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

[DSX93]

This man has heart. Just came to, and the first thing he tries to do is what he couldn't, even for the sake of something as simple as stepping into the ring. Dalia looked on as he soldiered through the oil. Members of the audience had again found humor in the spectacle, but Dalia herself had simply relished in the effort he put forward to come to her.

He slipped. He fell. He could barely catch himself. It was only just beyond watching a baby trying to take their first steps. Adorable. And he hated this. She knew full well how small he felt, being made to look so pathetic in front of the world. It had followed her beyond those nights for quite some time, and it would follow him too. He couldn't even bring himself to look at her. Every single ounce of his being must have been screaming for him to just say "forget about it" and leave. Every inch he crawled brought him closer to nothing but more failure. Being made to look weaker and weaker in front of millions.

And indulgence? Maybe even pleasure?

If he was a man of his word. Slipping through those ropes was a promise to obey and worship when he was inevitably defeated. And every inch he crawled, towards her, was an expression of his intent to keep that promise.

Dalia continued to make Tomas her world tonight. With his health and constitution confirmed, her hazel eyes needed to turn nowhere but down at him, her gaze containing no malice. Just the simple recognition of his proper place beneath her. And a tinge of commiseration. And as he drew closer, pride.

The foot that awaited him at the finish line would cup him underneath his chin. Her thick, toned leg would rise slowly, bent at an angle to maintain the contact for as long as was humanly possible. Guiding him, slowly. Just as she'd tried to earlier, only this time, there would be no words said. Not until he was standing before her, and they would be said without the slightest hint of irony: "Well done." Accompanied by a hand, slick with oil, sliding along his cheek when normally, it would've been a brush. Affectionate, in the vein of an owner to her pet.

And now that he was on his feet, she knew just how she wanted this to continue. "Normally, when I have a man come to me on his hands and knees, I make him work his way up from my feet. But you, Tomas..." She fixed him with a teasing smile as she took his hands in her own, guiding him to the center of the ring. Inch by inch, step by step. Into the proper, full view of everyone in the arena. Every camera. She was certain that he would've put two and two together by the time they made it there, but she would state it anyway: "You will start from the top and work your way down."

And she would do no more and say no more besides, "Begin."

The Mistress wanted to see what Tomas would do with what was otherwise free reign.

[GoingBananas]

He had nothing left to prove, not to her—not anymore. Whatever defiance had lingered inside him was now fractured, dispersed into the oil that smeared across his chest, his thighs, his hands. It no longer served him. He’d fought. And now, in the silence between their words, in the ache of his muscles and the sting of his bruised pride, Tomás made peace with what he’d become in this ring: the man who kept crawling.

He had felt every eye on him—laughing, mocking, judging—but none of them mattered. Only one gaze ever held weight. And hers had stayed on him through every slip, every humbled reach of his arm across the glistening mat. Not with cruelty. Not with pity. But with something rarer—something harder. Recognition. Approval. And when he reached her at last, the foot that met him wasn’t a command—it was a reward.

Her toes curved beneath his chin, the arch of her foot lifting his face with disarming gentleness. That leg, the same one that had nearly crushed him unconscious not minutes ago, now guided him with an elegance almost sacred. He rose, slowly, helped upward not by strength or pride, but by will. Her voice greeted him as he stood, and her hand—warm, slick, steady—traced his cheek with something dangerously close to affection. It undid him more than her scissorholds ever could.

Then came her words. A command, yes—but an offering too. And so, he obeyed.

He began at the crown of her head. His fingers, careful and reverent, traced through the damp, dark strands of her hair. He didn’t rush. His hands moved with intention, sculpting worship into every motion as if memorizing the shape of her power through touch alone. From there, he leaned forward—no longer trembling, no longer ashamed—and pressed his lips just once to her forehead. Not as a supplicant begging for mercy, but as a man honoring a goddess.

Her eyes were next. His thumbs brushed delicately beneath them, tracing the softest curve of cheekbone, before he placed a kiss—light as breath—at the corner of one lid, then the other. The smudged glint of oil between them only seemed to make the moment more intimate, more visceral.

Then her lips. He didn’t dive in, didn’t rush to claim. He hovered—close, close enough for her to stop him if she chose—and then let his lips brush across hers in a kiss of recognition. It lasted no longer than a moment, but it carried all the gravity of a man who’d accepted where he stood.

His hands slid down the line of her neck to her shoulders, kneading the muscle there with care and an instinctive deference. Dalia’s strength lived in her posture as much as in her limbs, and Tomás took the time to worship the armor she wore so naturally. Down her back next—each ridge of muscle honored with a stroke, his lips brushing along her shoulder blades, down the spine. All while his lips kissed along the peaks and valleys of her chest, feeling the nipple underneath the white cloth.

