Safiyah Neferet vs. Aspasia El-Shenawy II - Through the Fire and Flames

[BlackAkuma]

Through it all, through the hate, with all the damage Safiyah had incurred on Asp, mentally and physically, she couldn't deny that she still found this woman to be unspeakably attractive. She had from the first minute she laid eyes on her, and even more so now, with her new look, one that paid homage to their shared heritage in lavish fashion. It wasn’t simply in her curves and form, magnificent as they were, but in the way their bodies were so similar - Asp knew what it took to achieve a body like this, and that knowledge made her attractive even more palpable.

That didn’t make her hate Safiyah less, however - in fact, it was the opposite. Knowing that someone so beautiful could do something so horrid was a travesty. It was a gross conflict, one she had to correct. It was part of the reason she had insisted on the hentai stipulation for their follow-up - arousal was at the center of this conflict. She wouldn’t shy away from it. In fact, she intended to excel.

Safiyah could be still. She could be quiet. She could play the silent killer all she liked. But the body was a rebellious things, bound by instincts, and some were nigh impossible to suppress. As she stood and pressed against her countrywoman, Asp could feel all the tells coming out of her - the twitch of her hip, the heat radiating from her skin, the parting lips. The arousal was there, her opening, and she seized it.

Their kiss was familiar and alien at the same time. Their lips had met before, under friendlier terms. Then, Asp had been teasing and playful, using the embrace as a treat and a distraction. She had wanted her foe to enjoy the sensation as much as she did, something exotic and memorable. Now, her tongue returned to Safiyah’s mouth as a conqueror, not giving pleasure but forcing it—a commanding, demanding pressure.

And it was working, for a time. For the briefest of stints, she could feel Safiyah’s body giving way…

Asp felt Safiyah’s hand slipping free, but moved a second too late to react. By the time she was pulling away, her claw was already at her face, digging in, going for the eyes with a feral intensity. Asp shrieked as the tiny daggers sought her eyeballs, and while she could tell no permanent damage had been done, it was enough to hurt like fire and blur her vision, forcing her to step away.

Something - an elbow, she suspected, but she couldn't be sure, rammed her in the face, knocking her a step away. Even in her haze, however, she had the wherewithal to return fire, if only to keep Safiyah from running her over. She couldn't see, but thanks to the elbow she still had a good idea of where her foe was. She brought her leg up and shot it straight out, attempting to nail her opponent in the chest with a push kick while she backflipped towards the center of the ring.

[Lightman]

She felt it the way a drowning woman feels the tide turn—subtle, slow, then suddenly everywhere.

Asp’s body against hers was heat and pressure and something darker than either. There was a magnetism to her rival that couldn’t be denied, even now, even after everything. Their hatred had roots, deep and sprawling, but buried beneath that was an attraction neither of them had ever truly extinguished. The body remembered, whether it wanted to or not. And as Asp’s curves pressed into her, as their forms aligned in near-perfect symmetry, Safiyah’s body betrayed her in the smallest ways. The catch in her breath. The slow swell of heat beneath skin. The parting of lips, half-conscious. That low pulse of want.

Asp felt it, too. Of course she did. She always had a sixth sense for control—the moment it began to slip, the moment hesitation crept in. She seized the opening, not with grace but with force, her kiss crashing into Safiyah like a breaking wave, not asking for entrance but demanding it. The heat of it, the sharp insistence of tongue against tongue, teeth grazing lips—it wasn’t affection. It was conquest. A demand to feel. And for the briefest moment, Safiyah did. But then memory caught up to arousal.

She remembered the last match. How quickly Asp could turn pleasure into power. How fast desire could become distraction, control shifting on a moan, a twitch, a second too long spent surrendering to sensation.

Not again.

Her hand found freedom, then found Asp’s face. It wasn’t elegant. It wasn’t composed. But it was effective. Her palm slammed against her opponent’s cheek and clawed, not deep enough to scar but enough to sting, fingers raking across sensitive skin with surgical intent. Not the eyes—never the eyes—but close enough to send a warning. A boundary. A line drawn in fire.

The sound that came from Asp was immediate, sharp, visceral. Good. Safiyah followed with an elbow—blunt, fast, unforgiving—driving it into the blur where her opponent had just been, forcing distance, buying time. Her lip still tingled from the kiss. Her body still buzzed. But her mind was clear.

And then the kick came.

She’d expected some kind of return fire—Asp never let anything go unanswered—but this wasn’t retaliation so much as desperation. The push kick struck true, centre mass, hard enough to stagger her back a step, but not enough to floor her. Safiyah grunted softly, breath catching in her lungs as her balance swayed, her arms rising slightly to brace. She didn’t follow. Not yet.

Asp flipped away—more instinct than strategy, likely resetting, regrouping—and Safiyah let her go. She stood in place, one hand brushing her jaw, then lightly across her midsection where the kick had landed.

