Trading Blows - Madeleine Citronelle v. Julie Dykstra-Liao - Kinky Pit Match

[FreestylePoet]

Kinky Pit Match
Wrestlers enter the ring wearing nothing but a strapon dildo. Making the opponent orgasm via vaginal or anal penetration with the strapon earns one fall, as does forcing verbal submission via oral penetration. Victory by earning one of each type of fall.

It only took three words to get those horndogs worked up. "Kinky Pit Match." Anyone who wasn't already at full mast or wet between their thighs surely got there when the ring announcer explained the rules. Word by dulcet word, the heat in the room kicked up a notch.

Not that Julie could blame them! It wasn't every day they got to see the Notorious JDL take on one of LAW's most lewd stipulations. All three of Julie's holes were on the line tonight, and no matter what happened, someone was getting fucked. Whether she got turned into a drooling mess or found herself balls-deep in the other girl, one thing was for sure:

Whatever fun went down tonight, everyone's eyes would be on it.

Julie Dykstra-Liao, the Notorious J.D.L.

And where there were eyes to catch, Julie Dykstra-Liao made herself unmissable. As her entrance theme kicked in, the spotlights flooded onto the entrance ramp, and out came the woman of the hour. She danced and waved her arms to the snares. After all, hips don't lie, and Julie knew exactly what hers were saying. That wiggle-wiggle-wiggle of the silicone cock hanging in front would definitely be the most memeable moment of the night. The harness, though, framed her ass well, slick and shiny from the lube LAW had provided as a courtesy, and as she sashayed to the beat, the whole crowd got an eyeful.

Party in the front and party in the back. No matter the view, everyone had the best seat in the house.

Except for the folks who weren't sitting at all, the ones by the entrance ramp. They got more than an eyeful; they went all-access. Julie couldn't make it three steps without stopping for a selfie or an autograph. She tsked one fan, a girl, who slung her arm across Julie's shoulders for a pic. "Look, don't touch, babe," she said with a wink. Then, after a beat, she giggled. "Ah, who am I kidding?" One arm shot around the cutie and the other flashed a peace sign as Julie smooched her fan on the cheek.

Just as her entrance theme came to a close, Julie made it to the ring. She bent down, low and slow, slipping into the ring while giving one more peek at her well-toned ass. Then she leaned against the far ropes and hummed, waiting for the woman who'd try to take that ass.

[Malkavia]

A bass guitar traced five syncopated notes in the dark. A hill in the dim morning warmth.



A spotlight formed a circle along the entrance ramp and rose up the polished black vinyl. It washed over a pale bare foot, then her calf. She was seated on stairs leading to the backstage door. The bassline thrummed and sang, and the spotlight rose like the sun, slow. Slow to draw in an audience.

Patience, sweets.

Then came her long, pale thighs, and the golden and black knee-high nylon stocking that she stripped from her skin as her body washed into her view. Her belly-button and the soft hint of her abs, the upturned perk of her breasts, then finally her bare shoulders and throat slid into the pale white lens of the spotlight. The piano slipped down a slope as if to trace the curve of her shoulders.

The Countess

For a beat, her face came into view: The glossy gleam of her hair; the bright reflection from her eyes; her expression, as intimate as if she were just rising from bed. Then, Hargrove's trumpets spun into the melody, and she stood and smiled, throwing back her pigtails as she traipsed down the ramp.

The piano and trumpet danced. Call and response, cheerful as birdsong, rising from dusky morning to the kind of day a girl could waltz through. Madeleine slipped on her strapon — crimson like a cardinal — as simple as sipping morning coffee while she walked.

(Casual. Casual.

The sensation of the strapon against her pussy, of the leather bands around her hips, cupping the lower edge of her ass sparked excitement inside her like metal on flint. But—

But keep it light!)

At first she pretended to be oblivious to the audience, its whistles and — eeeEEEEOOW! — catcalls. It was her sunrise, her private day.

(Keep it Trumpet-call light. Saxophone sweet, she thought, as she looked out from her summer-morning costume and saw the audience, the ring, the lights. Her opponent, with all her luscious curves and bright confidence)

But then the piano and trumpet erupted into such a happy frenzy she couldn't help herself, and she found one man. A good man. A man in a suit and tie, young with a flounce of just-messy-enough black hair, right by the ramp.

(Imagine her—pierced! Imagine her—moaning. Madeleine. In front of her hundreds of thousands— Quivering and fucked and full, full—full of crimson cock.)

She gestured, caught his eye, caught his necktie, caught him. Standing at his side, Her head rested on his shoulder, hair spread lightly over his houlder while she held his red tie like a leash over her breast, beaming up at him with amber eyes that could float ships in the irises. Lucky him—he had a friend to hold his shoulders when his knees went weak. Photographs from five dozens phones captured the moment. Madeleine slipped a flower from her hair into his jacket pocket—and then was gone, leaving only a waft of citrus scent from her hair and a weakness in his gut.

(How did the Countess want to look atop that delicious delicious pile?

Casual! Loose. Like it was as easy as a trumpet-call stroll)

He was the only one to get her special attention, until she got to her corner. Until the trumpets and drums began to shiver and rise towards a climax, and she threw up her arms to them. Grinning, giddy, and glowing.

And then the spotlight cut — thunk — with the last downbeat from the drums.

[FreestylePoet]

Not every wrestler dimmed the lights for their entrance, but Julie was grateful whenever she was up against someone who did. For just a minute, she was able to melt back into the crowd and watch her opponent's entrance as a fan. Even if that little buzz inside her begged to taunt or brow-wiggle or rile up the crowd, there wouldn't be any point. Every camera, every phone, every eye would be laser-focused at the far end of the ramp. She'd get them back by the end of the night, but for now? Julie was perfectly content to lean against her corner and watch the show.