And finally, to her stomach.

He knelt again—not because he’d fallen, but because the descent was deliberate now. Purposeful. His hands framed her waist as he leaned in to kiss her navel, the oil-slick skin warm beneath his lips. He lingered, letting his breath wash over her abdomen in reverence, before whispering words in his native tongue—soft, reverent syllables that might’ve been prayer, might’ve been poetry.

[DSX93]

Dalia stood with her hands on her hips. Expectant. And though she took care not to let it show too much, anticipatory. Tomas's task was a grand one. How would he go about accomplishing it?

With a good start, handing her with due care and reverence. But not too much: There was no groveling to it. The downward road he paved was traveled with dutiful steps. No true desire -- this was merely the cost of doing business and coming up short. That brief meeting of their lips? Nothing that she could see. Not even the time spent with her freely offered buxom would do anything to stoke the flames, it seemed. It brought forth a comparison that felt more on the mark the lower he went.

Especially after Tomas brought himself to his knees. He'd kissed her tens of times by then, but that shift when his lips met her navel -- his hot breath, his every whispered word washing over oil-slickened skin...The Mistress quivered. For just a moment, not easily caught by a casual eye. But his, she suspected, were sharper. He was performing his duty well, but would need to do more than that if he wanted to see her melting. But that sensuality might serve him well.

"This is like making your way to dessert, isn't it? All those pesky vegetables. The dishes you'd rather do without."

A playful allegation, but there would be no mistaking the sight of expectation in her eyes. She wanted an answer.

[GoingBananas]

His lips lingered at her navel, the faint salt of sweat and the slick coat of oil clinging to his mouth as he drew back just far enough to meet her gaze. Hands on her hips, she looked every inch the Mistress, commanding, self-assured, but not untouched by anticipation. Tomás caught the subtle quiver in her frame, fleeting though it was, and in that moment he understood how carefully balanced this game was. Tomás had brought her this far, but she demanded more. He would have to tread the line between duty and devotion with precision.

Her words struck him as he remained kneeling before her, his cheek brushing along the curve of her abdomen before he slid lower. Dessert. Vegetables. A meal endured rather than savored. He breathed a quiet laugh at the charge, shaking his head as his hands traced down the outside of her thighs. “Não, Senhora...I’m not such a picky eater.” His voice low, careful to match her tone. “To me, it is more like a cuisine. Every dish with its own flavors, its own ways to enjoy. Although...” Tomás's lips pressed once, softly, into the smooth flesh above her knee, “I will admit there are some items I crave more than others.”

He lingered there at her thighs, his kisses deepening, growing slower, heavier, as though drawn by memory as much as by instinct. Those legs - powerful, commanding - had scissored shut around his head not long before, sending him spiraling into darkness without resistance. That defeat echoed now as he pressed his lips reverently into her skin, giving her thighs a measure of homage to the rest. Every kiss was acknowledgment, respect for the strength that had broken him down, a quiet submission to the truth of what they could do. His breath trembled against her flesh, an admission of both fear and fascination.

From there, his mouth trailed lower, tracing the sheen of oil along her shin. He shifted closer, steadying her by the thigh with one arm as he bent lower still, his lips mapping reverence into her skin, pausing here, pressing deeper there, until at last he reached the place where flesh curved into delicate angles. His hands slid down, lifting her leg carefully, guiding her foot into his waiting palms. He cradled her heel as if it were fragile crystal, raising her sole to his lips as if in offering. His first kiss was deliberate, unhurried, then another along the ball of her foot, softer, almost trembling. He closed his eyes as though binding himself into the act, as though surrendering to the truth of what stirred in him.

And still, the line blurred. Was this duty, as he had told himself before - merely the cost of coming up short, the act demanded of him to fulfill his part? Or was it desire now, unshackled, rising raw and unchecked?

Tomás's body betrayed him with every answer his mind refused to give: the sweat beading his brow, the tremor in his hands, the heat swelling in his chest and lower still. When he lowered her leg back to the mat, he did so slowly, almost reverently, before his hands sought her other thigh. “But a cuisine...” he murmured again, lifting her opposite leg now with the same steadiness, “...demands that you do not favor only one dish, Senhora. Balance, yes?” His faint smile flickered before he pressed his mouth again to her sole, her instep, her toes, working with patient thoroughness, mirrored in equal devotion.

He gave her no reason to doubt the sincerity in his worship. Not of thighs that conquered, not of feet that demanded. And within him, the question gnawed: was he still resisting, or had he already surrendered?

