Safiyah Neferet vs. The Morrigan - Goddesses of War

[BlackAkuma]

Ritsuko hated doing these weird hentai matches. It was already awkward enough participating in a regular hentai match, having to stand in the middle of the ring and figure out when a person was orgasming, something they didn’t exactly train you for in school. But coming to some strange woman’s sex dungeon and watching as this boisterous bruiser and the creepy Egyptian tore each other apart?

Awkward. Even by LAW standards, awkward.

What was more, they made her wear this weird striped lingerie for the occasion, as if the two woman doing the actual wrestling weren’t sexy enough by themselves. The good news was that she didn’t have to get too close to the action, always a concern for a referee when dealing wrestlers like this. All she needed to do was be close enough to hear the loser, whomever they may be…a task she might have to perform soon, by the looks of it.

She watched as Safiyah finally knocked Morrigan out, leaving her to slump against the cross, her own cross in her own dungeon. She’d be lying if she said it wasn’t one of the more intense hentai-oriented matches she’d seen, even if only one of the wrestlers got in most of the offense. They were both dangerous, but there was something about Safiyah that was making a lot of her fellow officials give her a wide berth, and part of the reason that she’d not wanted to be here was all the trouble she’d had with Asp…

Thankfully, it seemed like Safiyah didn’t even realize she existed, a state of affairs she hoped to continue as the woman dismounted and went about her work, getting the other arm tied up. She worked quick, which was a good thing - even as she finished cinching the knot, Morrigan was already starting to stir.

She came out of the stupor with groggy eyes and began to squirm about. She pulled at her bonds, woke up more, then pulled harder and harder and harder, until she was fully roused and thrashing, struggling to free herself and failing at every turn. ”Fucking hell, let me go!”

[Lightman]

Safiyah’s breathing had steadied, though the ache in her ribs lingered, a dull throb beneath the calm mask she wore. Binding Morrigan had been a task of patience and leverage, not strength, every knot drawn taut with deliberate economy. The giantess’s frame sagged heavy against the cross, her weight straining the ropes, but Safiyah had cinched them well. She gave the final tie one last pull, her lean arms flexing with quiet resolve, before stepping back.

The stirrings came quickly. Safiyah watched in silence as Morrigan’s head lolled, then lifted, the grogginess burning away beneath a swell of fury. Her thrashing rattled the timber frame, boots scraped the stone floor, curses spilling loud into the chamber. Safiyah did not flinch. Her dark eyes remained fixed, unreadable, neither amused nor angered. The ropes held.

She turned, padding barefoot across the dungeon floor, every step unhurried. The wall of implements greeted her; steel, leather, wood, and cord hung in neat alignment. She trailed her fingers lightly along them until she reached what she sought: the cat-o’-nine-tails. The leather strands hung limp in her hand as she pulled it free, feeling its weight, letting the ends drag whisper-soft against her palm.

Her gaze drifted once, only once, to the striped figure by the edge of the chamber. The referee’s awkward posture, the way she shifted uneasily in her revealing attire, drew only a faint, dismissive scoff from Safiyah. Irrelevant. The woman was not here for her.

Safiyah turned back to the cross. The whip rose, and with a sharp flick of her wrist, it cracked through the air before biting against Morrigan’s back. The strands snapping loud against flesh, the impact echoing in the stone chamber. “You will not tell me what to do.”

[BlackAkuma]

Fuck, Morrigan loved this.

You’d be forgiven for thinking differently, though, what with the way she was struggling in the bonds and thrashing around like a chained beast, threatening to break her costly piece of hardware. She had an image to maintain, after all. She was the brute. The wrecking ball. She didn’t submit, she didn’t give in, you couldn't tame her.

Except…you could. It wasn’t easy to get to Morrigan’s submissive side, but it was there, and Safiyah was already getting closer to it than she might have realized. But she wasn’t about to make it easy for the woman.

