Tomás Ferreira vs. Ayumi “Velvet Vice” Tanaka – Slick Revival

[GoingBananas]

Match Type: Oil Wrestling Match, Scored Match: First to 10 points wins.
Additional Stipulations: Match takes place in a shallow, oil-slicked pit.
Victory Conditions:

Points are awarded as follows:

• 1 Point for a tapout

• 2 Points for a forced orgasm

• 3 Points for a knockout (KO)

• Tapouts do not stop the match; action continues after a point is awarded unless it is a KO.

• After a KO, the match pauses briefly to allow the victim to recover before resuming.

• The match continues until one wrestler reaches 10 points.

It had been a long time since LAW’s lights had touched his skin.

The hush of the crowd beyond the set was different here. Softer. Not the roar of a stadium, but the indistinct murmur of an audience given something sultry, slow-burning, a spectacle painted in glistening skin and carefully placed shadows. The dome felt familiar, high above and enclosing the ring in dim lighting and thick tension. Around the edge of the glistening pit sat rows of raised seats, filled with LAW fans leaning in close, eager eyes drawn to the intimacy of it all. They weren’t shouting. They didn’t need to. Their silence said everything: this was not just a match. It was theater.

Tomás Ferreira stood just beyond the edge of the frame, bare shoulders catching the glow of an overhead fixture, the curve of his collarbone shining like sculpture brought to life. He hadn’t stepped into this place in months. Not since Cleo. Not since the lessons he’d learned left bruises that never quite faded, ego-deep, invisible, but never truly gone. He told himself it was just for the money. LAW had reached out again. A new offer. Or perhaps it’s them using old bait that worked before. He remembered the oil match with Dalia had been…manageable. Even fun. This would be no different. That was the lie he fed himself while standing there in the dark, his reflection caught in a tall gilded mirror: lean, honed, unarmored.

He wore simple black Muay Thai shorts, slick with a light sheen of oil already applied backstage. The fit was snug but practical, cut high to allow for full mobility. An odd choice for an oil match, however. He’d once worn this with pride. But after a few matches, he didn’t care if it got even more sullied. Humiliation wasn’t new to him here. He wore it as he wore the bruises. Quietly. Bitterly. With restraint.

A low chime signaled it was time. His entrance.

He stepped through the curtain and onto the oil-slick set, his bare feet meeting the glossy mat with a muted slap. Every step left a faint imprint, vanishing behind him like footprints in water. His jaw clenched, not because he was afraid, but because he remembered. He kept his face impassive, like a man preparing for a fight even if the rules were written in satin and oil instead of blood and bone. The pit shimmered ahead of him, a shallow, gleaming surface reflecting the overhead lights like liquid gold. He paused at the edge, letting the atmosphere bleed into his skin. Cheers rippled faintly from the dome’s curved walls, but there was reverence in it. Anticipation. A crowd waiting for the lamb to be slaughtered.

Tomás exhaled slowly, then stepped into the pit. The oil greeted him with a cold kiss against his feet, then his ankles. His muscles were already slick from the dressing room, a pre-bout gloss that only deepened as he lowered himself into the shallow basin, crouching for balance. His thighs flexed, lean strength underneath polished skin. It wasn’t his kind of battlefield. But he was on it now.

First to ten points. Not just tapouts, they barely mattered. Orgasm. Knockouts. Points stacked like shame in front of the cameras. There was no dignity in this match type, no mercy in the rules. Tap, moan, or sleep. That was the choice.

He didn’t look at the crowd. Not yet. His focus was on the opposite end of the dome, where the curtain still hung untouched. Where Ayumi hadn’t entered. But she would. And when she did, she’d make it hers. He assumed that was the kind of woman she was. He’d say he hadn’t come for the foreplay. But his eyes betrayed the truth. He was here for it, whether he admitted it or not.

Tomás straightened, bringing his hands up. Shoulders squared, breath steady. And for the first time in far too long, he gave the cameras a look that said he hadn’t drowned yet. That there was still fight in him. Otherwise…he wouldn’t have shown his face here.

[Parker]

Ayumi had grown to believe oil matches were more fun than people gave them credit for. Slippery, silly, and humiliating if you let them be, but they had a charm all their own.

