Tiaras and Tricorns: Angelina Tarrant vs Madeleine Citronelle (Apex Qualifier)

[Malkavia]

Why not let her keep it? She could picture the end: they gently make love, and sooner or later Angelina cums for a second time in Madeleine’s lap, and the Countess picks her up, holds her in her arms. Yes, she's wearing the tiara. Her tiara. As her fingers brushed Angelina’s back, and their lips touched, then kissed, and the sweet need in Angelina’s eyes made Madeleine’s chest swell, she thought—what better place could there be for her tiara to sit?

Then Angelina’s forehead cracked Madeleine’s. The force compressed her brain like a sponge, knocking it against the opposite end of her skull. Connections sparked, circuits died, and a panic of animal defense responses shot into hyper-action. Madeleine didn't see black so much as her vision fragmented into chunks of blurred, confused light separated by masses of unseen nothing. Nausea welled in her gut as she reeled backwards, flailing, jaw working. Up went left, north went east, and the pain hit like an iron poker up her nostril before she knew what had happened.

She would have fallen, except she was caught. Caught, held, and cracked.

Madeleine was on the mat, then, hands around her throat because it was closed. Closed. That became her main reality: she kicked, she writhed, she bucked, but the main thing was her her neck and the pain on her larynx like it was cracked, and the block in her throat when she tried to breathe. Angelina had disappeared entirely compared to the ballooning in her stomach, the burning behind her eyes, the need to breathe until it finally burst and she gasped in air like a diver breaking the water’s surface.

Once she had air, that's when her world began to stitch back together, as if she was rising out of a nightmare into reality. Her vision steadied from the careening tumble of images, and the ringing in her ears settled and went quiet. Her mind recaptured space: here’s the mat, there's the (watching, hollering out their confused noise, crawling golden in her upset vision) audience, and there's Angelina.

Angelina just knocked you on your back.

It all came together much too late.

[Monsy]

On their back
Watching them kick and writhe was like some dying animal who had a last second miracle, clinging on as the pirate unleashed her blunderbuss hail avery, then slouched with hands just beneath their chest. She wheezed out her remaining weakness, and got to feel herself grow accustomed to being soaked in her own sweat and juices. Her scars still buzzed off the rails, and seeing them continue to struggle put a scratch on her eyes. Her tongue clicked, cheek leaned onto her shoulder.

“Aren’t youuuu just a newborn whore. Suckin’ its first dick.” Angelina put her hands over Madeleine's two, sandwiching them over her windpipe and leaning down on it, choking them further but also bringing them closer. Her expression was static, “Bet ya thought I’d stay puddy after the first go, huh? But I feel a little reborn. What about you? Pigstick.”

Angelina took one hand off their neck, postured at forty-five degrees over them, then slapped them backhand style. She giggled afterwards, and simply soaked in doing it twice. “Ahhhh. It’s about time I played some new tactics. Playin’ cute was fun, but got sorry fuckin' old. Ya know what I want?” Angelina’s upper lip twitched as she breathed in deeper, in and out, “I want to get a mic in here so everyone can mock how ya orgasm, like a dirty...dirty…” She lowered herself down, grabbed their chin, “Little…” And she jerked their lower jaw to make it open, then spat inside, “Slut.”

[Malkavia]

Angelina slapped Madeleine twice, backhanded, across her face. Each time, Madeleine’s breath hitched. The sting from the strike spread across her skin, became something bitter. She felt like she was wilting.

By now she had begun to get her fingers around the edges of her new situation; she could see the full picture, and her struggling under Angelina tapered. She could feel every inch of the woman bearing down on her, from the knees straddling her sides to the pressure choking her on her own arms. The feeling stretched her face, etched her normally soft features with deep, hateful wrinkles down her forehead and under her jaw. Hot confusion contracted to a cold pinpoint dot. One opening was all she needed.

Pinned down and focused on finding an escape, she failed to intercept Angelina’s hand on her chin. Her lips were forced apart, she sucked in an involuntary breath, and Angelina’s spit went splat against her tongue. Her body went cold, and without thinking she swallowed.