The kiss still lingered. Her lips burned from it. Her skin flushed, humming at a frequency that infuriated her. That Asp could still do this—even now, even after everything—was maddening.

Safiyah’s eyes narrowed. No words came. But her stance shifted, lowering just slightly, her fingers curling with intent. This wouldn’t be a sprint to dominance. This was war in phases. Fire traded for ice. Body for body. Touch for touch.

[BlackAkuma]

It was a testament to Safiyah’s beauty that, even with all the animosity between them and everything she’d done, Asp couldn't bring herself to stop desiring her. It wasn’t mentally possible for her to do so - she would need to erase everything about her sexuality, to reject all her tastes and preferences. The dark-skinned beauty ticked so many boxes that it was impossible otherwise.

Even now, with them parted, she still found herself lusting touch her foe once more, to feel their bodies pressed against each other. There was another universe where their last match hadn't ended in such infamy, and the two of them had spent a wonderful, lustful night together, buried beneath the sheets, covered in sweat, wreathed in passion. She envied the Asp of that universe, and while she doubted Safiyah would ever say as much out loud - especially now - she wagered the woman could say the same thing.

Such a shame.

While it earned her a scratched face, Asp would say her venture had been worth the effort, giving her valuable intel on her foe. While she might play at being the redoutable, implacable opponent, a fire was also burning beneath Safiyah’s skin. She was a woman, a human, and while she might not acknowledge them, her body would speak the truth…if Asp pressured it enough. She wasn’t a physicist by any means, but even she knew a simple fact about the universe - if you get something, anything, hot enough, it will burn.

Asp recovered in the middle of the ring, shaking her head and rubbing her face. The skin stung were Safiyah had claw, and she suspected there would be red mark forming in short order, but she couldn't feel any wetness aside from her growing perspiration, and her eyes were undamaged. Good news. Better still, her push kick had done its job, forcing her foe away long enough to ensure she didn’t have to worry about an immediate follow-up. They’d reset, effectively.

Asp had a path forward now, something to work with, but the trick would be getting Safiyah back to a point where she would be vulnerable to such an approach again, a hard sell made even harder when she was weary.

She kept her eyes forward and focused as she moved forward and began to circle Safiyah again, moving with more intent and purpose than at the start of the match now that her target was found. She wouldn’t wait for long this time, either - she moved forward after only a few steps and dashed in, bringing her leg up for a roundhouse kick…or what would appear to be one, at a glance.

Instead of following through, however, she stopped halfway, brought that leg down, and swung low with the other, using the shift in weight to aid her power as she attempted a sweep, slicing at Safiyah’s calves.

[Lightman]

Desire was a current. It’s always there. Always humming. Desire was a dangerous thing. It could be hidden, tempered, even silenced—but never fully killed.

It ran beneath the surface of every exchange with Asp, no matter how brutal. It curled between the glances, licked at the edges of each breath. Safiyah knew this intimately, had always known it. She had carried herself in discipline and ceremony, cloaked in control, but even the most carefully forged mask had its fractures. She felt it now, as the warmth of Asp’s body slowly faded from hers, leaving only the ghost of touch behind—a phantom heat that her nerves still chased. Her lip still bore the sting of their kiss. Her chest still rose slightly faster than it should have.

She hated that Asp could pull that out of her. She hated how easy it had been. How much more of herself does she need to purge out? Till she gets rid of the old skin? This…weakness?

The match had started in cold calculation, but somewhere between the whip of a Scorpion Kick and the brush of Asp’s lips, the edges had begun to blur. Now, as they circled again, Safiyah could feel the difference in the air between them. There was strategy, yes. Timing. Feints and angles. But there was also hunger. Not just to win, but to prove something. And she could feel Asp’s eyes on her again—not the eyes of a tactician, but a woman drawn to the very thing she wished she could destroy. Safiyah was no stranger to being desired. But it was the quality of Asp’s desire that made it different. It wasn’t infatuation or fantasy. It was grounded. Lived-in. Earned.

That, more than anything, made her dangerous.

They were back in the centre now, footwork light, pacing deliberate, and Safiyah matched her step for step. She could see it in Asp’s posture—her hips low, her arms tight, the predator’s glide in her movements. This wasn’t the reckless burst from earlier. She was hunting now.

Safiyah expected the kick before it came. The rise of the leg, the tell in the shoulder, the angle of approach. She saw the kick coming. Or, at least, what looked like a kick. The roundhouse was sharp, swift, and, for just a second, convincing. Safiyah’s eyes tracked it, her body preparing to lean back and let the strike pass her if needed. But the strike didn’t follow through. There was no impact. No recoil. Just a sudden dip as Asp dropped the leg—and in a blink, another came slicing low. A sweep. It was elegant in execution, deceptively smooth. A beat slower, still caught in the haze of want, or even a second’s underestimation of Asp’s rhythm, and Safiyah would have been on her back, swept off her feet.

