Hollywood Stripping (America vs Alicia Soto)

[DSX93]

***
Match Type: Stripfall Match
Victory Conditions: Scoring a fall via Pinfall, Submission, or KO will require the opponent to remove a layer of clothing. To win, the opponent must be made to strip down to an agreed upon point or forfeit, in which case they will have to perform a striptease, again down to an agreed upon point.
***

America's Entrance Gear

A "Stripfall Match", huh? That was new. And given the kind of competition America partook in back in the Foundation Wrestling Society, she was surprised that the bigwigs hadn't made this a more sexual contest. Not that she really minded: She was sure that Alicia Soto was a baddie, and last week turned out great and all, but if the powers that be decided to give her a break from fucking another chick for the umpteenth one in a row, she was gonna take it.

The Afro-Puerto Rican was in her locker room (she was still getting used to that -- her own locker room) performing her pre-fight ritual of boxing shadows, finishing up this time before hearing that knock at the door.

"Yup!"

She pounded her fists together on the way out of the locker room, making her way down the hall with a confident gait. As evidenced by the new custom jacket, she'd made it. Her LAW debut didn't go exactly the way she wanted it to, but it still went the way she needed it to, so it's all good. She just had to make a turnaround this week. Beat that ass, make Alicia quit so she'd have to throw it around in a circle. And with a nickname like "Hollywood Siren", America had the feeling that she had plenty to throw around to get those big money ratings.

Her

started playing just as she was reaching the curtain. After walking through, she gestured for the people to show her some love and she got it, then proceeded down the ramp with that tomboyish swagger of hers, vibing to the hit that accompanied her.

"♩I'm your idol, your highest title, numero uno!♩" She looked into the camera right in front of her, lifting a single finger to punctuate the statement before pointing it to the star on her tank top in time with the next..."♩Yes, I'm Puerto Rican, and I speak it so that you know! Stomp! Yeah, that's the idea!♩" Then pointed to the backstage area with her thumb..."♩Leave that bitch leakin' from ear ta ear!♩" Then to her ears.

"Ladies and gentlemen, the following contest is a Stripfall Match! Introducing first, standing at five feet and eight inches tall and weighing in at one hundred and sixty pounds, fighting out of the Bronx...! Ameeeericaaaaaa!"

With an air of assurance in her ability, she took a side and started clapping hands on the way to the ring, turning the the other when she reached it, removing her jacket and giving it a good toss into the crowd. A chancy move -- she still hasn't started her own line of merch -- but with the way the crowd was cheering for her last week, she knew that she could earn another.

Ring Attire

She climbed into the ring, getting an amorous pop when she bent through the ropes. Those shorts fit her like a second skin, and the cameras caught a marvelous view of America's famous ass for the viewers at home. Up onto the second rope when she was inside, and she gestured for more support from the audience. "HOLLYWOOD, WASSUP?"

America was smiling from ear to ear when she got it. She thought it got loud last week, but she was getting an even bigger reaction now.

She stepped down from the ropes and leaned back against the set that faced the stage, getting a quick stretch in before throwing a few more warm-up combinations while she waited for her opponent to appear.

[HotWheels]

Apparently Alicia had done so damn well beating down mama Belti that they'd gone and found another one of her to wrestle for the sequel.

Nah, she didn't believe the reality of that for a second, but she knew the way these corporate types thought about shit like this. They'd said "this one who's so popular half-Latina, find us someone she can wrestle who's got something like that in her too to keep the good mood going." Hell, she'd bet on it. That kind of painting with broad strokes didn't bother her since her whole schtick was making damn sure people viewed her like some Hollywood sex bomb with those same broad strokes, but it had left her shaking her head a couple times, smirking at others.

But it was still a match with someone who seemed to have some talent to her, and a showy one, at that. Right up the Siren's alley. Pretty hot chica, too. She had seen a few pictures. She looked better in the lights, the monitors in guerrilla told the big Latina. Long as she looked good lying on her back with most or all of her clothes gone, Siren considered her a winner in some way.

She had returned to her old ways with that the match with the big-ass Italian prude had passed, leaning and eying some of the stagehands from within guerrilla like she was waiting impatiently for entry to a club, not for her cue to enter the arena proper for a match. She didn't take the coming match any more lightly, but it had taken a little more than the dismissive beach bitch to get her psyched for that last match. Hadn't even felt quite like herself at times before it started, which she wasn't sure she liked. Tonight, she could feel her same buzz, same control in equal parts. People might have thought it crazy for a match where both wrestlers would probably end up in nothing but their panties before it ended, but that was kind of her style, anyway.

Her cue came, and she straightened, the first few strings of "La Devotee announcing her coming presence. One push-off with her rollerblades had her careening past two more stagehands, one of which she smacked on the ass, but she neatly backpedaled her way onto the stage as the beat hit.

