A Taste of Things To Come (Dalia Nadeen Mahmoud [D] vs Tomas Ferreira)

[DSX93]

Dalia watched on with ever increasing intrigue. The love shown to her foot would be rewarded with hums and the occasional moan to encourage the attention given to each individual toe. How much did the components factor into the result here? His liking for a woman's feet, the drive to impress the woman right in front of him, the apple taste of the oil, the joy in showing up those silenced hecklers -- were they even in his mind anymore? -- giving these thousands of paying customers the show they came to see...

She would ask him a question that wouldn't require any talking. "Do you normally give a woman's feet this much loving attention?" She'd immediately raise a finger to halt any impulse he may have to speak..."Don't talk. Keep licking." And follow up with a tap of her thigh to show him how she wanted his answer to be communicated. "Once to say 'yes'. Twice to say 'no'."

Regardless of the answer, the moment she noticed his body's reaction to hers would also be the time to take them away. "And that's enough for now." His cheek received a couple playful taps to accompany the withdrawal. "But keep those pleasant thoughts." And she would tease him one last time, floating both feet in front of his face just a little too slowly to be seen as anything but intentional on their downward path to his chest, touching one foot down on each pec before pushing off to create a proper starting distance. Something that took less force than it would seem, watching it.

The Egyptian slid gracefully into a ready position on her knees.

[GoingBananas]

To him, it wasn’t rocket science, but there might have been some who never seem to “get it,” as they say. Not everyone excels at cleaning. Some aren’t good at constructing houses. Some people cannot understand quantum mechanics. People have their natural roles to play, that is as much as Tomás liked to believe. He wasn’t the god-fearing type, but he respected roles in society.

Tomás was about to answer Dalia’s question, but she ordered him to continue, not to utter a word. "Mmrmm-hmm..." A slight pause, hearing the alternative options given to him. Once understood, Tomás would tap on that strong, taut thigh twice. An answer that might be shocking to the Mistress of the Oil, but in truth, Tomás was operating on what felt natural to him. His past life left little time to philander with the ladies.

Being fresh into this kind of environment that LAW offers, there are still things that give him pause, but Tomás found this to be a natural reflex. He showed her respect, and so would she. It was an even exchange. Tomás even improved at the job, running along the veins, tickling the nerves. Judging from the sounds of things, she liked this. Perhaps loving this? Who knows?

However, this can’t go on for too long. The dark-haired Egyptian would withdraw her foot, just as he was getting into it a bit more. A few playful taps to the cheek and some sensual touches on his chest, and she would use him as a platform to push off. Tomás chuckled, wiping the taste off his lips, the lingering taste of the apple - or her foot - remaining still. Either that or he’s checking to see he’s not drooling too much.

Tomás tried to walk on his knees, having a bit more base to work with, compared to just standing on his two feet. It was awkward at first, slowly trying to create some momentum to propel him forward to Dalia. “I forgot to ask. You okay if we start like this? Or do all of your matches start standing? I’m just thinking of the effort I’d have to stand up and then eventually fall down in seconds.”

[DSX93]

That such dedicated service wasn't the norm for him raised a brow and pulled at the corners of her upturned lips. His answer placed her in unique company. Possibly even a party of one. She liked that.

Had he been waiting for a moment like this? Or had she simply gotten that much of a rise out of him?

Dalia watched his approach with her arms at the ready, fingers wiggling in anticipation, her smile turning into something that said that he was taking those first steps forward into this as a boy, but when she's done with him -- for tonight, that is -- his eyes will be opened to a whole new world. She awaited his first move, noting that his difficulties persisted while he was on his knees.

And then he stopped. She had a ready answer for the question that followed.

"Most of my matches end with my opponent on their knees, so we'd just be skipping a step. I don't mind that at all." She let out a quiet chuckle before falling into a silence that she spent assessing him. Figuring out how she'd go about this. It wouldn't do to end this quickly. Not at all.

This match required spectacle, but to provide it, she'd need to carry him. That was something that she'd discussed with her original opponent, who had as much experience as a wrestler entirely as Tomas had in oil. Maria was agreeable to the idea. Sounded keen on being subjected to her holds. Eager to serve, which made her last-minute disappearance all the more jarring.

She couldn't just ask this man to do the same here, could she?

"Choose any angle you'd like, and come at me however. We'll take it from there."