She hadn’t always felt that way. In her earliest days, back before LAW’s banners hung above her head, she hated oil matches. The bright, unkind lights. The rougher production sets. The cheap cameras catching every stumble. And she stumbled a lot. Her pride had been raw back then, and the idea of falling flat on her face, or worse, flailing helplessly in front of a live audience, made her cheeks burn. And yet, time after time, that was exactly what happened. She slipped. She slid. She looked clumsy and awkward, her limbs caught in tangles she didn’t know how to fight out of.

It was embarrassing. Maddening, even. She remembered going home more than once with her jaw aching, not from the match, but from how tightly she’d grit her teeth in frustration. She thought that if she worked harder, if she kept throwing herself back into the pit, if she stubbornly forced herself through the humiliation, then eventually she’d master it. She told herself she needed to impress. Needed to show she could conquer any challenge if she wanted to rise.

But the funny thing was, her failures had forged something she hadn’t expected. Not dominance. Not mastery. Not at first. What they forged was attention. Fans adored her not because she won, but because she looked unforgettable even in loss. The way her body slid and twisted under the lights, the sheen of oil catching every curve, the flashes of frustration in her eyes, they made her magnetic. She scowled, she pouted, she struggled, and the crowd drank it in. Every tumble, every slip, every exhausted sprawl only pulled them closer. She might have left the pit furious with herself, but her audience had already decided they wanted to see her again.

And then, when her luck began to turn, when she learned to dig her knees into the slick surface, when she stopped fighting the slide and started flowing with it, her fans were ready. They had followed her through the indignities of those losses, and now they were ready to cheer even louder when she evolved, when she transformed into someone who wasn’t just surviving oil but thriving in it. Her dominance didn’t erase the memory of those early failures. It made them sweeter. It made the story whole.

Looking back now, Ayumi couldn’t help but laugh. She had been so frustrated, so consumed with the idea of proving herself, that she hadn’t realized how much fun she was having in the heat of things. She had cursed the oil for making a fool of her, but in hindsight, those matches had been some of the most exhilarating moments of her career. They had given her character as much as they had given her scars.

And stepping back into the oil again now, she felt none of the dread she once carried. Only fondness. Nostalgia. Excitement. This was where she had first learned that losing could win her just as much as victory ever could. And now, with experience and confidence honed by years, she was eager to slide into it again,not as the flailing rookie who hated the oil, but as the woman who had made it hers.

And tonight, with the familiarly intimate crowd eager murmurs pressing at her ears, she found herself smiling. She had missed this.

The low chime echoed again, signaling her arrival. From the opposite curtain,

emerged to the soft flood of light, her bare feet glistening even before they touched the oil. Her hair, lavender and pink strands catching the dim glow, was tied back in a low ponytail. She wore a sleek two-piece of dark silk with pink trim, minimal by design, meant to accentuate how quickly it would be streaked and slicked. Already, her skin gleamed faintly with the gloss rubbed in backstage and a fresh coat dribbled down across her back and shoulders before she had emerged, a knowing preparation for the pit.

She waltzed down the path to the pit, each movement unhurried, hips swaying lightly as though she were stepping onto a ballroom floor instead of into a basin of oil. The crowd’s hush shifted into a ripple of chuckles and scattered excited murmurs in this quieter venue; Ayumi always brought them along with her. She didn’t need to command them. They followed her rhythm naturally.

At the pit’s edge, she paused, tilting her head at Tomás across the way. He seemed so serious, a statue carved from tension. Ayumi’s grin only widened. She dipped her frame at the pit's edge, sliding herself down into the shallow oil on her knees in an easy glide, riding the momentum for a few inches before she came to a stop. Her fingertips dragged a path across the soaked mats, leaving small paths that oil slowly collapsed back into.

She arched her back into a rise, extending towards the height of her knees, thighs parted in a wide base, anchored so firmly it was hard to tell she was covered in slick oil. Ayumi idly collected oil from the ground beneath her, tracing it along her calves all the while keeping her balance practiced, deliberate.

"It's always lovely to see another person whose body is both muse and canvas," she said aloud, her voice warm and lilting, carrying easily in the dome. She regarded Tomás’ tattoos with a playful curiosity, tilting her head as she let her eyes wander. "You’ve all the look of a man who's come to fight a war. I hope I’ve enough spirit in me to match your ferocity."

Her eyes glittered as she smiled across at Tomás, playful, challenging, almost conspiratorial.

