Nefretiri vs. Mistress Beatrix - A Rough Start

[BlackAkuma]

It definitely held that the view was nice down Nefretiri’s legs, giving her a fine view of the woman’s toned body, head to oh-so lovely toes. Beatrice would be lying if she said there wasn’t some attraction here, with her dealing with this objectively gorgeous, exotic woman. For someone like her, still trying to come to terms with how she felt about certain things, it gave her more than a little food for thought…

But she could process it later, when she had a few spare moments to think it through in private. For now, she focused on making the struggle believable, putting real distress out into the world. It must’ve worked well enough, too, because the referee was having a fit, acting like Beatrice’s life was on the line. She took a small amount of pride in that. If a person who hung around wrestlers and wrestling matches all day couldn't spot her out, she must’ve been doing something right.

It didn’t last forever, at least, with Nefretiri giving up at the four count and sparing them both an ending no one would’ve been satisfied with. Beatrice sagged in the corner, breathing heavy and weakly adjusting her cap, not wanting it to fall off. Not just yet.

She had only started to pull it out of the corner when Nefertiri shut that idea down outright, meeting her with the same simmering fury. Kicks now, stomps to the stomach, but ones that barely registered as love taps to Beatrice’s stomach. Credit where it was due, the woman had amazing control of her body, could exercise restraint in a way Beatrice had never encountered before. It was honestly a little more impressive than if she’d just used pure brute strength.

Most of the work here fell on Beatrice and she worked with it, ratcheting herself back with each hit, legs scrambling and arms flailing. She even threw in a few pathetic cries and gasp, enough to leave the nearby crowd gasping. More than anything, though, they were cheering, getting beyond the dominant conquer. A few pity boos came her way, but it sounded like they were getting into the display more than anything, which wasn’t too surprising, they’d come to see beautiful women beat each other up, after all, so this was all part of the plan.

[CyanDimitrik]

Each clatter of Beatrix's slender frame clashing against the corner post was like a violent bell ringing to the audience, shrieking a tale of Nefretiri's aggression and ferocity. And with Beatrix collapsed under the weight of the onslaught, the audience is filling the arena with the sounds of their overwhelming approval. And some disapproval, from the dissidents yearning to see the spunky blonde make a comeback. But even they can see the writing on the walls. Nefretiri is insulted at the dominatrix's defiance, and is making her pay. Each hit is a pummeling, punishing tour de force, a barbaric painting upon the canvas that is the girl's body. It's savage in all the ways this audience came to see.

Nefretiri relishes that attention, that mixture of adoration and fear. It's a powerful feeling, the very thing that appealed to her when she first turned her attention to professional wrestling years ago. It feeds into her, hits every nerve and sets it ablaze, makes her heart thunder against her breast, every fiber of her being surging with adrenaline. And though she usually savors the opportunity to assert her actual strength and skill over an opponent, physically and mentally dominating whoever stands against her in the ring as a genuine testament, there is a unique appeal to this that she's experiencing with Beatrix tonight.

Offering herself to her is precisely what the blonde is doing.

She seems to be making herself a willing sacrifice upon the altar of her glory.

She's... trusting her with her body. That she'll conquer her, but not hurt her. Girls have submitted to her before, often in tears and screaming. Never like this. Never. She wouldn't know how to verbalize the feeling if she even tried. There's a... warmth behind it? Maybe? An affection? A sense of protection? All spurred by one silly, earnest remark, a simple acknowledgment - whether implied or explicit. The girl currently collapsed in the corner of the ring has successfully put the sorceress in a position no one ever has before.

Maybe that's something to be proud of. She wouldn't even begrudge her that, as she looks at her in the corner, playing up the beating she absolutely has not actually given her. Even with the referee-girl crowding her front, those exotic purple eyes are cast past her shoulder to the slumped, costumed girl. She's a pretty thing. She's even cute-looking when imperiled, with her big blue eyes and messy bob. No doubt it's partly why the audience is going wild. They love that sort of thing.

"Are you listening to me!?," demands the referee-girl, cutting into Nefretiri's attention.

The cold amethyst gaze returns to her. "Not really," she replies coolly. She makes her way forward, not bothering to adjust her trajectory out of consideration for the human obstacle in her way. The result is a stiff shoulder-check with the referee: "Aside, gnat."