The glob had been thick and large, and she could feel it slide down her throat. She turned white. As it settled in her stomach, she felt herself get wet and wondered—could they see how slick she'd become?

Slut.

Madeleine trembled. She felt sick. It was a lie. A trick. She grabbed the hands around her throat, spittle bubbling through her lips, and she began to buck as her face went from white to gray to purple. Angelina held her down, and her crocodile smirk said enough to make Madeleine's heels scrape the mat, trying to clamber away: the violet slits could see the ice in Maddie's tummy.

[Monsy]

Slaps had a unique emotion. They expressed disappointment and a sense of disgust. You look at them and see something that makes the iris curl up and cringe, ache. And it’s not quite the anger of a punch. Nothing that extreme. Just a little something to remind them. You’re absolute dirt. And all the kicks and buck didn’t help this all too well. She just slid up, so instead of the stomach or lap, it’s right beneath the ribs. And a little counter-leaning and then it’s going to press on the diaphragm. Now every inch of you is devoted to choking her purple. It’s a damn FINE reward seeing that cuddly expression darken. How those eyes sink, and the gold looms closer.

But. This wasn’t that kind of battle. “Swallow all of me.”
Angelina said, looming over. Her arms came free, and she said up suddenly, looking down and sighing, hand through her hair. “Wouldn’t this go fuckin’ great with a knife? I can take it here…” Angelina tapped their cheek with an index, “Go down… and down…” Traced over their chest in a small snake-like slither, over their tummy where she pressed down a little more, and flicked the wrist to simulate a teensy cut. “And eventually, I get here.” She went around the thigh and into her skirt, touching on the black underwear she couldn’t see. Slick. A little taste on her finger and warm.

“But it looks like ya already drenched, and I didn’t even touch you yet. You're so fuckin’ gross.” And she cackled, got off and grabbed them by the hair, then dragged them not too far from where Madeleine scored the first fall. Right at Angelina’s puddle of cum. She loosened her hand so the hair slid in her grasp, and she collected it into two pigtails. A foot pressed on the back of Madeleine’s head and Angelina said, “If ya wanted to be a wet mop so bad, then I’ll use ya like one.” And the foot pressed down to push Madeleine’s face against the wet, then used the hair-grip and her heel to rub the Countess all over it. Up and down. Side to side. In a circle. And just like Madeleine soaks this all up with her face. The crowd does too.

[Malkavia]

Angelina’s deathgrip on Madeleine’s throat slipped from painful and red to numb and slate. A sheen had run over her body, dissociating her fading consciousness from her skin. Toes, fingers, limbs were all gone, and even her face prickled.

In spite of that, Madeleine’s sweat-drenched face curled into a snarl, teeth gleaming white in the spotlight. A kernel in her half-awake mind stored every sensation with ice-like fury. Every bit of chatter from the audience, every touch from Angelina, every curl in her gut got seared into her brain, and the longer the recording went on, the more tightly her gut coiled.

Angelina released her grip, Madeleine gasped, and she rose from the murk—dizzily. Her arms flailed against the mat, but the ground was unsteady, her nausea was heavy, and the pain in her head was almost its own entity, a force pushing out on her skull. All of that focused, however, when Angelina mentioned the knife.

It was only a light tickle on her face, but the suggestion…the idea of her skin splitting along the caress…made her freeze. Scars were on the mind. Angelina was scarred. Images flit in her mind. Scars on her face, jagged and angry and red like the ones on Angelina’s neck. She hasn’t got a knife. The thought spun across her mind. There is, absolutely, no knife. It did little to slow her pulse.

The threat of a knife focused Madeleine as the blood rushed back to her head, and by the time Angelina had shoved her face into the mat and put her neck underfoot, her sense of touch had once more become sharp—all too sharp.

The hot ice-pick kernel recorded: The mat was slick and cool against her cheek, viscous as her face over the weave of the mat’s vinyl. Its smell was sweet but rotten and was strong enough to not only fill her nose but touch her tongue and slip down her throat. Dirty, but not as repulsive as the foot on her scalp. She heaved against the mat with both her arms, shaking from toe to tooth with white-hot fury, but she found her strength insufficient. There was an entire woman bearing down on her, and her arms trembled as she pushed, then slipped.