[GoingBananas]

Tomás shifted his stance again, weight rolling from the ball of one foot to the edge of the other, a silent reminder of how little control the oil ever gave him. Even just standing there, he could feel the floor plotting against him, ready to take his legs out if he grew careless. He didn’t hate that feeling, not exactly, but it never came easy either. This pit wasn’t built for him, not for strikes or sharp footing. It was a surface that swallowed rhythm, that made power slip sideways.

He had seen men laugh at oil matches. Women too. They called them sideshows, a distraction, something cheap to fill time. But watching Ayumi arrive, watching how she moved without resistance, he could almost believe what they said. Almost. The trick wasn’t in denying the absurdity. The trick was knowing how to carry yourself when the ground didn’t care about dignity.

Tomás remembered his own first time in oil, and it was not something he carried fondly. His footing had been clumsy then, and it still isn’t natural now. He remembered stepping into the oil that day with the same thought that ran through him tonight: keep upright, keep calm, don’t let it own you. And every time, without fail, he had slipped. Not always spectacularly, but enough to sting. Enough to remember later when the lights were off. The shame of looking foolish didn’t vanish with the towel. It lingered, clinging tighter than sweat ever could.

When Ayumi glided down into the oil, it was nothing like his own awkward descent moments earlier. She seemed to have embraced that fall. And the Portuguese fighter could see it in how she carried herself now, how she had made the oil bend into part of her character instead of her enemy. She had fed the crowd even when she was sliding flat on her stomach, turned every stumble into a story they wanted to watch again. Tomás knew he didn’t have that luxury. For him, mistakes didn’t turn into magnetism. They just turned into more bruises, more whispers about whether someone of his ilk belonged here at all.

And yet, he was here. He had said yes to the match knowing it wasn’t his battlefield. Knowing she thrived where he simply attempt to endure. Money might have pulled him back into this pit, but pride kept him upright now, shoulders squared, breathing even.

The lights seemed sharper as she stepped through them. Ayumi’s entrance wasn’t loud, but it didn’t need to be. He could see the crowd lean toward her, their murmur rippling like a tide drawn by her sway. Her silk flashed pink against the black, her skin already gleaming with oil. She was prepared before she even touched the pit. She didn’t just walk onto the stage; she carried it with her, reshaped it around her body.

Tomás stayed still. He didn’t dare try to match that kind of presence. He couldn’t. His fight had never been about spectacle. Not in the ring, not in the pit. His tattoos and scars told enough stories without him adding to them, his face stayed locked, unreadable, even as her eyes lingered on him. She can smile. She can drip confidence. He wasn’t here to play along.

But the truth bled through his silence. His grip on balance wasn’t perfect. His feet shifted just slightly, toes curling against the mat for any hold they could find. And when she slid down into the pit as though gravity was her ally instead of her enemy, he knew the gulf between them wasn’t just skill. It was comfort. She belonged here. He was trespassing.

Her voice broke the hush. He caught the warmth of it, playful and sure, and the way her eyes wandered his tattoos like they were maps to be read. A man of war, she called him. Maybe so. But definitely not here. Here, he was only a man trying not to fall.

He gave her a small shake of his head, lips curving just enough to show it wasn’t anger. “War doesn’t feel like this.” Tomás answered, his accent giving the words a heavier rhythm and a rough edge that came from his upbringing. “War doesn’t make the ground slip under your feet before it even begins.”

His hand brushed down his thigh, slick already. He flexed his fingers, checked his balance again, then lifted his gaze back to her. “But…if you want spirit,” he added, softer now, almost more to himself than to her. “I’ll give you that.”

[Parker]

Ayumi lowered herself into the oil with practiced ease, knees sinking into the shallow slick as though she were settling into a familiar seat rather than a battleground. The contrast between them was stark, Tomás standing tall, shoulders square, eyes wary, while she remained comfortably folded low, the oil already clinging to her thighs, her hands resting loosely on them as though this were nothing more than a casual chat.

Her gaze flicked upward to meet his, a faint smile tugging at her lips. She tilted her head, hair spilling across one shoulder, studying him in a way that wasn’t mocking so much as curious. "You do look the part," she said lightly, voice carrying that velvet lilt, "like a soldier dropped into a war he didn’t choose."

The announcer’s voice began to echo overhead, clear and formal as he ticked through the rules: first to ten points, how each was gained, no rope breaks, and of course, no disqualifications. Ayumi didn’t spare him more than a fraction of her attention, she’d heard them all before. Instead, her focus lingered on Tomás, on the tension etched into his jaw and the restless shuffle of his stance.