Only this wasn't a show. It was a moment.

Madeleine Citronelle broke all the rules. It wasn't just the convenient omission of a sequin gown in this play of elegance. It was the way she bent staff and ramp alike to her will. She was the half-step between the bass's arrhythmic plucks, the pointed heel snapping the legato of the brass. Years of orchadorkery came to a single point of regret as Julie found her mind tracing each move and countermove, a come-hither dance with a whole damn jazz band decades and miles away.

Then she brought herself to wear more. This was already a far cry from Wet T-Shirt Night on Stanford's Sorority Row, but now the whole promise of a striptease had been turned on its head. Slowly, slowly, she slid the straps upon her legs. A thousand lumens glimmered off buckles and lube. And the cinch! God, Julie swore she could feel her own dildo throb. Beat after beat pulsed to Julie's thighs -- all but to her cock -- as the leather framed Madeleine's.

The flickers of look-don't-stare -- of see-don't-look -- teased a mirror of Julie's own thoughts. The crowd was involved, but there were only whispers towards the Countess's audience. Even here, when she'd led the notes between the ropes and to the precipice of a no-holes-barred sexfight, Madeleine turned back. Once more to the crowd for a pop as the floodlights glowed back on.

"Damn," she whispered.

Eyebrows, a shake, and a sigh pulled Julie from her stupor. She walked to the center of the ring until they stood near cock-to-cock, flashing a flushing wink to her foe-to-be. "I-" Her voice went up a tick on the pitch scale. "Myyyyyy goodness, Maddie-Baddie! Talk about Cap-Ti-Va-Tion!" She giggled. "You know your showbiz, girl, and every side's your good side~ Gonna make it hard for me to pick which angle to fuck-and-or-be-fucked from, hmm? You know what they say: the camera adds ten thrusts!"

[Malkavia]

Madeleine folded one arm over the other, leaned back, cocked her chin, and grinned at Julie. She could bask in ten thousand rings in front of a million people—the million and first person to cup their hands over their lips and bellow her name over the clamor would still make her eyes sparkle.

"Well you're just a canny little operator aren't you, sweet pea? I'm blushing and the bell hasn't even rung." She shifted her weight from the back of her heels to her left leg, gently biting her tongue in her left canine as she let her eyes skim over her opponent. Her cock swung with the shift in her weight, swiping just shy of Julie's tip.

It was funny. Madeleine put so much effort and money into perfecting her costume, yet this reception — the match that stripped away all the coy cleavage and teasing skirtlines — echoed up to the roof like no match before it. As she felt this sex kitten up in her mind, Madeleine could understand why. She could feel the vibe, down in her navel, bright in her cheeks. Then her eyes flicked back up to Julie's.

"You know, though. People are talking about you Julie. All over the Internet. I've heard some...tantalizing tales." As Madeleine took the smallest step forward, her smile widened at the edges—not a full one smile. It was more the pursed-lip, glitter-in-the-eyes look of someone telling a joke. As she slid forward, her scarlet strap slid up the underside of her opponent's silicone, pushing it back until slid to the side and Madeleine gently nudged Julie's belly. Soft, but not soft enough to hide the athletic power in her opponent's powerful hips, sloping shoulders, and tight core.

"They're saying before you became the lovely, undeniable sex icon we see today—" For the moment, Madeleine had forgotten the audience. Accepted them. Took them for granted in her train. Her eyes were fixed on Julie—hard in her look despite all the softness in her body. "They say you were deadly." Madeleine let a silence stretch for half a beat. She was close enough to feel Julie's breath against her chest. "I'd love to see that side of the Notorious J. D. L."

[FreestylePoet]

Julie couldn't help but giggle. Wasn't this just the sword lesbian scene of her dreams? Smirking, bitten lips. Cocked brows. Tips to jugulars, with nothing but gay rivalry separating life from death. It was just that their tips were made of something softer than steel, hard as it might be to believe in about twenty minutes. Not that their cocks made much of a difference. After all, LAW was just about as rivalrous as gay could be.

In this case, Julie's thigh was the throat, reminded of imminent danger by a single hard press that nonetheless brought a flush to her face. The streamer licked her lip, then flickered both eyes to Madeleine's. "Well, I know what my part of the pillow talk is gonna be," she breathed. So soft, and yet perfectly audible for the microphones. "Figuring out who set me up with all those lies..."

Then the crook between her forefinger and thumb planted itself on Madeleine's torso, thumbpad pressing insistently on a sleek ghost of a muscle. The power would be apparent just from her grip strength. "After all, there's no 'were' about it, Maddie-Baddie. These fists aren't any less trained than they ever were."

Julie laughed. She slipped playful, puckered lips across each other, lower slick against upper as they went back and forth. Finally, she pouted, then hummed a sad dissent. "But look at you, girl! Your skin is so perfect, you're basically glowing! And your makeup, too." Then she slipped that demonstrative hand right onto one of Madeleine's and pulled the other up in kind. She squeeeed as hard as she could without busting Madeleine's eardrums -- the equivalent of a Shakespearean stage-sigh for the character of a total floozie. "Oh, I couldn't!" cried Julie. She shook her head back and forth with as much contrivance as she could muster. "Think of how baaad it'll look on camera if I ruin it all with bruuuuuises!" she whined.

That, at least, was true. Fighting and fucking were two peas in a pod here at LAW, even in a match this. Julie was certainly no stranger to the more violent aspects of LAW, and pulling out a little bit more of her can-o'-whoop-ass would hardly make the most brutal show on the card tonight. But they had every dick in the building at full mast after their little cabaret show of an entrance. Was it really right to turn it into a bar brawl?