And that crowd sounded fuckin' beautiful.

Spoiler

Between the last match and the press tour, the fanfare had arrived in droves. She wheeled around to soak in the sights and sounds of them, not quite able to keep up the saucy pout as it gave way to an appreciative smirk. Alright, let them see the armor chink if it kept them that loud. Hell, she even discarded her sunglasses early, tossing them into the front row before she sped off down the ramp.

There she was. Siren eyed her as she made her usual breakneck lap around the ring. Yeah, sticking her in a match where someone had to get stripped made a whole lot of sense.

After skidding to a stop and dropping her rollerblades ringside, Alicia wasted no time swinging her bouncy frame into the ring for a quick strut that earned another chorus of cries. But she had to attend to the other bitch as her business.

The Siren raked her tongue over her teeth, blatantly pondering her. After a long pause and a quick squat to stretch her legs, she finally spoke. "You get lost in the mail somewhere, chica?"

[DSX93]

Yup, she's a baddie.

Alicia had even confirmed America's suspicions rolling out backwards: She had ass. Wasn't as great as hers, but nobody could top America's ass. The Siren looked more LA than Hollywood, though. She wouldn't have even been too out of place in her home in the Bronx, she felt. But when the announcer stated where she was from, it made sense. It was close enough.

She had that love of the limelight in her, taking her time getting in the ring. And the people were happy to shine it on her too. Since she still had a few moments, America figured that she might as well get some more last minute combos and stretches in. Funnily enough, they ended up thinking alike some when she did step into the ring, dipping into a squat to stretch their legs, cameras coincidentally in place behind the both of them on the outside while they did it. She got a chuckle out of the mirrored motion, even through that desire to punch that bougie "mean girl sizing up the competition" look off Alicia's face.

"You get lost in the mail somewhere, chica?"

"Nah, I'm right where I need to be, mami. Here to whoop that ass n' make you shake it for this Hollywood crowd. Ain't nothin' personal, though. Just tryna get that bag."

[HotWheels]

What was that veteran chick's name? With the famous dad. Somethin' Armstrong. Running into someone unironically named "America," Siren thought she might get some "smart-ass bitch" points by bringing up a lot of people would have imagined someone like that, not a chick who looked like the one in front of her, all oscura and looking like she could have swam here from a Caribbean beach. No, people saw that whole blonde-haired, blue-eyed thing as America back home like a bunch of dumbasses. Dumbasses or not, sounding like one of those dumbasses was one of the things that Siren used to get under people's skin. But nah, that was too complicated of a joke to have to explain her way through. She'd leave her comment as it was.

She had a mouth on her too, though. Siren just leaned back, crossed her arms, and listened, her talent for judgmental stares on full display. "Eyyy, goooood. Mi objetivo es decepcionar* a bitch, per-son-al or not," she said, playing up all the Spanish sounds as she spoke. "You keep thinkin' you're 'Miss America,' though, chica, and you'll see how fast they turn when I got you down to nothing but your g-string and it ain't my ass they get to see. Won't any bag be comin' at the end, neither."

She'd make sure to keep poking that bear.

For the time being, though, she violently gestured at the ref. "Get this shit going. Ain't got all night to strip her."

*my aim is to disappoint

[DSX93]

Oh, there it is. LA is definitely where this chick belonged: They would've tore her uppity ass to pieces in her hood. America regarded her with a cocky grin. "¡Tienes chistes!" She responded, deciding to focus in on Alicia's objective instead of the misconception around her name. It was a common occurrence for people to mistake it for an alias created for the ring, but she didn't particularly care to clear it up with this bitch.

Jokes and guts. "We'll see 'bout it!"

America would take up a bladed Philly Shell stance, intentionally presenting an opening to her face that most would try to fill the first chance they got. Focused and ready to put in some work towards punching Alicia's lights out, starting out with some lightning fast jabs the very moment that the bell rang to test her reactions. See how she reacts to a little pressure right out the gate.

Spoiler

"¡Tienes chistes!" -- "You've got jokes!"

[HotWheels]

She did, and more where those came from. The Siren could physically hold her own with anyone she had met at LAW, including all the hot prospects with their muscles or their tits or their whatever else they offered to the company straight up to a veteran who had spent years dominating in the ring. She would bet on herself against anyone, since at worst, she could at worst keep up. Getting into a bitch's head, though? That gave her all sorts of advantages. She wasn't sure if Miss 'Merica here was the type to get rewired by some shit talk. Wouldn't stop her from trying.

