouts, and he could still recall the murmurs of awe that rippled through the crowd the first time he appeared in full costume. In the ring, he was bold and daring, a star who could use his strength and smaller stature to great advantage. The crowds loved seeing this diminutive gorilla best opponents twice his size, and would howl and cheer him on. The adulation of the crowds was like nothing he had ever experienced, and it was a secret, burning pleasure in his breast.

El Montrosmo

-- his

Luchador

alter-ego -- had developed quite the fierce reputation locally, something that amused and pleased him greatly. Most of the children and staff of the orphanage for which he was the caretaker and general handyman regarded Miguel as something of a simpleton, and the people of his town thought so, too. To the handful of the older boys who were party to his secret identity, however, he was a hero.

He had grown up at the orphanage, but not as an orphan himself -- his father had been the handyman before him. After

Papi

's death Miguel inherited his tools, the basement living quarters (where he already lived) and his job. There was no question of moving out. The orphanage was the only home Miguel had ever known, and the nuns, the children, and Brother Dominic his only family. Miguel's mama had died giving birth to him and he had no siblings.

Over the years,

El Monstrosmo

had received many offers to take up the mantle of a

Luchador

professionally, but he could never leave the orphans of Blessed Virgin. The extra money he brought in from the odd bout was of great help to the orphanage during their frequent times of need. Brother Dominic always assumed the anonymous donations that appeared in the chapel poorbox came from one of the wealthier ranchers, and Miguel did not disabuse him of that notion.

Now, once again, his home was threatened. The men in their expensive bankers' suits kept dropping by, and Miguel overheard ominous words like

liens

and

foreclosure

.

Although the good sisters and Dominic tried to put a brave face on things, Miguel could tell the orphanage was in dire need of money, and fast.

As he walked back to the strip of gaming concessions where the children were running amok, Sister Maria looked very grateful to see him. Miguel smiled at her, and she gave a somewhat harried, rueful smile back. He felt his bad mood melt away. The stirring in his pants didn't go away either, but that was all right. Maria always had that effect on him.

Sister Maria was 26, the youngest and certainly the prettiest of the nuns of the orphanage. Her black robes couldn't quite hide her plumply curvaceous figure, and her round full-lipped face was always bright-eyed and cheerful. Only, right now, she was looking decidedly agitated as she tried to corral her ecstatic charges. The group of orphans she had escorted on this special outing to the circus couldn't quite contain their excitement once they had reached the fairgrounds.

The circus was not large, but as far as the children were concerned, it was by far the greatest thing that ever happened to Tehuantepec. It was a Yankee outfit down from the north, and they had set up in a field here when several of their trucks broke down over on the Pan-American Highway. Happily, it would take at least a week for them to be mobile again.

With Miguel's help, Sister Maria managed to herd the children back together, and she and the children proceeded through a very enjoyable day at the fair. Miguel's mind was elsewhere. He kept thinking ahead to the wrestling match. The fact that he would be fighting a woman bothered him. He knew enough about the craft to be able to put on a good show, he reckoned, and without hurting his opponent. Still, he found the whole prospect distasteful.

He glanced at Maria, who was scolding one of the little ones for trying to snatch a piece of candy from a confectioner's cart. The nun had her long, glossy brunette hair concealed as always under her wimple, but there was no hiding her big soulful brown eyes. He imagined wrestling with her, and the thought was pleasant. As she bent down to slap a tiny wrist, a broad, exuberant bottom pushed out at him through her habit, and Miguel felt himself stiffen fully. He was glad his smock-like gardening poncho covered him to his knees. He was often tempted to lay his hands on that bottom, but his better sense always intervened; whenever those urges manifested themselves in his life, there was always Sister Roberta.

Sister Roberta was in her late fifties, and the orphanage's cook. She was loud and bawdy, and the other nuns regarded her as not quite right in the head. She had been a prostitute before she married Jesus and considered it her Christian duty to prevent the unmarried Miguel from indulging in the sin of self-abuse.

She accomplished this by selflessly presenting her big, wonderful body to him as an outlet. She had been doing so since his late teens. She had great fat udders and an enormous rump that Miguel loved to bite and slap. From the way that she heaved and moaned under him, Miguel suspected her charity work was not entirely selfless, but even a not-so-bright man like Miguel was dim enough to question a good thing.

The pious at Blessed Virgin were not a strict bunch. Although Maria never indulged, it was not unheard of for a nun to take one of the older teenage boys under her wing and complete his journey into manhood. As well, whenever each crop of girls reached a certain age, a few would always find excuses to dawdle around Miguel as he worked in the yard. They would goggle at the hairy muscles of his arms and chest as he stood shirtless in the sun at the end of a long day and poured a bucket of water over himself. They would whisper and giggle nervously as they eyed the manly bulge displayed in his tight breeches. The only other adult male they were routinely exposed to was Brother Dominic, who was nearly eighty, and didn't interest them.

These teenage temptresses would shyly, and some of them not so shyly request to see his penis, which was of legendary size. Miguel would always laugh and demur at first, but some of these angels were persistent.

Miguel would never violate the trust of his surrogate family by getting one of these girls pregnant. Their flushed, bright-eyed curiosity was compelling, however, and often in the privacy of his quarters, he would indulge a select few by letting them open his trousers and view his enormous, erect organ in all its bare, throbbing splendor. Their eyes never failed to light up at the sight of him, and their mouths would drop open.

The bolder of them would want to handle him, and he would let them. If a girl, quite overcome by her heat, raised her skirts and requested his entry into her virginal treasure, Miguel would laugh, pick the girl up, lay her on his bed, and let his broad tongue play over her succulent youthful cleft.

Sister Roberta had taught him many things, not the least of which was this special, gentle art. Their teenage

pinochas

were routinely delicious, and after he had sucked and licked them to several moaning, bucking climaxes, he would have them lick and suck his own great prong likewise, until with a grunt of ineffable bliss, he would shoot great fountains of white seed all over their dizzy faces and pretty, bare breasts.

Even though he was sorely tempted many times, he had never broken a maidenhead in his life. He was always careful, gentle and loving with all his girls, mindful at all times that they were orphans, carrying great pain and therefore vulnerable. It would have been easy to take advantage, and so he never did. He was only ever intimate with the girls who approached him, and of them, only those who were the oldest, most insistent and sure of themselves.