And they catcalled, and they cheered, and they booed, and they stomped their feet, and she felt every inch of her body curl and flex with a drunken mixture of disgust and pain and lust, which made her breath heavy, made her groan and spit, and none of it moved her so much as an inch off the mat or from under Angelina’s heel.

[Monsy]

The audience became the dominant noise. Hollars, squallers, cheers and jeers. Huffs and puffs. A general stir that became a steady rouse of growing mockery, distaste and admiration. You can hear it in directions. A bundle here hated it. Another loved it. East to West, then those ahead had their cameras out and those behind… Well… She couldn’t see that.

The one missing from his ordeal was the mop of the hour. Angelina had used her like this until she got bored and it didn’t take long. Right after the slip, she cackled. “Ooh. So close.” And all that frustration they felt metamorphosed into a pleasure soaring up her arms and giving her spine a nice shiver, not too different from the feeling in her loins. She stopped, took a deep inhale and let it out with a catcall of her own, then released the hold.

She grabbed the cape and used to tug Madeleine back up, just towards her knees so Angelina could kneel behind them, put her head against Madeleine’s like she was almost begging to get chomped. Her mouth pushed by Madeleine’s ear in some nigh-drunk kiss. An arm went around the throat and squeezed at half-strength. She glanced off to ringside at something in particular. "They love ya so much right now. They're all waitin' for ya to give 'em a show. I am too... And so are the cameras."

She didn’t need to point for that one. That little black circle of a lens was staring right at them from just beyond the ropes. It grabbed such a good shot of them, with an angle coming from canvas height. So, Angelina used it by snaking her hand between their legs, splaying her hand across the inner-thigh to accompany the skin, then moved in towards Madeleine’s clothed wet sex, and moving the black material aside to show it off for the cameras, using her index and middle to spread the lips for the camera. Smiling all the while.

[Malkavia]

Madeleine felt less like a mop and more like a doll—the kind of misused toy that winds up with half her hair torn out, a fissure cracked through one glass eye, perhaps missing an arm in one of her sockets. In other words, she was a treasure made the victim of an ungrateful child.

When she was done stepping on the Countess, Angelina wrapped her neck in an arm, squeezed just hard enough to choke, and ran her fingers down Madeleine’s center. The feeling that rose from that touch was black and poisonous and made her back arch like a cat’s.

The universe, as Madeleine felt it in her core, was subject to many different sets of rules. Kickboxing, for example, might be physically exhilarating and interpersonally sharp as an obsidian shard, but nevertheless. Combat operated on the basis of space, force, stamina—elements of tactics and strategy. These were dry rules, impartial facts, similar to physics or etiquette.

As Madeleine’s tanga-style underwear slipped down her thighs, however, she felt something more fundamental being violated—less a rule broken and more a tenet profaned. She felt the spit glob curdle in her gut while cum made her hair matte like paste. And then Angelina slid her fingers where they least belonged and spread her lips.

She was, of course, aware of their audience. They chittered and called and broke her heart, and it showed. Her expression was not quite fearful, nor anxious, nor even angry so much as it was pained, as if her gut was roiling with a swollen appendix. Her breath shook, and although one could see the words — thorny and sharp — forming behind her eyes, all that came out of her flushed face was a high, desperate gasp.

[Monsy]

Handling Madeleine was a dream. She’s not-so-sleek, small and bends where you draw. Dense around the creases. You can feel her training, citrus, magic and padding muscles where you don’t initially expect. But she’s still soft around the neck. And you’d think, assume and imagine the kinds of things she’d curse in this state. Look. See the crowd — the sight is worth a million bucks. But, suppose a rich gal already has it watered down. Oh well.

Angelina nudged them on the cheek, kissed the corner of their mouth, then said. “Fight back.”

One arm went over their neck, looped back and she arched Madeleine back til her head was pointed at the lights.

She went to work brushing over Madeleine’s slit. Up and down, stirring — churning in circles. Angelina had a small hand, smooth and delicate. Her finger-pads, mostly the thumbs, had a small scuff from handling brick and grip-tape.

