Safiyah Neferet vs. Aspasia El-Shenawy II - Through the Fire and Flames

[BlackAkuma]

This was going poorly, yes. But was it unsalvageable? That remained to be seen. Safiyah was in control at the moment, but Asp was sure she could bring this back and take control. The two of them had been virtually equal the last time they clashed, close in every regard, it was unfathomable to think that such a divide could be created in only a few weeks.

And yet, here Asp was, fighting from the bottom, in stark contrast to their last encounter. She had thought a more direct, violent approach would serve her well, that she would be able to dominate this woman once again, only to find those notions turned against her most severely.

It didn’t even feel like fighting Safiyah anymore - this woman was so much more dangerous, more destructive, didn’t walk or move like the sinuous beauty she had tangled with before. That Safiyah would’ve been taken off guard by Asp’s charge, perhaps even gone down. This one…

She was ready, too ready, capturing Asp’s head as she came with the charge and hardly reacting to the attack. The Fire Wyrm tried to fight her way out, twisting left and right, hoping to get free before she took advantage of her vulnerable state.

Too late. A foot slapped her across the face, slammed into her features, and that same leg swung down and shot into her midsection, hitting with enough force to lift her off her feet. When she came back down, her knees buckled and she almost dropped all the way, but she steeled herself before she went all the way, summoning her grit. She had to do something.

Instead of pulling away, Asp reached around Safiyah’s waist, planted her feet, and tried to lift her opponent up, attempting to bring her crashing down with a Northern Lights Suplex.

[Lightman]

There was something noble in the way Asp refused to break.

Even now, staggering and disoriented, sweat trailing down the sharp line of her jaw, the Fire Wyrm clung to the same relentless spark that had made her so dangerous in their first match. It would’ve been admirable...if it weren’t so tragically futile.

Safiyah could see it clearly—how desperately Asp wanted this to turn. How badly she needed to believe the balance hadn’t shifted, that the battlefield was still level beneath them. But that illusion had crumbled long ago, buried beneath the weight of every cold, calculated strike Safiyah had driven into her body.

This wasn’t the same fight. And she wasn’t the same opponent.

Still, Asp pressed on. Gritting her teeth. Fighting the ache in her ribs. She had taken those kicks—one to the face, the other to the gut—with just enough defiance to stay standing, and somehow found enough steel in her spine to reach forward again, her arms lacing around Safiyah’s waist like a woman seizing onto memory.

Safiyah’s eyes narrowed.

A suplex.

She remembered the last time, how it had felt to crash hard enough to see stars behind her lids. That moment had changed everything in their first encounter. It had stolen her breath and her momentum in one fell arc, and turned her controlled tempo into chaos. But that had been before.

Now, as Asp tried to lift her, Safiyah’s body moved with ghost-quiet speed. Her arms snapped down, locking around the back of Asp’s neck and shoulder in a modified front facelock, not to block the suplex outright, but to anchor herself. She planted her feet, dropping her weight just enough to make the lift clumsy, uneven, and at the moment Asp strained to commit, Safiyah shifted.

She kicked off the mat, twisting her body over Asp’s trapped head, and in a flash of fluidity turned the suplex attempt into a swift, elegant sunset flip powerbomb.

[BlackAkuma]

Asp could do this. She could do this.

Whatever sort of plan she’d had going into this, that was all by the wayside now, and she was left with little more than futile gestures and a vague notion of survival. She believed - she had to believe - she still had a chance, here. She had seen wrestlers come back from worse and manage to win, though admittedly, that tended to happen in standard matches, where a lucky pinfall could win the day. Here, where stamina was key, the stakes were much higher.

She had to put Safiyah down. If she could get the woman down, just for a little while, she could secure an advantage and work from there, recover her stamina, and make a comeback. She was sure of it, and that faint hope was what drove her as she dug deep and proceeded to lift her foe up, up, and-

Something was wrong.

She was trying to lift Safiyah, but it was easy, too easy with her strained body, which meant the woman was leaping into it, which meant she was attempting something. By the time Asp figured out what that something was, it was too late - she was lifted over her feet, brought head over heels, and came crashing down hard on her back, hitting with a sonorous splat. She rolled over once, then flopped down to her back, with her eyes to the sky and her fiery braid curled around her neck in a cruel parody of a noose.

Asp tried to sit up after a moment, made it halfway, then flopped back down after her body gave up and demanded time to rest, consequences be damned.