Whatever the case, with the ref finally getting a move on, Siren squatted at the knees, wreched her head left and right, got that last bit of mechanical prep sorted out before the action started, since America made it clear she wasn't any more keen on waiting than the Latina beauty herself. And that stance. Some boxing shit, huh? Siren had seen that coming through the performance center. She'd handled it then, put an end to it with some armbars-

Speed, though? She had it, better than most of them who seemed hesitant, uncertain. Siren had just fallen into her own, more traditional stance once the bell rang and the fists started flying. One glanced her jaw when she tried to dodge it and stung like a bitch, another hit her shoulder when she deftly switched to the side. By the time the third and fourth were on their way, she had adjusted enough that her hands had come up to deflect them away, giving her a chance to throw a grimy return elbow from the left, aimed for America's chin.

[DSX93]

The flicker jab. It wasn't just a punch; it was a strategic weapon. A weapon held by some of the greatest to ever do it in the sport of boxing: Thomas Hearns. Floyd Mayweather. Tyson Fury. It was far from the strongest that a boxer could throw, but its real power comes in its versatility and utility.

Here, it was less about getting shots in and more about making something happen. America kept slinging that lead hand, poking, irritating. Never getting any direct hits, but the glancing blows told her that with a bit of work to slow her down some more, and some good timing, she could land some good ones. Alicia adjusted well -- probably faced wrestlers who had boxing in their repertoire in the past. The third was cast off to the side, leading to a follow-up straight. Cast aside, and then she got exactly what she was looking for.

America ducked underneath the elbow and clapped back with a swift lead-handed hook to the ribs. With speed being the priority, it wouldn't be the most damaging blow, but all in good time. For now, there would be that, and another hook, again being thrown with the lead hand. The basement had been checked. Now to go upstairs and (hopefully) check Alicia's chin.

[HotWheels]

Siren wanted to throw her middle finger up at all those modeling agents telling her she had a few too many pounds on her figure to do their kind of modeling. She was making just as much now, bitch, and that extra weight, extra muscle, made that hit to the ribs something she could absorb. It reverberated through her torso, but she defiantly bent her body back against the shot of pain. Okay, so she wasn't all dumb offense. Good to know. Siren would have liked to have spent a little more time processing that knowledge, but she didn't get much chance with the next blow struck her on her not-at-all-insulated chin.

Siren never had those twitchy, overbearing reactions to any amount of pain. Made her look like a pussy, and she hated it. So while she only hitched away, turned so she could keep her feet but put some distance between the two of them, it didn't testify just how much her teeth rattled through her skull and her jaw yanked at her ear from the motion of the blow. She growled, gripped at her chin, spit out... spit, no blood in it, though she wouldn't have been surprised.

Fuck her. She remembered she didn't like boxers. She also knew she wasn't doing much of anything with any purpose to it or even defending herself, but she just stuck an arm up to protect her face as she took a couple of steps to regain her bearings and put the bottom half of her face back where it belonged.

[DSX93]

The body blow was absorbed like water into a sponge. Or so Alicia -- and many other heavyweights that stood against America -- had tried to make it look. But Bronx Boricua badass knew: Let those pile up, and she won't be able to pull that Woman of Steel shit anymore. That hook to the jaw, though...The jaw was where it was at. Bitch didn't like that. Expected blood and spat. She's not used to getting hit in the face much.

Too fucking bad. No breaks.

The steps she'd taken back, America would take forward, continuing her offensive with a lean, like she was about to go downstairs again. Another flicker jab that she'd pull back before it was committed, a deception meant to give her a shot at that side of the face that the Siren had left unprotected. Overhook to rattle that jaw again.

If that hit, follow up with a shovel hook. Test the stomach this time.

[HotWheels]

Yeah, no, fuck boxing. Whoever told a bitch she could show up to a grappling match with a skillset from a different even more dumbass sport could suck a whole bag of dicks. Siren understood it all, yeah. She had seen it enough to know how to defend herself, yeah. But it was a discipline she couldn't match, and until she had some momentum, she had no other choice than to try and match it. Content that her jaw hadn't flown into the third row after that clean strike, she started catching up, at least bringing enough defense to match up with that offense. But she hated staying on defense. No one had ever won a wrestling match with defense.

Still, raising her other arm helped her defend against another blow to the head. She got the forearm up to send America's fist pinging away a millisecond before it connected by hitting her in the wrist. A knuckle still skirted her ear, so it was still too close. It took every ounce of discipline for her not to lash out and try and slap America across the face, the most insulting interruption she could think up from this proximity, but she would rather she didn't have a bloodied face less than a minute into the match.

Protecting her head did nothing for her gut as the hook connected, though. The thump could be heard by the bathrooms as hardened fist met hardened abs. The guttural grunt that it pushed from Siren's gut was much less audible but testified to the depth of the hit, and she willed herself not to double over and make herself a target though she fuckin' wanted to. She stiffened instead and fell back, nearly to the ropes at this point, and became all pointed elbows as she leaned away to defend her face and digest the coursing pain in her stomach. Screw this shit.