They went to the top, and she pressed the clitoral hood after a little searching and digging, then rubbed. She hummed to focus, looking down, watching, then bending over to nibble and bite on Madeleine’s covered breast.

She loved them clothed. Just thinking about it… the one attire they needed to shine in — violated. What will the crowds think from now on? What will Madeleine think afterwards? She wanted to know. The wonder made the burn between her legs quiver and drool. It made her want to mount their mouth until the evening and beyond — and to make Madeleine feel the same.

Just needed to win here first. And speaking of…
Her fingers had curled in, plunged, ring and middle, with the index and pinky going down along the outer folds, and her thumb on top. They explored, mapped, familiarizing herself with Madeleine’s insides. A slut deserved to have all her weaknesses known after all — then fucked

[Malkavia]

The stage lights burned her eyes, searing green, then orange afterimages into her retinas while the arm around her throat tightened. Fight back. The pressure between Madeleine’s clenched teeth made her jaw ache, then twinge.

“…Oh kitten…” Her voice was strained and tinged with disappointment. Madeleine’s eye twisted into the corner of its socket, wrenching for a look at the pirate. Adrenaline created a glimmering sensation in Madeleine’s chest, like a shot of caffeine directly into her bloodstream, that as a side effect made her tongue feel like rubber. Her body shook. Barely. It was a low tremor through her bones. The effort Madeleine took in speaking etched lines into her forehead, deepened her frown, and made her gut clench.

And that was before Angelina slipped inside her. The mat was so moist—inescapably so, a disgusting slick under her palms and bare legs. She grabbed Angelina’s arm. Perhaps her intention had been to yank and pull the grip free, but she wound up clinging to her.

She felt a white-cold, smiling kind of fury, a feeling that made her grin the shocked way one grins after a slap. The sheer audacity. Unbelievable. It made her want to laugh at the same time that a tear streaked down her cheek. In and out, rut and poke, slither and burn, and her whole body tingled with pleasure that made her ankles roll and chin tremble.

For a split moment, Madeleine loathed the audience. She hated their lack of self-control and how easily they let themselves forget the person in favor of her violated body.

“You begged me for release.” For the first time since the match had started, there was deep bile in Madeleine’s voice. She began to struggle against Angelina’s grip, trying to slip her fingers under the choke hold at the same time that she bucked. “The only value you had, sweet, was what I let you have out of pity.”

[Monsy]

Her voice is soothing even when you feel the heat coming from that locked-up throat. Anger all around, most likely. She knew what she did and knew what she wanted to yank out. And there it was. Sweet, grated sugar cubes into dust. They tasted bitter and had a way of tickling on her ear hearing it. The strongest reactions hurt on the inside. That’s how you know the win is real.

The crowd tasted it too. You can hear and see them rise, grin, and look like a flock of touch-starved perverts, competitive fiends, shy virgins and the posh who likely purchased the wrong tickets. They were never a factor in her game, but they were an element. Fun little shits she could blow a French kiss to while finger-fucking this angry little blonde into a sopping mop. Best of all, she just clings.

She froze at one point. Her fingers were still buried to the main knuckle and stayed at that depth, stirring her insides, touching the walls, caressing, spreading and working out the strain in her palm. Angelina put her chin on Madeleine’s collar, then leaned so her cheek was on the shoulder, relaxing her posture, keeping her smile white and showing. There was a twitch at one corner. “So what?”

Angelina loosened her arm to reach up, grab their chin and make them look her kittenish face in the eyes. “Ya fell for that shit -- hook, line and plundah.”

Her fingers withdrew, came up, and inserted them into Madeleine’s mouth. “See? All that pity and still so slutty.” She snickered forcefully, blinking slowly. She reached behind Madeleine’s head, grabbed her hair, then forced her to be face-down, ass-up on the canvas. A knee went on top of Madeleine’s head. Angelina took her turn licking her fingers clean of Madeleine’s spit.

“What’s the story then? Ya got a thing for junk?”

Her hand revved up. Then. SPANK!

“Makes sense! You’ll always outshine that shit!”

SPANK!