Nefretiri vs. Mistress Beatrix - A Rough Start

[BlackAkuma]

Match Type: Standard
Victory Conditions: Pinfall, Submission, or KO

***

Hurry. Up.
Her match is starting soon
Where TF RU?

The Morrigan rattled off a few quick texts on her phone and sent them Sabine’s way, as she leaned up against a wall in the gorilla position, more anxious than she would’ve liked to be. By all rights, she shouldn’t have even been standing. Her body was still a mess, taped up and bruised and battered from her match with Storm, and if she had any good sense, she would be in bed, nursing the murderous migraine that was currently threatening to split her skull in twain.

Not here. Not with her.

The ‘her’ in question was the woman hanging out nearby, dressed up like a strange mix between a dominatrix and an exercise TV show host,

, or as she was trying to get everyone to call her ‘Mistress Beatrix’. The thought of it made Morrigan’s eyes roll every time she heard it, and now was no exception, as she watching the woman doing practice swings with her single-tail whip.

Beatrice had come in a couple weeks or so ago, Sabine’s cousin trying to hang on her coattails, and had immediately tried to slot herself into their group, introducing herself as the BD to their S+M. She had the trapping of a domme, sure - the whip, the look, the gear - but everything about it was superficial. She reeked of a TV domme, the sort of person who only had experience with BDSM from lame media adaptations, from watching bad movies based on even worse books. She swore, if the woman mentioned Fifty Shades of Grey one more time, she was going to make her taste the back of her hand.

But Morrigan could tolerate the little shit, if Sabine was around. Which raised the current question: Where was Sabine?

”Hey, Ms. Morgan!” Morrigan glanced up from her phone as Beatrice approached, whip slung over her shoulder. ”I was thinking we could come down together, like side by side, and you could do this thing where we picked someone in the audience, and-”

Reason #40 why Beatrice wasn’t cut out to be a domme: She had a voice like nails on a chalkboard. High-pitched, tinny, like she’d just sucked down a helium balloon. The Morrigan chewed her lip, stifling what she wanted to say, and opting for something a bit more diplomatic. ”No, I uh, think it’s best if you lead the way on this. Your debut and all.” Plus, she absolutely did not want anyone thinking they were a tag team. ”Also, it’s ‘Morrigan’. Not Morgan. There’s an extra R and an I in there. For the twentieth time.”

And yes, it was actually twenty. She had been counting.

Beatrice pouted, but accepted the logic and went back to trying out her whip, making Morrigan take a few cautious steps back as she did. She checked her phone again.

Traffuc
Traffic
Go on without me
and be nice!

The Morrigan sighed and pinched her nose so hard that it hurt. ”God fucking damn it.”

A few minutes later, Morrigan found herself stomping down the ring as Beatrice performed her best ‘sexy walk’ ahead of her, strutting and swaying in time to her

[media][/media]

, moving like a stripper on her first day onstage. It was an awkward, janky motion, but the woman was all smiles, and it seemed like the crowd didn't care so long as her cute butt was shaking. Which, to be fair, it was.

The Morrigan made her way around the ring and leaned up against the barricade as Beatrice hopped up on the apron, dropped into a split, and crawled in under the bottom rope, a maneuver she’d been practicing for days. She rolled to her feet, threw a flirty wink at the nearest camera, and made her way to her corner of the ring, bouncing with every step.

She supposed she couldn't fault the woman for energy, at least. The only question now was who’d that energy was being spent on?

[CyanDimitrik]

Meanwhile, somewhere else backstage, her opponent was likewise being annoyed. But for a different reason. A mousy Egyptian girl with a bob-cut stood meekly in the corner of Nefret's dressing room, her hands folded before herself, her head down to sheepishly stare at her toes.

"Nothing?," demands Nefret, occupying the space before the vanity mirror. She's finishing attaching the sparkly golden bracer to her right wrist, adjusting the fit while keeping a close eye on herself in the mirror. "You have nothing on this woman?"

"No," submits the mousy girl in the corner. "She's- new. Newer than you."

Nefret's fingers sift through her long, silky black tresses, ensuring no tangles. And once she's satisfied and tossed it back over her shoulders, she lifts her circle to slot neatly upon her brown, keeping her bangs tamed back and to the sides to frame her aristocratic, but youthfully soft features. But those purple eyes cut to her assistant's reflection in the mirror. "And she comes from nowhere? No prior experience?"

"It- it was such short notice, the matches are being arranged so quickly..."

Her voice terminates into silence, hushed perhaps by the unyielding gaze of her superior. She didn't dare look up, but she could feel those eyes penetrating her, searching her for any excuse to lash out.

Instead, there is a sigh.

"Breathe, Aneksi." Nefret straightens her posture and fully turns to face her with a calm, composed expression. "Nothing in this world can stop me. Do you know why?"

The assistant finally gathers up the courage to lift her gaze to Nefret, noting her approach. Poised, elegant, radiating superior confidence with every step of those slipper-shod feet. She can't bring herself to speak, but it seems the prompt was rhetorical.

Nefret leans closer, bringing her face to level with Aneksi's. "Because I won't allow it."

The assistant swallows heavily.

"Are they waiting? Is Odion outside?"