"No need to stand at attention, hm?" she teased, her hand tracing idle shapes into the slick sheen beneath her. "If you want to last in here, you’ll need to loosen up. Meet me where I am, not where you wish we were." She gestured lazily toward the pit between them, the glimmer of the oil catching like glass under the lights. "There’s no reason this has to be a bad experience for you."

As the announcer droned through the final clauses, counting knockouts, scoring taps, the time limit ticking away, Ayumi rocked back slightly on her heels, posture relaxed, gaze steady. Her smile softened, warm but mischievous. "Relax. Forget about them, forget about the cameras. Tonight is just us. Make me feel like I am the only woman in the world."

Her words slipped into a gentle laugh, light as the oil rippling beneath her knees. It was an invitation, not a command, though she carried it with the same confidence. Almost as if on queue, a long buzzer sounded, markijg the start of the match.

[GoingBananas]

Tomás bent his knees, letting the oil greet him in uneven swirls that clung to his shins. It was colder than he expected, sharp against the heat in the room, and every movement pulled at his balance like the floor wanted him down before he even began. He saw how easily she had sunk into it, her body loose, posture fluid, like she belonged to the pit in a way he never could. The difference between them showed itself without either of them needing to speak.

When her eyes lifted to his, he didn’t look away. He heard her words, soft as silk, soldier this, war that, and though they were meant as a tease, they still struck something true. He hadn’t chosen this war. But he was in it. He shifted his weight again, testing the ground, forcing his muscles to stay taut even though they wanted to coil tighter.

The announcer’s voice rang out above them, clean and practised, laying down rules Tomás already knew but didn’t need reminding of. Every clause, every condition, they were things he had repeated to himself in the quiet before stepping out. Ten points. No rope. No breaks. Just oil and skin and struggle until one of them couldn’t move anymore. He let the man speak but gave his attention back to Ayumi, catching the shapes her hands drew against the mat as if she was sketching a rhythm only she could feel.

Her voice cut again, softer now but still steady, urging him to loosen up, to meet her low instead of towering where he was. He almost laughed. Easy for her to say, when the oil loved her steps and hated his. Still, he dropped down lower, crouched into the pit, hands spreading wide like a man testing water before he dove in. “You tell me to relax....” he muttered, words edged with his accent. “...but I can’t afford to. Especially not here. Not now.”

The final words from the announcer echoed out. Knockouts, taps, the count. The timer ticked on somewhere unseen. Tomás rolled his shoulders once, shook out his arms, and for a brief second let himself forget about the crowd. Forget the cameras. There was only her in front of him, her smile like a dare. “Fine then. Let’s see how long I can stand.”

Then the buzzer snapped the air.

Tomás moved without grace but with intent. His feet slid, oil already stripping him of clean motion, but he lunged forward anyway, a low dive meant to cut the distance and put his hands on her before thought could slow him. It wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t practiced. But it was forward. His chest caught the gloss, his palms slapped down hard, and his weight drove across the mat as he aimed for her hips, her waist, anything he could wrap himself around before the pit betrayed him. It was clumsy, yes. But it was real. He wasn’t here to perform. He was here to fight, even if the oil wanted him to drown in it.

[Parker]

The oil shimmered like liquid glass between them, catching every flicker of light as Ayumi settled into her stance. Both of them kneeled, the shallow pit reflecting their shapes — her calm, almost languid poise against his taut, coiled readiness. A faint smile curved her lips as she watched him, amused by how seriously he was taking their encounter despite the ridiculousness of the situation. Rather than try to convince him further to let it go, she just rolled her shoulders and let out a breathy sigh, as if she had tried.

Ayumi’s fingers drifted down her thighs, finding their way to the oil. A light contact, perhaps preparing herself to coil and lunge just as he was. She didn’t lean into it though, a lack of aggressiveness in her stance as she met his gaze, her like and airy demeanor contrasted by the unblinking stare that matched his intensity with her own. She leaned over so slightly forward, letting the sheen of overhead lights catch her skin making her glow. "Breathe," she murmured softly, almost teasing. "Focus on what’s in front of you, not under you."
And then he lunged.

The impact came like a wave, his weight driving forward with all the force he could muster, but Ayumi didn’t resist. She moved with it, her body sliding back in the oil, pushing of with her hands. She was smooth and fluid, her breath escaping in a low, delighted hum as their bodies collided but her backwards motion and the lack of real friction dulled any impact of his aggression, easing them together without any blunt force. The slickness turned what could have been a crash into something far more intimate, their limbs slipping and catching in the golden sheen.