She would fall back, just not in the way Asp would expect.

The Last Mehit committed fully to the backward leaning motion, investing more into it to create enough motion to lift her legs up. The sweep nearly knocked the violet combatant off balance as she landed on her back, her hands already pressing to the floor, her lower body nearly folded against the rest of her body. Then came the kip-up. Springing up with the practiced grace of a gymnast, though seeking to land on top of the Fire Wyrm, aiming to stomp her down to the ground.

[BlackAkuma]

If there was one thing Asp had learned since she became a hentai wrestler, it was that sex was a weapon. Though anyone could use it with some success, it took time and skill to master truly, and those who did stood apart from those who didn’t. Some approached hentai matches like they were just rough sex, aggressively humping and fucking and rutting like base animals, and then some treated it like the art form it could be. A dangerous style, a sword without a hilt.

As they approached the center and squared off again, Asp could envision them grasping the sword and fighting for control with iron grips. One of them would pull it away, eventually, but the only question was when and how?

Whatever the case, she would gain nothing by not taking the initiative, so that was what she did, moving in fast with her feint. For a moment, it worked. She could see Safiyah biting on it, preparing to avoid an attack that wasn’t coming.

It almost worked. Almost, almost, almost. What did the Americans say about that? Horseshoes and hand grenades?

The real kick came out, swept through the air, and for a golden second it looked like it might connect…but that was not to be. Safiyah threw herself back, once again showing her elite agility. At first, it looked like she might have fallen on accident, but Asp recognized her coiling muscles, taut and ready. She knew what was coming, and more importantly, where it would land.

She threw herself to the side, just in time to avoid the stomp, as the impact reverberated around her. A narrow dodge, but it created an opportunity, one she seized. Asp pushed up, hard and fast, leaping straight into the air and twisting her body around. Her legs clasped around her opponent’s head, and she pulled back, attempting to drag Safiyah through the air and send her flying with a hurricanrana.

[Lightman]

There was a philosophy to sex in the ring—not just a performance, not just titillation, but strategy. Few grasped that. Fewer still respected it. To most, hentai wrestling was a blur of heat and grind, lust masquerading as combat, bodies tangled in primal abandon. But Asp… Asp was a woman who understood the art behind the ache. Pleasure, weaponised, was a double-edged blade—brilliant in the right hands, devastating in the wrong.

Safiyah could see it in the way she moved now: how Asp leaned into the space between them with the same intensity she used for a strike. She measured every step, not just to wound but to tempt. This wasn’t about outmanoeuvring her opponent—it was about seduction as a tactic, using the curl of hips and flick of the tongue like a trained swordswoman wielding a naked blade. Reaching for the hilt and not letting go.

Safiyah must make peace with that hunger. Not needing to feel in order to fight.

A narrow dodge from the double stop and Asp went high, fast, punishing. A beautiful move, deceptively violent—a hurricanrana launched from a dead spring. Safiyah felt the legs lock around her neck, the torque of Asp’s body twisting mid-air, the pull beginning as gravity joined the fray.

Except it didn’t finish. Safiyah flipped. Her hands met the canvas in perfect synchrony, back arching into a fluid handspring as the momentum redirected and curved with her control. Her feet slapped the mat behind her as she landed upright, low, balanced—Asp’s grip broken in the aftermath, her own momentum spinning her to one knee as she began to rise.

And that’s when Safiyah struck. No pause. No windup.

She pivoted on the balls of her feet, her body snapping with coiled precision, one leg cutting upward in a ruthless arc—the Switchblade Kick. Aimed not at Asp’s chest. Not her side. But the back of her head—clean, cruel, and unannounced.

[BlackAkuma]

While Safiyah had ceased the momentum from the start, Asp took some comfort in knowing that she was the first to land one of the more traditional wrestling moves. A small victory on the face of it, she would admit, but she had the feeling she would have to savor every single moment of advantage against Safiyah. This time, they would be few and far between.

The hurricanrana had been one of the first wrestling moves she’d learned before she even met Sophia, and she had worked to perfect her execution for months. She always had the agility to pull off such a move, bu the timing had escaped her for the longest time, along with the subtle shift in weight and the follow through. Needless to say, she had fallen on her head a few times, and she had only so much confidence in her ability to pull it off in the ring.

Executing it in an actual match was satisfying. But after that execution, while she was raising up, her mind sounded an alarm bell, noting something was off. Safiyah’s body should’ve made a resounding impact after that move, but there had been a noticeable lack of a crash. It was almost as if-

Her budding suspicions were confirmed when she felt something hard crash against the neck and the arena echoed with the sound of slapping flesh—a kick. What kind, Asp couldn't say it, but it crashed on her neck with all the subtlety of a guillotine, forcing a silent cry out of her lips. She arched her back, hissed, and fell forward on her hands and knees as the pain coursed down her spine.