She'll figure it out.

[GoingBananas]

Tomás wasn’t sure what he expected when he stepped into the oil, but the moment his knee met the slick surface, he remembered just how far out of his element he truly was. Muay Thai had taught him how to stand firm, how to root himself into the earth with every strike and counter. Here, in this glistening, treacherous pool of oil, there was no firm stance. No solid ground. Just an expanse of shifting friction that mocked every fundamental lesson he had ever learned.

“Lembre-se, senhora. I’m unlike anyone you’ve faced before.” Yet, his focus couldn’t remain solely on his own unease. Not when Dalia stood before him like that.

Her smile was a predator’s grin, though there was something more to it, something playful, a quiet amusement that came with knowing exactly how this was going to end. She knew the battlefield. She knew the rules. He was an interloper in her domain, and the glimmer in her eyes told him she had every intention of making that clear.

Tomás felt his breath steadying despite himself, though his pulse told a different story. He should have been mapping out his first move, trying to read her stance, anticipating her counters, yet his gaze wavered elsewhere for just a second—a few seconds too long.

He swallowed hard, pushing the thought aside, forcing his attention back to the fight. But had she noticed? The amused quirk of her lips suggested she had.

"Muito bem, acalma-te....Tu tens isto..." He muttered to himself. Determined to make something out of it, Tomás seeks to apply what he knows that could be transferrable. Turns out, there is. Despite Muay Thai’s reputation for strikes, clinches remain applicable. The Portuguese Nak Muay reached out, trying to catch her and pull her into something resembling a dominant position.

However, the oil had other plans.

The moment his arms found her shoulders, his grip slipped. His balance betrayed him and instead of securing control, his base gave way completely. With a sudden, graceless plunge, he tumbled forward onto his front; the oil turning his fall into an uncontrolled slide right into Dalia.

For a brief, ridiculous moment, he felt weightless, sliding down with no means to stop himself. His hands scrambled for purchase, but there was none to be found. In the space of a heartbeat, Tomás was at her feet, with his dignity left somewhere behind him on the slick surface.

[DSX93]

"Indeed, you are." The Erotic Combat Club had its share of wrestlers who didn't actually know what they were doing when she first joined, but to its credit, by the time oil wrestling had been implemented, the roster it had accumulated included talents that became mountains for her to climb when she first got herself acquainted with it. Until tonight, she hadn't encountered anyone who didn't have at least some inkling of familiarity with oil outside of those clients who weren't involved in wrestling. She's seen other Tomases, yes, but had never been scheduled to face them.

As her ego "hoped" (for a lack of a better term) was true of her in this instance, Tomas Ferreira was in a class of his own.

Dalia lifted her arms into a ready position again, watching his approach carefully, with a little smirk betraying her knowledge of where his eyes went. Her thoughts would return to his infatuation with her feet later, most certainly. Once he's firmly in her grasp. Which fate conspired to have happen sooner, rather than later.

Tomas made the same mistake that many newcomers had, including herself, once upon a time: He lunged forward, with the apparent assumption that his knees were all the base he needed to mount his offensive. And to his credit, they do indeed provide more stability than one's own feet. But he lacked the technique that was ever so important in oil wrestling. More than the standard form, she'd say. He'd come forward too much with his upper body. Didn't get his legs in the places they needed to be. And it seems he hadn't taken into account that she was rather oiled up herself.

So easily distracted, this man. It was almost like he was making her an offering. And she took it, steading herself on all fours and hoisting her lower body into the air, letting him pass underneath her, but not entirely. The Egyptian's plump rear came down on the middle of his back, bringing him to a stop, and the crowd expressed the humor they found in his fumble. She set her hands at his ankles for leverage. Still slippery, but they weren't big targets. The more her hands could wrap around, the better. "Not the worst first effort." Talking to him had proven to be a good way to keep his mind off the crowd, so in the moment, she decided to make this a teachable moment.

She's seen LAW take talents who were proven to be out of their depths in a specific match type and continue to book them in those matches. Sensing that the same may happen to him, she thought it best to make sure he leaves this match with at least some tools he can use the next time. "But you have to mind your entire body in the oil. Think about what you do with those legs the next time you lunge forward."

But of course, she couldn't just let him go. She had fans to entertain.