The referee-girl stumbles several steps aside before falling onto her rear, astonishment written on her face. The audience's reaction grows more feverish with both sides pitching in loudly with their varying opinions.

Upon reaching Beatrix, the Egyptian leans down to take her by a single ankle. And with it, she begins to effortlessly drag the girl across the mat with one hand, cutting across the sightline of the referee again - who continues to stare in disbelief. Upon reaching the center of the ring, Nefretiri releases the captive ankle and drops to her knees at her left side.

The Egyptian lies herself over the girl, snaking her left leg between Beatrix's thighs. Her left arm gathers beneath the blonde's right knee, hooking the leg. Her bare midsection presses against the side of Beatrix's stomach, and she allows the plush curvature of her chest to settle directly upon Beatrix's breasts. Her right arm hooks behind the girl's neck, cradling her head to give it some lift. And when she's fully settled in, her back arches to press her body tightly into hers, pinning her.

Naturally, this brings the two women into close contact, the warmth of her exertion radiating from her generously bared skin - but especially at the touch of her soft cheek to Beatrix's. Her chin lifts, bringing her lips closer to her ear and leaving scant centimeters of separation, every exhale a heavy, heated breeze against her. And when she speaks, it's a rich, honeyed sound: "Lift your shoulder on two."

The referee finally gets her thoughts in order, and she springs to all fours to begin crawling hurriedly beside the pair. In the meantime, Nefretiri murmurs further, "Listen to them... they're aching for more..."

She inhales slowly, her chest pressing tighter to Beatrix's in the process. The sigh to follow is slow, indulgent. "You don't want out yet, do you?"

[BlackAkuma]

The Morrigan watched from the sidelines, unsure what to make of it. At all.

She hadn't paid much attention at first, more out of spite than anything. She didn’t want to be here, didn’t want to babysit, and it wasn’t as if she had any plans to be more than decoration around the ring. The only way she could see herself getting involved was, maybe, if Nefretiri’s big henchman over there decided to try anything funny, but that didn’t seem to be on his agenda. Not that he’d really needed to, since his boss was doing a fine job of dominating Beatrice all by herself.

…wasn’t she?

It was hard to put a finger on, but something felt a little off about…well, all of it. This niggling feeling that she was missing something, like her brain was picking up on some subconscious cues that hadn't reached her front lobe yet. Maybe it was nothing, just paranoia, but the feeling persisted and grew as Nefretiri hammered away in the corner, battering the German with ruthless abandon.

It was funny. Maybe too funny. Maybe she was just overthinking things.

And maybe Beatrice was having the time of her life.

She knew she probably shouldn’t. She knew this was the worst way to start a wrestling career, especially in LAW, of all places. The internet was festooned with tales of women who’d come to the promotion bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, only to get folded in half and sent packing in under a week because they faced the wrong opponent on the wrong day.

And yet, Beatrice was having the most fun she could ever remember having in a wrestling match. Winning or, more often than not, losing one. She sat in the corner, eating kicks and making them look like murder, and the crowd ate every moment of it, some counting along, some cheering for more. They had no clue, and it made sense, critics always said wrestling looked fake, so when it was actually faked, no one was the wiser.

It was a small miracle that she didn’t burst out laughing, but she held it in. If she was going to do this, she was going to commit, and it helped that Nefretiri seemed committed to the bit, as well. Antagonizing the referee was a good move, playing up her persona, even throwing in that shoulder-check to help sell the arrogance…if that was really selling. She was still getting a feel for how much of Nefretiri’s act was real and how much was just an act.

She groaned, long and exasperated, as Nefretiri dragged her out of the corner, planting her square in the middle of the ring. A pin came next, of course, and that shouldn’t have been anything to write home about. Beatrice had been pinned like this more times than she could ever hope to count.

But maybe it was all in her head, or maybe she was taking this pin with so little damage that it distracted her, but it was the most comfortable pin she had ever been in. Soft. Warm. Inviting. There was power in those arms, but that strength was kept at bay.

Like holding. Like cuddling.

It was a good thing her hair covered her face, because she was 100% sure she was blushing right now, and no amount of acting would hide it.