Ayumi let herself fall back, the motion deliberate. The pit embraced them both as she sank into it, hairher dragging through it in a wild coil. Her legs rose at once, bending at the knees, thighs brushing against his hips before curling around his waist. His arms were already around her torso, rough and desperate, but she welcomed it, even guided it, her hands gliding up his sides until her palms found his shoulders.

"In such a rush, just for this, hm?" she whispered, her tone light, breathy, playful. The closeness didn’t fluster her in the slightest; it was the natural rhythm of the match, one she knew how to dance to.

She flexed her legs slowly, tightening the circle of her thighs around him, not to hurt, but to make him feel the control shift. The oil made everything a contest of balance and will, and right now, she was letting him learn that lesson firsthand. Her body undulated beneath him with each attempt he made to adjust, matching strength with subtle movement, keeping him off-center without seeming to try. She was testing him to see how steady he really was on top of her, and his reaction to when she shifted her hips enough to threaten to roll them over

[GoingBananas]

Tomás’s heart pounded erratically in his throat as the distance between them seemed to vanish in a shimmering, oily haze. The surface quivered each time one of them moved, little ripples of light spreading out across the pit. Kneeling opposite her, he tried to steady his breathing, shoulders rising and falling in short, uneven pulls. Every muscle was alive, tight, ready to move, but the oil would keep punishing that kind of tension. He could already feel it, the way it tugged at him, promising to throw him off kilter the moment he leaned too far.

She looked too at ease for any of this to make sense. There was something unreal about how calm she stayed, how slow her movements were, how even her breathing seemed deliberate. When she sighed, he thought for a second that maybe she was mocking him. Like she already knew how this would go, and didn’t want to ruin the suspense by saying it out loud.

Tomás tried to focus. His eyes tracked her fingers as they drifted over her thighs, tracing the oil in lazy arcs that shone under the lights. The way she moved confounded the Nak Muay. There was no stance, no guard, no sign she was even bracing. Yet somehow, she didn’t look open. She looked ready.

The lunge wasn’t clean. His knee slipped halfway through, and the push came from instinct more than balance. The oil gave way under him, and his weight carried forward, hard and fast. He expected impact, resistance even; instead she was gone with it, moving as though she had seen him coming long before he did. Her body slid under his, guiding his momentum instead of fighting it, and for a split second he thought he had her. Until he realized he was following her rhythm, not his.

Their bodies met, not with force, but with a strange, heavy softness. His arms locked around her before he could think better of it, one hand catching her side, the other pressed to the curve of her shoulder. The oil made everything blur together, the skin, the heat, the breath. He felt the strength of her legs shift, sliding up along his hips, until they hooked around him in a slow, certain motion.

Tomás gritted his teeth. “You don’t fight fair.” There wasn’t anger in what he said. Just the rough edge of someone who knew he was out of his element. He tried to adjust, to find a center of balance, but every slight movement only seemed to tilt him further off. His knee slipped again, forcing him to tighten his grip or fall face-first into the pit.

She spoke again, soft and close enough that he could feel her breath against his cheek. He caught a few words, something about being in a rush, and the corner of his mouth twitched despite himself. “I’m trying not to.” he muttered. “I just don’t enjoy waiting to drown.”

The shift came suddenly. Her hips rolled, just enough to send him sliding half an inch to the side, and the pit tilted with them. He tried to counter, planting his foot, but it slipped again and she used the space between them like it belonged to her. Every movement of hers was water. Every movement of his was a struggle. Still, he didn’t let go. “Is this some sort of test?”

He tried again to pull her closer, his hands pressing through the slick between them, trying to anchor her under him. But the oil had no mercy. Every grab became a glide. Every press turned into a slide. And all he could do was keep moving, trying to find footing in a fight that refused to stay still.

[Parker]

Ayumi felt the tremor in his frame each time he tried to reset, the way his weight shifted too sharply, his power coming through without rhythm. The oil exaggerated every mistake, punishing each overcorrection. His grip on her was strong, but strength was wasted here. He was still treating this like a normal fight, seeking control and placement but the oil wouldn’t allow for that. While there was a technique at play, it required both compromise and consideration. He was fighting their surroundings more than he was her.