[Lightman]

There was a sound Safiyah recognised in these moments. Not the crowd, not the referee, not even the slap of bodies meeting canvas—but that soft, guttural breath of a body giving out. A shuddering exhale caught between pain and surrender.

Asp just made that sound now.

Safiyah lay on her back for only a moment after the sunset flip’s violent conclusion, eyes on the rafters, her own breath measured and low. Then, fluidly, she rose. No drama. No flair. But with haunting levels of precision.

Asp lay sprawled, limbs askew, her chest rising and falling like a furnace about to go cold. Her braid, long, thick, once regal, had curled messily around her neck, a flaming noose wrapped by the hand of fate. Or perhaps, just by the violette now standing above her.

Safiyah looked down. No words. Just the faintest flicker of something unreadable behind her eyes. A recognition, perhaps, of what this woman had done to her weeks ago. Of the position she had once been in. Of how it had felt to look up and see Asp above her, breathing heavy, victorious, smug. Not this time.

She reached down and grabbed the braid, twining the fiery red cord between her fingers. Slowly, deliberately, she began to wrap it around Asp’s throat, weaving it into a taut, vengeful loop. There was something perverse in how elegant it looked. A fiery crown turned into a collar. Beauty turned into bondage.

Then she stood. One foot planted firmly across Asp’s bare midriff, claiming space not just atop her body but in the narrative between them. Her arms extended upward as she yanked back on the makeshift garrote, pulling hard, cruelly, forcing Asp’s throat to strain beneath the tension of her own legacy.

Safiyah’s shoulders rose and fell with every controlled breath, but her grip didn’t falter. The crowd’s noise blurred. The lights dimmed in her mind. This wasn’t a performance anymore. This was memory, repaid in kind. One choke for another. One humiliation for the echo it left.

[BlackAkuma]

In. Out. In. Out.

Have to focus. Have to breathe. Have to think.

On some level, Asp was present enough to realize that about her current situation, that panicking wasn’t going to do anything to improve her current situation, but it was hard to cut through that fog at the moment. Not when everything was going so poorly. Not when Safiyah was tearing her apart, piece by piece. It seemed like the woman had an answer for everything, like she was reading from a script and knew everything Asp could do before she did it.

It was frustrating, beyond infuriating, but she couldn't lay back and rest on her laurels. Safiyah would be on her again, soon. She had to get up. Had to…

Her eyes shot wide she felt someone tugging at her braid, yanking at her scalp, and she looked up to see Safiyah’s mismatched eyes glaring down at her. Her first reaction was confusion, not understanding what the woman was up to, but then she felt the strands tightening around her neck, pressing tight against her throat.

”No-”

Asp reached up with fumbling hands, but it was far too late, as Safiyah stood up and pulled her hair tight, choking Asp with her own hair. Her body went into a fit, thrasking and kicking and squirming like an animal caught in a snare - which, she supposed, she was. She pulled at her hair in reflex, as if she might tear it free, but they were far too strong and thick for that.

It wouldn’t be long before her struggles began to weaken, before the lack of air took its toll, and then…

[Lightman]

…Gone.

It was quaint, watching Asp’s chest rise and fall in those ragged, desperate little gasps. The Fire Wyrm was trying to steady herself, cling to that last strand of composure like it meant anything now. Like it could save her. Safiyah crouched low, predator to prey, a silhouette painted in shadows and indifference. Her mismatched eyes watched every twitch, every panic-born breath. She could hear it, feel it. That hollow thudding beneath Asp’s skin. The telltale percussion of failing resolve.

There wasn’t any need for words. When the body spoke so eloquently under pressure, and the eyes betrayed a mind scrambling for purchase against inevitability, words were pointless.

Asp’s legs kicked and bucked in a frenzy beneath her like some hunted creature caught in wire, every motion an echo of futility. Safiyah held the braid firm with one hand, watching the girl’s arms flail, eyes bulge, and body twist in one last display of primal defiance. She could tell by the fluttering of Asp’s lashes, the slowing rhythm of her struggles, that her window was closing.

And when the time came, the very second Asp’s body went limp in that soft, fluttering collapse, Safiyah didn’t hesitate. She smashed her head down once. Clean, sharp, brutal, just above the brow, a blow to silence the last flicker of consciousness and assure the fall. There was a sound to it, dull and final, like a gavel slamming shut on fate. She exhaled slowly through her nose and let the braid slip from her fingers, her body uncoiling with serpentine grace. Not a beat wasted. She knelt, dragging the thick ponytail away from the neck and back behind Asp’s limp arms, twisting and knotting it expertly at the wrists. The fibres cinched tight, sleek and unyielding, binding Asp with her own vanity. There was a perverse elegance in the symmetry.