And she already knew what she wanted to do. The oil veteran slid back until her plump derriere found its rest on the back of the Nak Muay's neck. She'd bring the legs that were on either side of it closer together, crushing the sides of his face in between her bare, juicy thighs, crossing her ankles to scissor him in. Seizing his arms by the wrists,

.

Dalia had never bothered to attach fancy names to her signature moves. Most were either variants of, or utilized scissorholds anyway. She wasn't a creative namer, and she'd always erred more towards pragmatism over fancy, complicated maneuvers. It served her well enough, so she kept a "if it ain't broke, don't fix it" mentality about it.

She hadn't put as much into this move as she could have at any of the separate points that brought it together: She hadn't sat up as far as this move calls for, though that was for his added..."benefit"; it allowed her bring her feet closer to his face, but with her sitting on his neck, he wouldn't be able to get to them unless he happened to have a tongue like Gene Simmons. In which case, she would have a few tasks ready to put it to use later on. But if not? Well, that, she decided, would be the real punishment for his blunder. Her thighs would be crushing his face into a funny expression, no doubt, but she could've squeezed down harder, still. Could've brought his arms up higher to make his shoulders scream louder, but let them keep at it for long enough, and it'll be deafening, all the same.

On the pragmatic side of the deal, he was completely fresh; there was no sense in putting in all that elbow grease into it. And she wanted to see what he was made of. Could he find his way out?

She'd keep talking while she waited for his answer.

"This hold: It's one of my favorites. I came up with it in the middle of a session one afternoon. My client was a man who liked a couple of the same things you do." She let that one hang for a few seconds. Gave Tomas a little bit of time to put two and two together. "A big, sturdy man; looked like the

you'd see every now and again on the label of a pack of Brawny paper towels. And that's what I called him: Brawny.

Brawny had never set foot on the mat, let alone the inside of a ring, but every so often, he'd think himself capable of taking me down. Ever since that first application, this would be the hold I'd use to punish him. Worked like a charm every time." Spotting a camera focusing on her on the outside, she shot it a sadistic grin, holding it until she was certain that he'd gotten the zoomed in close-up shot she knew its operator was looking for. And then she turned her head to look over her shoulder, down at him. "Can you figure out why? I'll give you a hint: It wasn't the pain."

[GoingBananas]

Him being completely out of his depth should have not been a massive surprise, but when Tomás attempted to start things off with the clinch, the reality still managed to him harder than any flying knee. It was painfully, embarrassingly obvious. The destabilizing influence of the oil rendered every principle ingrained in him through years of Muay Thai ineffective. The oil itself was a betrayer, making even the simplest of movements treacherous. The footing he relied upon, the solid stances that kept him rooted in a fight—all of it was gone, stripped away, and replaced with a battlefield that demanded an entirely different kind of finesse. He had walked into this match, an apex predator in his domain, only to find himself reduced to prey in Dalia’s. And she was making sure he knew it.

The moment he lunged, he realized his mistake. His knees had been a better base than his feet, but it wasn’t enough. His upper body was over-committed, his legs failed to compensate, and Dalia had exploited it masterfully. Tomás had felt the air shift as she maneuvered, graceful in the way only someone truly at home in the oil could be. And then, suddenly, the Egyptian’s weight pressed down onto his back, pinning him securely.

Tomás’s world had turned into heat, pressure, and the stifling scent of apple-scented, oil-slicked skin. He could hear the crowd’s laughter, the unmistakable sound of amusement at his misstep, but that wasn’t what troubled him. No, what truly unsettled him was how effortlessly Dalia had turned his mistake into a moment of playful dominance, as if subjugating him had been nothing more than a natural reaction, like a lioness swatting down an overeager cub. And she wasn’t even trying.

Then, as if his predicament couldn’t get any worse, he felt Dalia shift further. Her weight glided backward, her thighs framing either side of his head before her plump rear settled onto the back of his neck. The movement was deliberate and measured. The Mistress of Oil knew exactly what she was doing. The soft squeeze of her thighs against his face sealed his fate, their warmth an ironic contrast to the cold realization settling in his stomach.

His back burned with the weight of her plump form, her thighs pillowing the sides of his face while simultaneously crushing his skull. Trained, athletic arms, wrenched backward at an unforgiving angle, sent dull pangs up his shoulders, promising agony if he struggled too wildly. His breath came in slow, controlled draws—he knew better than to waste energy fighting wildly in a hold like this. No, the way out of this wasn’t through brute force alone.