She was still squirming when Safiyah came back with the cat-o'-nine-tails in her hands, admiring the craftsmanship as she approached. For good reason, too - Sabine had gotten that one custom made and it cost her a pretty penny. Carved handle, genuine leather, hand-carved. ”Aw, that’s cute.” She chuckled as the Egyptian approached with her cold, dead eyes. ”You even know how to use that thing?”

In the next moment, Safiyah showed that she very much did, as she brought the whip down on Morrigan’s back with a sizzling strike, cutting deep into her flesh. Morrigan hissed and arched her back, seething in the ropes for a moment, only to look back with at her with a taunting, feral grin. ”What if I tell you to hit harder?”

[Lightman]

The whip’s heft felt right in Safiyah’s hand, her grip relaxed but firm. The handle was smooth, cool against her palm, the leather strands brushing faintly against her bare thigh as she stepped closer. Morrigan’s taunt met nothing but silence, those cold eyes fixed upon her, unreadable, as though the giant’s words had not even touched her ears.

The first strike had been only a taste. Safiyah knew it. Morrigan knew it. The faint welt raised on her back was proof enough that she remembered how to wield such a thing, though truthfully her mind flickered, just briefly, to years past. To her weaker self. Blue hair, a dim room pulsing with bass, a club where masked faces moved in shadows. She had stood in silence, watching as a woman in latex held court with a whip alone, each snap commanding reverence, each stroke bending the strongest to their knees. Safiyah had not forgotten the sound of leather against skin, nor the stillness of candle wax dripped slowly and unyielding across trembling flesh. Pleasure and pain made indistinguishable.

The memory lingered only long enough to sharpen her intent. She raised her arm again, the whip arcing through the dungeon’s air, striking true across Morrigan’s broad back. This time the sound was louder, the impact crisper, a bloom of red flaring where the strands landed.

“I would say you're wasting your breath.”

She swung again, the rhythm deliberate, each lash measured as though composing a pattern only she could see. There was no haste, no frenzy, just patience and control. Safiyah’s bare feet shifted slightly on the cold floor, toes pressing firm as she angled the whip to draw new lines across Morrigan’s flesh, each one a reminder that resistance only fed her resolve.

The grin on the bound woman’s face meant nothing. Safiyah read beneath it, saw the truth in the tightening of muscles and the controlled hisses between her teeth. She adjusted her stance, shoulders loose, wrist relaxed, preparing for the next strike.

“More?”

[BlackAkuma]

Despite the taunt Morrigan made, Safiyah’s technique wasn’t too bad. She wasn’t sure if this was the woman’s first time using a whip like that, but if it wasn’t, then she had some natural talent. It wasn’t exactly science or anything. Still, it was undoubtedly something someone could fuck up without proper practice - they would either go so light that the strikes were practically meaningless or so hard that you did real, permanent damage. The latter had been an experience that Morrigan had gone through in her earlier days, when she’d gotten a little too into a particularly vigorous session - a hospital visit had been involved.

Safiyah knew how to hit the sweet spot. It might have seemed like too much to glean for a single strike, but a basketball player could gauge someone’s skill from a single shot, a boxer could learn loads from watching a single punch. She recognized the technique in the movement, the subtle movements in the Egyptian’s form, the way her body leaned into the hit, how the power from the strike flow through her body.

It was good form. The Morrigan would applaud, but, you know…

Another strike, just as good - or bad - as the first. The Morrigan couldn't stifle her cry this time, though it came out as more like a feral growl, a muffled roar, bestial and blunt. She pressed against the cross as her muscles rippled behind, shifting about as her skin burned.

Again. Safiyah was finding her rhythm, now.

[Lightman]

Safiyah watched the leather kiss flesh again, a clean arc that snapped with precision rather than cruelty. The mark bloomed red, bright and perfect, no ragged edge, no bloom of purple that would linger for weeks. Good. She had wondered, in the half-second before the first fall, whether this woman truly understood the difference between pain that sang and pain that broke. Now she knew.