She didn’t fight against him. She moved with him. Every time Tomás tightened his arms, Ayumi’s body rolled just enough to let that pressure pass through, feeling the swell of his muscles gliding down her body, unable to bite into her where they wanted. He didn’t seem willing to settle on that, though, and that would cost him. The oil smoothed each transition, her form gliding under his, patient and precise, always adjusting to where his balance faltered. If he was willing to just tighten his arms wherever they fell around her, he could easily do something, apply pressure. His stubbornness to hold her how and where he wanted was the only thing in his way.

Her thighs rode higher along his sides as the match stretched on, not by design, but because the oil carried them there. She didn’t resist it. The slick contact gave her the leverage she needed to start dictating the rhythm, her legs gradually finding the natural spaces where his stance was weakest. What held him wasn’t force, but placement, the subtle hook of her ankles behind him, letting her extend and compress her legs as needed to control the distance. Her thighs wouldn’t dig in where she first squeezed, but slipped down his body until they found a soft pocket to compress.

Tomás strained to correct his footing, but every effort only deepened his disadvantage. Ayumi could feel the push of his muscles under her, every shift telegraphing where his next adjustment would come. The longer he fought to anchor himself, the more ground he lost.

“Yes.” She responded simply to his inquiry, her smile evident but also coming through in the single-word response as well. She reached up then, her hands finding his shoulders, not striking, not prying, just feeling the motion of his tension. The muscle there was taut, quivering from effort. Her palms moved deliberately, tracing his line of strength, learning how he carried it. Then, when the moment was right, her arms slid upward, hands settling behind his head.

Her fingers laced themself into his hair, something that could be held for leverage, manipulated in the chaos of the oil. She tugged at him, controlled, not cruel, a measured draw meant to bring him lower, to rob him of the small height advantage that was keeping his center stable. Ayumi didn’t yank or thrash; she guided.

"You fight the surface too much," she murmured, her tone even and low, meant to cut through the sound of their labored breathing. "Let it move. Then you’ll find where you belong in it." It seemed she had ideas of where he was meant to be as her slow guiding would become more forceful, her own strength finally on display as she tucked in her arms, trying to bring his face down between her breasts to attempt to smother him. Her legs would squeeze hard if he fought the putt, trying to wring the power from his taut frame to get what she wanted.

[GoingBananas]

Tomás’ skin prickled with the sensation. Even before the oil could affect him, his body was already reacting to each error. The surface betrayed him with every breath, making each shift of weight a gamble. His muscles responded automatically, contracting as they had been programmed to, searching for equilibrium in the absence of it. It wasn’t her power that was defeating him, at least not yet; it was the cursed ground they stood on. He could feel her moving in harmony with him, without resistance or opposition, her fluidity making his own actions appear clumsy.

It was frustrating. Each time he attempted to steady himself, she maneuvered to make him run for it. He embraced her, pulling her close, yet she remained just out of reach, like water slipping through his fingers. His power didn’t land anywhere. It just scattered. The worst part was that he knew.

“Pare de se mover como fumo…” he hissed through his teeth, though the frustration in his voice sounded more like self-directed anger than anything else. He tried to drag her down, to plant her shoulders, but she moved again, light and precise, and his weight shifted too fast. His knee slid out from under him, forcing him to plant his palm against the mat to stay upright. The oil hissed around them as he fought to find footing again, the motion grinding their bodies closer.

She was teaching him something, even if he didn’t want the lesson. He could feel her hips guiding the pace, her thighs riding higher along his waist as though the oil itself lifted her there. With every shift he made, she discovered a more advantageous position, a more stable spot to prop her legs, until her influence was subtle, yet undeniable. Subtle. Measured. She was waiting for him to understand that the harder he fought, the deeper he’d sink.

He grunted low in his throat, trying to shift the weight. “You know how to make this pit your friend.” The words came out rough, broken between gasps as he tried to brace against her. His shoulders tensed, muscles standing out beneath the sheen, but every strain only gave her more to work with.

Then her hands came to his shoulders. Not pushing. Not pulling. Just feeling. He froze for half a second, surprised by the calmness of her touch. Instead of making fun, it was scrutinizing him. He could feel her fingers trace along the lines of his strength, the places that betrayed tension. And then, when she slid her hands higher, threading into his hair, his body tensed all over again.

The pull wasn’t violent. It didn’t need to be. The control was in how gentle it was. She drew him lower, bit by bit, her movements deliberate, like she was taming a restless animal. He resisted, but the oil betrayed him again, stealing the leverage from his arms, his core, everything. His elbows sank deeper, his posture breaking without him realizing it.