Safiyah had gotten her. Again.

[Lightman]

There were moments in every match—fleeting, razor-thin slivers of time—where everything clicked. Where instinct and preparation, precision and grace, all fused into one perfect strike. For Safiyah, this had been that moment.

She felt the impact of her heel reverberate through Asp’s body, a jolt of kinetic finality. It wasn’t just the kick itself—the timing, the angle, the message etched into the point of her foot. Asp had risen, triumphant in her hurricanrana, her body still coiled in the glow of a clean execution, her breath riding the high of connection. But Safiyah hadn’t fallen. Safiyah had flipped—and then she had cut.

The silence at the moment after the kick was louder than the crowd. No shout, no triumphant roar. Just the quiet, jagged rhythm of Asp’s breath hitching, the subtle clench of her frame, the way she folded—grace no longer an option, only reaction.

Safiyah didn’t celebrate. She followed.

Asp was down, braced on her hands and knees, the pain written in the line of her shoulders and the tremble in her breath. Safiyah could see the way the blow had rippled down her spine. That silence—that pause—was the moment.

She moved behind her fluidly, a glide across the mat, before she leapt high. Her knees, backed with the full weight of Safiyah, sought to drive Asp fully to the ground, squished underneath like a bug. If that had happened, her arms would already have begun reaching before Asp finished flopping underneath. One arm slipped around Asp’s throat, forearm pressed firmly against windpipe, elbow nestled under the chin. The other threaded behind the head, locking bicep to wrist in a brutal loop.

A Rear Naked Choke—but one with intent behind it.

[BlackAkuma]

The longer this match went on, the harder it was for Asp to accept that this was the same woman she’d tangled with a few weeks ago. It seemed inconceivable to believe that this was the same woman she’d beaten before - no, that had not been an easy match by any stretch of the imagination, but it was a far cry from the hill she found herself climbing now. The movements were the same, but it was like she had swapped minds with someone who knew how to use her body better. Everything was more efficient. Polished. Focused.

It was that mindset that had gotten the better of Asp in this last exchange, which allowed Safiyah to land a devastating, decapitating blow to the back of her neck. The strike stung like fire, and she knew a bruise would be forming there in short order. Down she went, cradling the aching spot, hissing as the pain ran its course.

Get up. She needed to get up. Needed to get up before-

It was too late. Twin daggers shot into Asp’s back, driving her into the canvas and forcing all the wind out of her, cracking her in half beneath Safiyah’s weight. The noise she made had no business coming from a human, a feral wail tearing its way through her lung, and she flopped back to the canvas as a lifeless wreck a moment later.

The arm came around her neck, the legs slipped around her waist, and Asp found herself in a familiar hold, once again trapped in Safiyah’s rear naked choke. Unlike before, however, there was no warmth, passion, or gentleness of the previous embrace. Safiyah’s body moved with malice, all Asp could do for the moment was weakly paw at her arms, desperate for relief.

[Lightman]

There was no thrill in this. No vindication. Only inevitability.

Asp’s body had crumpled beneath her with the perfect sound—wet, ragged, breathless. It hadn’t been the strike alone that gutted her, but the precision behind it. Timing honed to the second, weight distributed with cruel elegance. Safiyah hadn’t needed to roar. She hadn’t needed to scream. She simply landed.

And now, she held.

The Rear Naked Choke was locked in, not with fury, but with a kind of clinical detachment that made it all the more punishing. Her forearm pressed tighter against Asp’s throat, not jerking, not wrenching—just sinking, inexorable and unrelenting. She could feel the flutter of Asp’s pulse beneath her bicep, the way her struggling hands trembled more from shock than defiance.

Safiyah’s grip didn’t budge. Her breath was steady, exhaled across the shell of Asp’s ear in rhythm with her own slow heartbeat. There was no sensual whisper this time, no cruel tease. Just presence. Cold. Unforgiving. A woman who had decided that this was where Asp would stay.

But Safiyah wasn’t finished. She shifted slightly, her hips lifting just enough to grind the bone of her pelvis into the small of Asp’s back, not for pleasure, but to dig in. Her heel hooked in tighter against the inside of Asp’s thigh, her toes flexing as she pulled, adding a new tension that turned the hold into a cruel geometry of strain. Her free hand trailed up Asp’s body—not gently, not tenderly, but searching—until it found a handful of fabric near the base of her top.

And then, with exacting calm, she yanked. Not enough to strip—no, not yet—but enough to twist it painfully against Asp’s ribs, distorting the garment into a second grip. Something else she could control. Something else she could own. It would make the choke tighter. More suffocating. More personal.