But that was the problem. Muay Thai had prepared Tomás for many things—blistering strikes, relentless clinches, the feeling of shin against bone, elbow against flesh, pain that came in sharp bursts, in violent collisions. But this? This was foreign. It wasn’t just wrestling. It wasn’t just oil. It was her.

Tomás tried to move. He really did. But she already had his arms caught, his wrists trapped in her firm grip. There was no leverage, no base from which to mount an escape. The way she had positioned herself left him utterly at her mercy. Dalia had taken his mistake and turned it into something intimate. The weight of her hips settled against the back of his neck, her scent invading his senses, her voice a sultry melody teasing his ears. The rhythm of the match wasn’t an exchange, but a game, one where she dictated every movement, every response. She had control of his body, and worse, was trying to get inside his head.

Dalia spoke, she recounted the origins of this particular hold. Her voice was honeyed, taunting, each syllable wrapping around him like an extension of her thighs. She wanted him to listen, to absorb every word as she spun her little story, a story where he was just another “Brawny,” just another toy beneath her. Brawny. A client. A man who had thought he could overpower her. A man who had found himself right where Tomás was now, trapped and helpless beneath her, suffering at the mercy of a hold she had designed to humiliate more than hurt.

Tomás let his breath steady, blinking the sweat from his eyes. She wanted a response. Expected it. And if he knew anything from his time in the ring, it was this—when an opponent talks to you, they expect you to be too broken to respond. And he’d be dammed to just give up now.

“Não foi a dor...” Tomás murmured, his Portuguese rolling out naturally before he forced himself to switch to English. His voice was husky, strained from the hold but not yet defeated. “It wasn’t the pain.“ He let the words hang between them, letting her know that he had understood. That he wasn’t just some clueless brute lost in the oil, drowning under her thighs. “…It was because he wanted to be there?” It wasn’t just the pressure, the discomfort, the strategic positioning. The slow, deliberate way she applied it, the control she dripped into every movement. The way her voice toyed with him just as much as her body did. Dalia wasn’t just trapping him, but claiming him.

And that can do something to a man.

Anyone like a Brawny would find their bodies betrayed him just as much as the oil did. The warmth of her skin, the scent of her sweat mixed with oil, the way her thighs pressed against the cheeks—it wasn’t just a struggle anymore. It was something deeper, something primal.

He could hear the crowd cheering and felt the eyes of countless onlookers watching as Dalia owned him in front of them, as she turned his resistance into nothing more than another part of her show. And so, with what little breath he could spare, he forced out a hoarse, accented answer, his voice rough but steady:

“Porque o orgulho de um homem é a primeira coisa a quebrar.” Because a man’s pride is the first thing to break.

[DSX93]

Dalia liked the words being said by the rise and fall of the former gangster's scarred back. He was pacing himself and keeping calm. As long as he was doing those two things, he had a chance. It hadn't amounted to anything in this instance, but it wasn't any less wise a course. Actual spoken word brought out a voice that was pleasant to her ears. He was feeling the heat, but for now, it was something that he could handle. She wasn't outright expecting him to hold a conversation, but his ability to do just that, even with most of it in Portuguese, seemed promising. Especially considering that he'd kept enough of his mind to remember to switch to English. And what he'd said in English was the exact right answer.

She would darkly state, with her cadence and timing being such that it would seem like she understood every word of his native tongue (though she hadn't). "Exactly." She chuckled at the memory. "By that time, I'd had him enamored. The pain was nothing. The thing that brought him back to heel was...Well, the very things that are sitting right in your face now." She gave her toes a taunting wiggle, as though she were saying, "I'm also talking about you. Don't bother denying that truth."

"Those two parts of me that he loved most. The two of them, and a choice: If he remembered his place, I'd let him earn his way back to the right to touch them again. If he felt ready to risk it all and take what he wanted, he had the option. But if he were to fail, he would be out the door, never to return.

He never took that chance."

As a reward for giving her the correct answer, she released his arms. But in the next breath, her hands had reached to seize his ankles, right at the point where they met his feet. The more she could wrap her hands around, the better; she kept a hold on him every step of the way to tucking them tight underneath her arms. She slid further along him as she did this, breath hitching in her chest as she enjoyed the friction between her crotch and his neck the moment before

making sure to keep her feet only just out of his reach. But this position allowed her to move them just the littlest bit closer. Enough for him to notice.