With her captive secured, Safiyah shifted again—lowered herself down, one knee sliding between Asp’s legs. She hooked her arms beneath Asp’s knees, pulled them wide, and leaned back, letting her weight do the work. The ligaments would scream, even in unconsciousness. Muscles would tear if they had to. Safiyah didn’t mind. In a match like this, one should not expect mercy. And for Safiyah, victory alone wouldn’t be enough.

The Last Mehit must make a statement.

[BlackAkuma]

If Asp could, she would’ve just let herself slip into unconsciousness from this point. As much as she wanted to fight, lingering on the edge like this was true torture, struggling to keep her embers lit without any oxygen to fuel them. Her body, however, had different ideas, falling back on pure instinct. It wanted to fight, wanted to survive, and it did everything to do so, even as her mind saw the futility of it all.

But, soon enough, the choking took its toll. The lights dimmed, the bucking slowed, and Asp could see Safiyah looking down her way from the corner of her eyes - cold, impassive, merciless. The last thing she remembered was a chill working its way up her spine, and then…

Silence. Pure silence. Asp felt a pain in her skull, but she was so out of it that she didn’t truly register the impact, the smallest of mercy. She was vaguely aware of being moved around and having her limbs manipulated, of something restraining her wrists, but those were ghosts of thoughts on the fringes of her brain, her mind struggling to work with some semblance of normalcy. The roar of the crowd was like the rushing of waves or the whirling of wind. Distant, ambient noise. She was on another planet.

And then, all of a sudden she wasn’t.

Asp came back to reality with shouts, one for shock and one for pain, as all the trauma she’d endured hit her at once. She winced at the aches in her skull, her eyes shut tight, and immediately tried to pull at her arms, only to find them tied up tight. Confusion took hold until she realized what she was being bound with: her hair. Safiyah was restraining her with her own hair.

That indignity alone was enough to bring a feral rage out of her, but her troubles didn't end there. The pain in her legs demanded her attention, and she looked over her shoulder to see Safiyah grasping her by the knees, bending her back, and pulling her body into an increasingly desperate shape while she sat beneath.

”No…no!” Asp gritted her teeth and did her best to fight the hold, but it was a losing effect from the start. Safiyah’s position was too good, her leverage too strong, and she wasn’t going anywhere that her fellow Egyptians didn’t want her to. No ropes to save her, and she couldn't submit to end the suffering.

Helpless, desperate, the only relief she could find was by closing her eyes, trying to shut away some part of herself from the hell she was in.

This wasn’t a match, not anymore. It was a punishment, and it had only just begun.

[Lightman]

There was the shift. The tremor beneath her grip, the tensing of thigh muscles, the erratic draw of breath as Asp’s instincts kicked in despite the blackout. The girl’s body refused stillness, twitching with the stubbornness of something too primitive to understand it had already lost. But Safiyah simply adjusted her grip, fingers digging into the backs of Asp’s knees as she leaned deeper into the hold, widening the split by another fraction. The stretch was incremental, precise. Measured cruelty. Control honed down to the breath.

She didn’t yank. That was too quick, too generous. Instead, she dragged the limbs wider with careful purpose, like she was pulling apart the pages of a fragile book. Asp was still coming back into herself, groggy from the choke and the blow, but pain had a way of dragging people into the present. Safiyah could see it in the girl’s tightening jaw, the first few laboured sounds clawing their way out of her throat. It was the moment of dawning realisation. Of where she was, how she was bound, and most painfully, with what.

Her red hair, knotted tight around her wrists, held her in place with mocking elegance. A symbol of vanity and identity turned into a shackle. Asp’s body writhed under the pressure, legs spasming as she tested for any angle to escape, but there was none. Safiyah’s positioning was too deliberate, her leverage too perfect. There were no ropes, no breaks, no salvation.

Asp thrashed in earnest, her cries cutting through the noise of the crowd, and Safiyah would shift again, hips dropping lower, widening the split another degree. The stretch was brutal now, testing ligaments, threatening to tear. The audience was growing restless, some in awe, some in discomfort, but Safiyah’s focus didn’t waver. Asp could fight all she wanted. It made no difference.

Which meant that The Last Mehit had free rein. The ability to do as she pleases with the Fire Wyrm’s body. And with that freedom, the violette would let one hand swiftly slide down, right between the outstretched legs. And without a care in the world, her fingers dug deep into Asp, deeper still until biology stops her. With the same cold detachment, the same mechanical effectiveness, that hand started to pump in and out like pistons. No easing her way in, no sense of care. All to bring Asp to the unforgiving inevitability.