The referee came over, thankfully taking her sweet time and missing Beatrice’s chuckle. The woman’s hand came down once, then twice, and she threw her arm up right on the second count. Didn’t want to escape too early, but she’d save a closer escape for later, if she needed one for drama.

”God no, keep going. Having a blast.” She slumped off to the side as she mumbled, staying close enough to keep their conversation private. ”Think you can do a Gorilla Press? I’m pretty light, it’d look killer.”

[CyanDimitrik]

Slap!

"ONE!"

Slap!

"TWO! ..Ah! No fall! Only two-count!"

Nefretiri couldn't see the blush heating Beatrix's cheek, but she certainly feels it. Or perhaps it's coming from her own. She couldn't say. But pressing her body into the blonde's form, holding her wrapped so neatly in her arms, legs tangled, cradling her neck to support her head close - this isn't anything new for the Egyptian. But pinning someone while knowing that they're more or less fine but for some chops and light battering, that the girl lying under her is a willing participant in this position, is a new kind of thrill.

There'd be no shortage of simps out there lining up for the chance to have the sorceress pin them. But that's different. They're coming in with a kink, an itch to scratch. Beatrix came in originally with the desire to win, didn't she? To challenge her, to try to pin her. And then that changed into... this. This sublime offering of her body to her. While a match is still going, while there was every risk that she might still hurt her. It comes back to that unusual level of trust, basically blind faith. Her gimmick aside, it's the closest to a goddess she's actually felt. And that earns a subtle press of her cheek into Beatrix's a little more snug and intimate than strictly necessary, subtly adjusting the pin into an intricate embrace.

And in this way, Beatrix's read on the pin is not wrong. The audience would have no idea. This is meant only for Beatrix, an unspoken cue that she approves of her. And when that arm shoots up to break the pin, her head lifts by degrees, alert. Then lowers again as her arm eases the girl's leg back down to the mat. In the process, her hand glides along the circumference of her thigh until the hook is completely undone, instead coming to rest at the side of her wait.

A sound escapes the Egyptian before she can catch it again. A quiet, short-lived laugh, betraying the mixture of confidence and enjoyment she's starting to let herself sink into with this. It's almost absurd, hearing someone so enthusiastically want to be manhandled like this. But it's exquisite. Calling the shots to be made against her own body, wanting it to be visually impressive - truly outrageous. Even scandalous. And that adds another level of budding excitement in her heart.

"That's... I'm glad to hear it," she says, at a loss of how else to communicate what she's feeling. "And easily."

She draws up from the pin, moving the hand from her waist to her wrist. With her neck still hooked in the other arm and pulling on the captive limb, she guides Beatrix up to her feet with her again. But upon standing, she bends her knees and leans her shoulders against her torso. The arm around her neck adjusts, pulling her upper-body forward while the other hand swaps to hooking her thigh. And in a single, smooth motion, the slender blonde is loaded across Nefretiri's shoulders into a fireman's carry.

Her head turns slightly, gaze cutting across to try to catch her eyes. "This will be a rough landing. Protect your face," she says quietly.

And then, more audibly for the referee's benefit and whatever microphones can pick up the traces of the words spoken in ring: "If you're unwilling to accept your place beneath me, we'll see if you prefer a place above me!"

Her hold adjusts, swapping to a supportive position. The right hand sets against Beatrix's collarbone just above the curvature of her chest - and careful to slide the hand beneath the padlock dangling from her choker so as to not painfully push the solid object against her skin. The other hand sets to the front of her right thigh, just beneath the hip, squeezing the leg securely to keep her stable. Then, squaring her stance and with a soft huff of effort, the Egyptian hoists the blonde's body directly above her head in a full press.

Most wouldn't look at 'magic types' as being physically robust. But there's no denying the raw physicality Nefretiri brings to the table. Thighs are flexed, every sleekly chiseled line of abdominals in her core engaged, the supple and smooth muscletone of her arms tightened as she displays the German to the audience in a fully supported horizontal plane. She doesn't have to put in this much effort to lift her - Beatrix is easily within her lifting range. But she understands the proposition - this is meant to be impressive. This is meant to show something off. Namely, her impressive body and her opponent's impending punishment.

She turns a slow circle with her, ensuring the audience gets a full view of the blonde - and herself - from every angle, to soak it in. And to perhaps indulgently invite Beatrix to play up her predicament.