This was a hold that was meant to close a match, but just like the one that came before, it hadn't been sealed as well as she was capable of. This time, it would be his lower back and maybe his quads that would receive a good stretch, depending on the state of his flexibility. "Would you believe me if I said that this was a reward for a correct answer?"

[GoingBananas]

Tomás exhaled slowly, forcing himself to regulate his breathing as he adjusted to the newest form of restraint Dalia had wrapped him in. Every breath was measured, every muscle flexed just enough to gauge what room he had left, what avenues—if any—existed for escape. It wasn’t much. He wasn’t unfamiliar with discomfort, nor was he unacquainted with pain. But this? This was something else entirely. Muay Thai was a sport of precision, force and balance. Here, in the oil, none of that mattered. Stability was a lie. Grip was an illusion. Dalia’s mastery over both his body and the situation left him with no illusions about who was in control.

Dalia’s words slithered through his ears, laced with amusement, edged with taunting pleasure. He didn’t know whether she truly understood his native tongue or if she was simply that good at making it seem like she did. Either way, it didn’t matter. The meaning was clear, and her intent even clearer. Dalia continued, her voice dark and indulgent, yet carrying a measured authority that he couldn’t ignore. Tomás didn’t need to see it to know what she was doing. The subtle flex, the taunting wiggle of her toes. Taunting him with an unspoken truth they both understood. He had looked. And she knew it.

The ashen-haired man swallowed hard, his body and his member betraying him with the way it responded to the deliberate provocation. He had spent his life perfecting discipline, the ability to compartmentalize pain and pleasure, to stay focused even when the odds were against him. But here, against her, all of that felt like a lesson he had yet to master. Dalia had seen men like him before, tamed men like him before. The casual way she spoke of her past conquest, the way she toyed with him now, all of it was designed to push him further down the path she had chosen for him.

She let what she said hang in the air for a moment, the weight of the words pressing down on him just as heavily as her body. “Ele nunca arriscou…” Tomás muttered under his breath, voice low, the roughness of his accent threading through every syllable. He never took that chance.

There was a lesson buried beneath her story, veiled in seduction and dominance, but still clear. A man—a fighter—was only as strong as his ability to commit to his choices. To own them, no matter the cost.

He felt the shift in her body before he felt the release of his arms. A gift. Or perhaps a trap.

She let his arms go, and for a brief, foolish moment, Tomás thought she was giving him something resembling an opening. But the illusion was shattered the second she shifted, hands sliding down to capture his ankles with an ease that spoke of experience. His muscles tensed, but there was no escaping the trap she was setting. Her grip was firm and confident, and before he could react, his legs were folded beneath her arms, his lower back stretched in a way that forced a low groan from his lips.

He clenched his teeth, fingers curling against the slick surface beneath him. His body was being bent against itself, his flexibility tested in ways he hadn’t anticipated. The pressure was insidious, starting as a deep pull before blooming into something more pronounced. His quads burned, and his lower spine protested, but Dalia was relentless, adjusting just enough to ensure he felt every inch of what she was doing to him. Every stretch, every shift, was calculated to extract the maximum effect without pushing him beyond what she intended.

The Mistress of Oil was still just out of his reach, but not completely. The movement of her feet was calculated, subtle enough that it might have gone unnoticed had he not already been hyper-aware of every part of her. The message was clear: she was dangling a temptation before him, making sure he knew just how little power he had here. She wanted him to acknowledge not just his physical confinement, but the psychological play unfolding before him.

Tomás let out a breath, rough and steady, lips twitching into the barest shadow of a smirk. His legs were pinned, his back stretched, his neck still caged between the plush weight of her thighs, but his voice? Strained as it was, that was something he could still use.

“Depende…” he murmured, rolling the Portuguese from his tongue before switching to English. “Is the reward meant to make me stronger?” His voice was low, steady. “Or just remind me that I lost?”

He tested the tension of the hold again, shifting slightly beneath her. His muscles burned, the oil slicking his skin making every movement a struggle, a risk. He was a man of force, of power, of 'grounded' combat. This? This was not his battlefield. This was hers.

And she was enjoying every second of it.