Morrigan’s spine bowed against the cross, a ripple of muscle beneath pale skin, and the sound that tore from her throat was raw, animal, almost defiant. It curled in the warm air like smoke. Safiyah felt the echo of it between her own ribs.

Another strike. The same weight, the same follow-through that travelled from shoulder to hip to the bare soles of Safiyah’s feet, grounded her to the stone floor. She rarely smiles these days. But the corners of her mouth eased a fraction, the smallest acknowledgement.

She was finding the rhythm now, the quiet pulse that lived beneath the skin of every willing body. Each fall of the whip was a question, and Morrigan answered with that low, bestial growl, with the involuntary clench of thighs and the tremor that ran through bound wrists. The answer pleased her.

Safiyah shifted her weight, toes spreading against cool marble, and let the whip coil once more at her side. She studied the lattice of welts already rising, the way they framed the older scar that cut diagonally across the left shoulder blade, a souvenir from someone less careful, long ago.

“Still breathing fire.” she murmured, voice low, almost gentle, the words brushed more than spoken. “Good.” Then she drew her arm back and struck again, precise as a surgeon, fierce as a lover.

[BlackAkuma]

It was the tension that drove Morrigan crazy. Pain, she could deal with. She was adept at dishing that out and taking it, long before she’d ever touched a whip. The veteran of more barfights than she cared to count, even at her young age, she had taken so much more than Safiyah could dish out—broken bones, brutalized organs, concussions, fractures, gashes, and on and on and on. Her body was designed to endure, and she bore the proof of that with so many scars that she’d actually forgotten where some of them came from.

But what drove her crazy, truly insane, was the sweet silence between every strike, not knowing where the next strike would fall. Everyone though being a dominatrix was purely about pain, just whipping away until the submissive had enough, but no - the mental aspect was the most important. Psychology could accomplish more than even the kinkiest toy.

Safiyah understood that.

The only question now was how long Morrigan wanted to drag this on. She’d already had her orgasm, and the Egyptian had her dead to right. It was clear that she was more than happy to whip her to shreds, and as much as she would’ve enjoyed that, there was little purpose in letting things drag on. Not when the possibility of something more enticing loomed large.

The Morrigan stewed over for a moment, chewed her lip, but the latest strike was enough to push her over the breaking point. Her body jolted in the chains, dancing about like a puppet on loose strings, before she came to rest against the crazy. ”Mmm…I…” SHe muttered through her clenched teeth, building up the moment. ”I submit.”

[Lightman]

Safiyah let the whip rest, its tail pooling like spilled ink across the marble between her bare feet. The silence that followed was hers alone; she had crafted it, breath by deliberate breath, and now it pressed against the bound woman’s skin harder than any chain.

Morrigan hung forward, boots scraping stone, every muscle trembling in the aftermath of a war fought with pauses instead of fists. The proud column of her spine bowed at last, auburn hair plastered to her neck, and the words came cracked and reluctant, dragged across broken glass.

I submit.

Safiyah felt them land inside her chest like warm lead: heavy, irreversible. Victory, for her, never shouted. It simply arrived and took up residence, quiet and absolute. A slow bloom unfolded beneath her ribs, deeper than lust, steadier than pride. She had taken a woman built for battle, a woman who collected scars the way others collected stories, and she had undone her with nothing more than measured silence and the promise of something much greater in submission.

The contrast intoxicated her. All that height, all that brawn, the bulk, the power…and still the waiting had broken her first. Safiyah tasted the power the way one tastes smoke: slow, lingering, impossible to rush. Ownership, true ownership, felt richer than any climax ever wrung from her own body.

She stepped closer until the heat rolling off Morrigan’s striped back warmed her bare skin. One small hand rose, brushed damp hair from a flushed cheek with the same fingers that had guided the whip moments earlier. Tenderness after precision. Mercy after conquest.