Aneksi gives a quick, fretful nod.

"Good." Nefret's posture straightens, and she begins towards the door. "You may wait here. And Aneksi." Her fingers graze the door handle. "Take heart. We have a new world to conquer."

-----

Once Beatrix has settled in the ring, the arena lights dim. The audience falls into an expectant hush. By this point, they've come to know what's coming. Something surreal and opulent, audacious, daring in its gravitas and magnitude, and yet so simple compared to some more elaborate choices. The audience members who've now seen Nefretiri wrestle know what's coming. It's a visual feast, and the anticipation is palpable.

The heavy drumbeat and opening vocals of

begin pouring through the speakers, and the massive screens come alive with the esoteric imagery, both foreboding and heraldic. It doesn't shy away from embracing the fantastical elements of her gimmick, showcasing her scant 'armor' wardrobe, paneled flowing ivory skirts and cinched bandeau tops, as well as displays of 'magic'; crackling indigo electricity contained between her palms.

And then the opening sequence ends with the rim-light of a total eclipse.

The song starts proper, and a couple stagehands quickly pull the entrance curtain aside. A procession of four well-built Egyptian men wearing shendyt skirts and facial wraps marches forth into the light, bearing a gilded and ornate lectica between them. Reclined in languid elegance is the anticipated new wrestler in LAW, now barefoot! And with her aloof form stretched out, all eyes are drawn to the scant, near-Amazonian gear; gold trunks with black straps at the hips, a gold top to match, leaving the full span of her tightly toned abdominals bare to the open arena air, the bracers and armlets on her smoothly-muscled arms, her powerful thighs and calves bare before the matching gold ankle cuffs. She bears the sleek, well-honed athletic physique of a jungle predator, and all the confidence to match as she looks ahead to the ring, unbothered.

A tall, muscular dark-skinned man in a crisp black suit and sunglasses marches behind the lectica, his expression severe and dour.





As they begin passing the stage, gouts of flame erupt around them in tall, burning pillars.

"And her opponent!," begins the announcer.

"At a height of 5'8", and weighing in at 136 lbs.!"

"From the umbral realm of the Duat itself!"

"The sorceress! The Great Shadow!"

"NEEEEFREEETIRIIII!"

The lectica is brought alongside the ring, and Nefretiri reaches up, snagging the middle rope in hand and slides her feet onto the ring apron. With a single, powerful pull, she sweeps her body up onto the ring's edge and whirls about to face the audience. Her back arches over the top rope, supple body gracefully somersaulting back with a scissor-kick to land neatly upon the mat. From there, she throws her arms wide, presenting herself to the audience with a cocky, confident smile.

At last, her arms lower slowly to her sides and the smile fades. Her head turns to shoot a look to Beatrix and her... what is she? Her valet? Her tag team partner? Her gaze is cold; not dismissive, but predatory as she examines the girl in the fashionable singlet.

...

Without a word, she moves on into her corner to lean back against the corner padding. Her arms lift to rest comfortably along the top cables stretching out to either side, allowing the referee-girl to give her the mandatory inspection for foreign objects, offering a nearly-bare leg one at a time. It seemed completely pointless.

Seemed, being the key word.

But soon, that predatory purple gaze is directed across the ring to Beatrix again, paused only with the occasional flutter of too-long eyelashes with each blink.

[BlackAkuma]

A mile a minute. Thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump. Beatrice swore, her heart was going to beat right out of her chest.

She shouldn’t have been this psyched up; she knew it. It wasn’t like this was her first match, though pretty much everyone in attendance would be forgiven for thinking otherwise. She had good experience on the indie scene. Never with an audience nearly this big, sure, but the size shouldn’t have made too big of a difference. It was business as usual.

Except it wasn’t. Except it was her first time as ‘Mistress Beatrix’. Except she was coming out onto this stage with this gimmick in one of the most sensually charged wrestling promotions on the planet.

It was a big deal. It was a really big deal, and she was trying not to let its gravity crush her. She was going to come here, do her thing, crush this, and…and…

…and why were the lights going out? And was that Katy Perry?

Being honest, Beatrice didn’t know quite what to make of this woman’s entrance. It was a lot of everything. The whole thing with the servants, and coming down on that fancy Egyptian thing that probably had a fancy name of which she was woefully ignorant. The music, the look, the pomp and circumstance, it was all impressive, and Beatrice would be lying if she said she wasn’t a touch jealous. Maybe she could get some of her slaves to come down with her for her entrance, next time. Assuming she could actually find some slaves in the first place.

She did her best to not let it bug her as the woman came striding into the ring, as proud and regal as the goddess she claimed to be. Not wanting to let the intimidation show, Beatrice stood tall, hands on her hips and tits out, putting on a wry grin as she walked forward.

Say something bold. Sexy. Even if the audience couldn't here, they’d recognize the tone and eat that shit up.

”Well, well, well, well. Look what the cat dragged in.” She leaned in and licked her lips, as she looked her opponent over, head to bared toes. ”You’ve got the right month, dear, but the day’s a little off. Halloween is on the 31st.”

Said the woman dressed as if she’d just stepped out of an 8Os-themed BDSM porn clip.