Asp is going to cum. Right in the middle of this ring.

[BlackAkuma]

Asp’s body tightened as Safiyah kept her in this unorthodox but effective holding. It was humiliating, but that alone wouldn’t have been too big of a problem. If she’d had any overabundance of pride, then she would never have became a hentai wrestler in the first place. She couldn't care less what the crowd thought and did, was mostly here for her terms and pleasures.

No, the true distress came from the helplessness. Safiyah was skilled enough that she could’ve restrained her in all sorts of ways, could’ve used any number of holds to bind her, but no - she’s opted to use her hair, her pride against. Safiyah might have been keeping up an impassive front, but her actions said everything that her mouth wouldn’t. This was personal. This was hatred.

And, as such, she knew exactly where this was going to go. With her hips turned up in an agonizing angle, her lap was well within her opponent’s reach. It wasn’t a question of if Asp would be forced to have an orgasm, but when and how her foe would force it.

She chose the finger once more, and she went back to her devilish work without a moment of hesitation. Asp cried out at the insertion, then cried again as her foe began to plunge, working her over with the same unfeeling, unflinching force from before. There was no care in the woman’s touch, no sense of subtlety, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t effective. Try as she might to ignore the pleasure, there was no denying biology, no fighting her instincts.

Asp squirmed and jerked, but that only made it worse, and it was only a matter of time before she felt that familiar tingle run through her. She gritted her teeth hard, but when the ecstasy took a hold a cry flew out, a moan that was filled with anguish and passion in equal measure.

Asp came. Her body bucked, her juices spilled out, and she went into a trembling fit, her body stiffening up for a moment before it went limp. Totally and utterly spent.

[Lightman]

Asp’s body convulsed beneath Safiyah, her cry unravelling into the heavy, sweat-drenched air like a fragile thread snapping under pressure. Safiyah didn’t move, at least not immediately. Her hand remained embedded inside her opponent, fingers curled, still pulsing faintly with the echo of that final, merciless rhythm. She felt the tremors reverberate through Asp’s core, each one more fleeting than the last. Her opponent unravelled. Drained. Hollowed out. Safiyah held her there deliberately, giving Asp a silence sharp enough to cut, a moment designed to sear the memory of who had taken control.

Only once those last pitiful tremors subsided did Safiyah withdraw. Her fingers slipped free slowly, deliberately, the sound of it raw, yet without the intimacy. A sound that would haunt Asp far longer than the crowd’s fading shouts. Safiyah didn’t glance at her hand; there was no need. Her opponent’s defeat clung to her skin, but she wouldn’t dignify it with attention.

She rose with no trace of celebration, no need for it. Her foot found its way to Asp’s neck. Not with malice, or even cruelty, but with chilling finality. The gesture wasn’t domination for domination’s sake. This is judgment. A single touch that asked a question she’d already answered for herself. Safiyah looked down at the woman beneath her and saw not a rival, not even a toy. Just a spent vessel. A body that had been rung dry of fight. She could crush her throat, squish her like the pathetic “worm” that she is.

But there was no need.

Not because Safiyah was merciful. Mercy doesn’t exist in this world. But because Asp wasn’t worth the effort. The creature who had crawled into this ring with venom in her fangs and some pathetic flicker of pride in her belly had been exorcised. What remained was just skin, sweat, and silence. To shatter her now would be like scattering dust in the wind.

Safiyah bent slightly at the knee, not to strike, but to speak. Close enough that her words could etch themselves into Asp’s spirit. [“I could have broken you.”] Arabic. All in low, empty, and utter sincerity. [“Again. Like last time.”] Her eyes remained fixed on Asp’s twitching form, unblinking. [“But you’re not even worth that anymore.”]

The crowd was loud. Frenzied. Craving spectacle. But none of it touched her. The moment wasn’t for them. It was for the woman beneath her. To feel it burn, to feel the sharpness of being deemed irrelevant, useless.

Straightening slowly, Safiyah reached for the edge of Asp’s gear and wiped her fingers clean with clinical detachment. [“I have forgotten my past self. After this, I will forget that you even exist.”] Then, without hesitation, she turned away. No flourish, not even a final glance. [“And so will everyone else.”] The last blow was her indifference. The brutal declaration that Asp no longer even deserved her gaze, only the referee giving the count towards the Fire Wyrm.