“An impressive body. One that can endure longer than most.” She said, voice low, almost conversational. “And it’s mine now.”

Her palm slid down the column of a shuddering throat and rested over the frantic pulse she had earned the right to calm or quicken. She could paint the rest of that broad back crimson. She could leave her hanging until dawn. Or she could choose something else entirely.

Safiyah’s gaze drifted over the lattice of fresh welts, the older scar that cut diagonally across the left shoulder blade like a careless signature from someone long ago. “You can stop being the strongest thing in this room. Lay your true desires bare. All to me.”

[BlackAkuma]

The Morrigan said the words, but they didn't come easily.

It wasn’t simply pride, though that was part of it. There was something about not just losing, but losing under her own roof, that stung. A silly thing, it wasn’t as if her turf granted her special powers, but a dominatrix should be the mistress of her own domain, if nothing else. It was certainly a slight that Sabine would not be letting her live down.

But she was a stubborn woman by nature. A little stereotypical for an Irishwoman, sure, but they didn’t earn that reputation for nothing, and she never shied away from it. She didn’t break easily, so when someone managed it, that was a true accomplishment.

Kudos to Safiyah, then. The Morrigan wondered if the woman truly appreciated the feat she’d accomplished.

Her touch was on Morrigan in the next moment, caressing her cheeks and going to her throat was soft but stern possessive. Gentle, compared to what had come before, but it communicated well what her own words confirmed a moment later: The Morrigan was hers. Her toy to play with. Her toy to break.

She shivered at the thought and grew slack in the bonds, sagging against the cross as she left herself open to whatever Safiyah had planned next. To her surprise, though, the woman didn’t offer violence, but something more tender. More intriguing.

She spoke, for one thing, saying more words in succession than she had for their entire time together thus far. There was a silky sweetness to her tone, dangerous and dulcet all at once, with an unmistakable authority that brooked no descension. The Morrigan knew right away how to respond - after all, she had been in the driver’s seat so many times.

”You’re my desire, goddess.” She closed her eyes and stretched against the cross,as the massive muscles beneath her skin grew and hardened. ”Release me and I’ll worship you properly.”

[Lightman]

Safiyah watched the words form on Morrigan’s lips, each one dragged out like a confession from a reluctant priestess. They hung in the air, heavy with the weight of what they cost. She could see the pride flickering behind those eyes, the subtle flinch at having yielded here, in this chamber that had always been the Irishwoman’s sanctum. No special aura clung to these walls, but defeat tasted sharper when it came on familiar ground. Safiyah felt no need to gloat; the victory spoke for itself.

But stubbornness died hard in a woman like this. It showed in the set of her jaw, the way her body had held out longer than reason demanded. Irish fire, unyielding as legend. Safiyah appreciated the rarity of it. Breaking someone who bent so rarely carried its own quiet thrill, a feat etched not in scars but in the slow surrender of will.

She reached out then, her fingers tracing the curve of a flushed cheek before settling at the throat, possessive yet light, a reminder of ownership claimed. The shiver that followed pleased her, Morrigan’s frame going slack against the cross, all that coiled power finally unwinding. No more resistance, just openness to whatever came next.

And tenderness surprised even Safiyah a little. She had planned precision, not this softer edge, but the moment called for it. Her bare toes flexed against the cool marble as she leaned in closer, the heat from Morrigan’s skin mingling with her own.

She spoke more than usual, words spilling out in a voice laced with honeyed danger, sweet yet commanding, leaving no room for debate. “The moment I release you…there will be no room for disappointment.”

With that, Safiyah began reaching out for the first knot, unravelling the effort it took to keep this juggernaut trapped. All the while, she watched Morrigan. Staring deep into her soul and all the secrets that lay bare. Her being in bondage is actually where she can be herself and act of her own free will. Once unbound, the Morrigan will obey Safiyah’s commands.

Mind, body and soul.