Her voice reached him again, low and even. Her tone cut straight through the heavy sound of their breathing, instructing him more than taunting. Tomás’ jaw tightened. “And if I don’t belong in it?” he shot back, words muffled, his voice strained. He tried to push up again, but her arms locked tighter, and the pull grew firmer.

His face dipped lower. Too low. The oil made it near impossible to brace. Her thighs tightened, and he could feel the pressure bloom along his ribs. His body strained, every muscle caught between resistance and surrender. “Não vai ser assim tão fácil...” The Nak Muay growled, voice shaking with the effort as he tried to shift his knees beneath him.

But the oil didn’t care about effort. It cared about gravity.

He slipped another inch lower. His arms lost their angle. And for the first time since the match began, Tomás stopped trying to muscle through it. He remained motionless for a moment, letting the darkness guide him, believing that giving up might offer him a power that resistance couldn’t.

[Parker]

Ayumi’s legs tightened, the coils of her scissor hold coming alive again with the slow inevitability of a python constricting its prey. The sheen of oil made her movement look deceptively fluid and natural, as if the two of them had merged into one. Where he moved her body flowed with him offering little room to maneuver as she clung to his taut frame. To those looking on there didn't appear anything happening, just both competitors locked in an embrace. They couldn't feel the flex of her thighs, the tightening of air within Tomás’ lungs, or experience just how inseparable they were.

Her calves flexed behind him, the angle narrowing to draw his posture down and sap what remained of his stability. The pressure occasionally eased just enough for her legs to slip higher or lower, caressing his side before they bit in again and slid to where they would fit easiest. Tomás’ body resisted in fits and starts, each push met with an equal and opposite pressure. His shoulders strained, his breath harsh and uneven. Ayumi could feel the tremor running through his core as he tried to brace against the mat, strong, but unsteady, fighting a surface that refused to help him.

"I am here to defeat you. It may be lavish or it may be cruel, only time will tell," she murmured, her tone steady and informative, not mocking. "Don’t defeat yourself as well."

When she had coaxed his head low enough, her left hand released his hair, her fingers tracing the back of his neck as she treaded the limb behind him, nestling the inside of her elbow along it. He may not have even known, but she was teaching him with every hold. Slow and deliberate, providing him her recipe for fighting in a place like this. Her control wasn’t built on strength; it was all in the angles and voids, in the slow adjustments that robbed him of leverage while giving him nowhere to breathe.

Her torso shifted with his motion, her shoulders rolling slightly to absorb the weight as she used her frame as a wedge. Every attempt he made to rise met the same quiet answer, a redirection, a new point of balance that left him sagging closer. The more he pressed upward, the tighter her legs cinched, and the more his power worked against him.

"You see now?" Ayumi’s voice came low, even, almost gentle despite the strain in the air. "There’s no brute escape from balance. Only flow. Only rhythm." Her fingers splayed across the back of his head, cradling him as she drew his face between her breasts. Like the first, this arm would glide through to hook around his head to settle him into her inner elbow where she could use her shoulders to pull him in, lock head to her body. Her biceps tucked in, pushing against her own breasts as they closed in like walls around his face, mashing against his cheeks leaving him cinched into her smother.

Ayumi kept him close, her frame locked firm around his. The pressure of her thighs anchored him in place while her arms maintained quiet command, guiding rather than crushing. His strength had dwindled to a sober surrender, the falter of someone realizing that power alone wouldn’t buy freedom. In truth, if he couldn't find his escape this was the better choice, else he risked running himself ragged in futility

Her voice slipped through the heavy rhythm of their breathing, low but perfectly clear. "I’m willing to teach you," she continued, her tone steady, more instructor than conqueror. "But my lessons are forged in failure, every one a trial by fire. How much you take from me depends on how long you last in this pit. How well you endure what you can’t control."

The oil whispered under them as she adjusted her leverage, keeping his body trapped against her. "If you can survive me, you’ll leave knowing everything I know." Her breath slowed, deliberate, the weight of her hold absolute. "But if you can’t…", a pause, just long enough for the silence to stretch, "then you’ll still learn something worth keeping: that strength without patience only sinks faster." With that, she stilled, allowing her holds to do their work, there was no release to be had from her unearned even if it meant he would be snuffed out by her smother.