Storm v The Morrigan – Bar Brawl Hardcore Match

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Her dirty headbutt should have won her an advantage, but Storm somewhat squandered it by stopping to indulge in excited thoughts about what ‘winner on top’ could entail. She wasn’t sure if the ferocious Morrigan would suffer her own forfeit with good grace, or if the domme would be absolutely fuming, but it’d justify playing with bondage toys at the very least. In any event, Storm was certain that imposing carnal control over this woman would be an absolute delight.

Her enthusiasm for entering into this high-stakes pact shone through as she slammed a quick fist into Morrigan’s stomach. The Irish woman grunted, but stood firm, only needing a second to compose herself.

Shit.

Despite everything, Morrigan could still take a punch. Storm had been running on fumes, and launched a half-baked attack. It hadn’t been enough, and now she was wide open for the retaliation.

“Unhff!” Storm groaned as the goth ran bodily into her. The tired Scot would have almost certainly fallen had Morrigan not slung her strong arms around her, holding her tight, and dragged her, staggering, across the bar.

This had intent, which the groggy Storm found quite ominous, but her weak squirms weren’t enough to do anything about it. With a pang of apprehension, Storm realised her fantasies about toying with the dark-haired domme all night could very easily be reversed. That would be… torrid, to say the least. Morrigan obviously wasn’t one for half-measures, so if she had her hooks in you, she’d doubtless use them. Storm felt a shiver down her spine at the prospect.

Her spine was soon to have other problems too. Turning this into a contest for topping rights seemed to have energised Morrigan as much as it had Storm, the Irishwoman showing yet more impressive strength as she shaped for a power move, using the chest hold to pick Storm up for a suplex.

By rights, Storm should have been terrified of her impending demolition, but at this point she was almost impressed at Morrigan’s endless reserves of ruthless aggression. Her world flipped and she braced herself for something painful.

Her heart skipped a beat as she felt the suplex release at the apex, and her battered body was left to sail through the air.

“Fuckkk!!” she cried as she crashed into the pool table, as shocked as she was hurt. The thin green felt offered no cushioning for her fall, and the Scot spasmed in pain as her back took the brunt of the spectacular impact. The table juddered, but the solid wood construction held firm, leaving Storm on top, writhing in agony.

An observer might have been shocked that they’d manage to pull a move in this match that didn’t result in the immediate destruction of an item of furniture, but the novelty was lost on the suffering Storm. Her spine had already taken an unfathomable amount of abuse in this match, and the fresh damage was flooding Storm’s senses with renewed, white-hot pain. Hurt and disoriented, she flailed weakly on the green felt and clutched at her back with a grimace.