[DSX93]

There was little movement in her lips. The faintest smile to show another step taken in the right direction; she liked that answer. Both the words and continued worship. The lower the man went, the clearer it became that he was teasing himself with it, whether he intended to or not.

What surprised Dalia was the extra attention he gave to her thighs. She expected it to come when he got to her feet, but this...This was the acknowledgement that she craved. Proper reverence, going beyond duty now. The hooks were in. He wanted more. She could feel it with every shivering breath. It was a special touch against her skin, commingling with the oil and her exertion to send a hum rumbling through her throat. And another, and another as he settled into doing what he wanted, finally earning some cooing, even. It was one thing to start with this. And quite another to bring a dedicated competitor to this point.

And then he finally got to the dishes he craved the most.

"There we are." Her smile wouldn't be so faint now. Tomas still wasn't what she'd call captive, but he'd come far enough, considering. This was but the first fall. The night was still young. "Take your time, Tomas. Savor this." Not long after she said that, she noticed all the good that her cuisine was doing for his blood flow. "Yes, indulge." She said with a light chuckle. "Keep this up, and you will leave this ring well fed."

[GoingBananas]

Tomás knelt there in the dim glow of the ring, the canvas beneath his knees still warm from their earlier clash, a silent witness to the shift in power that had left him here, humbled and entranced. The air hung heavy with the mingled scents of sweat and oil, a potent reminder of the exertion that had brought them to this intimate tableau. As he worked his way lower, his hands gliding with deliberate reverence over the sleek contours of her calves, he couldn’t deny the subtle torment he inflicted upon himself. Each brush of his lips against her skin a tease, a promise deferred, stoking an inner fire that made his pulse quicken. Yet it was her response that fueled him now, that faint curl at the corners of her mouth, barely perceptible but unmistakable, a quiet affirmation that his words and his devotion were aligning, step by step, with whatever unspoken desires she harbored.

What drew him onward, though, was an impulse deeper than mere obedience. His fingers lingered on her thighs, tracing the firm, sweat-slicked muscles that spoke of her prowess in the ring, the very strength that had subdued him. He hadn’t planned this detour, this extended homage, but as he massaged the oil into her skin, feeling the warmth radiate back into his palms, mingling with the residue of their battle, Tomás realized it was more than duty. It was a craving, a need to explore every inch of her victory, to acknowledge the totality of her dominance. The way her body responded sent a thrill through him; he could sense the hooks sinking in, pulling him deeper into this web of submission. Each shivering breath he drew from her was a victory of its own, a sign that his touch was transcending the perfunctory, becoming something she truly desired. The special quality of it all, the slick glide of oil against her exertion-dampened flesh, elicited those low hums from her throat, vibrations he felt more than heard, building into soft coos that spurred him on. To evoke such sounds from someone like Dalia, a dedicated competitor who had bested him so thoroughly, filled him with a heady mix of awe and anticipation.

And then, at last, he reached the culmination he had yearned for: her feet, arched and glistening under the lights, the very pedestals of her triumph. He paused for a moment, his breath catching as he took in the sight, the delicate yet powerful form that had grounded her strikes and evaded his own. Gently, he cradled one in his hands, his thumbs pressing into the sole with a firm, circling motion, working out the tension from their bout while his lips hovered close, ready to bestow the kisses that would seal his adoration.

Her voice broke the spell, smooth and approving: The smile he glimpsed now was fuller, less restrained, a sign that he had progressed in her eyes, not yet ensnared completely, but far enough along this path for the first fall in what promised to be a long night. It emboldened him, that subtle shift in her demeanor, urging him to delve deeper into this act of worship.

Tomás obeyed without hesitation, his movements slowing to a languid rhythm. He savored indeed, the taste of salt and apple on her skin as he pressed a lingering kiss to the arch of her foot, the way the oil made his touch glide effortlessly, exploring every curve and hollow. His tongue traced lightly along the instep, reverent and unhurried, drawing out the sensation for both of them. But as he indulged, he became acutely aware of his own body’s betrayal, the insistent throb of arousal that her “cuisine,” as she so teasingly put it, had ignited. The blood surged through him, undeniable and exposed, a testament to the power she wielded even in repose.

The promise in her tone sent a shiver down his spine, stoking the fire within as he continued his ministrations, shifting to her other foot now, repeating the ritual with equal fervor, massaging deeply into the ball and heel, his lips following in worshipful pursuit, tasting the essence of her victory. Each press, each caress, was an offering, a plea for more of this intoxicating dynamic, his mind alight with the possibilities of what might come next if he proved worthy. He lingered there, lost in the act, his breaths coming deeper, waiting for whatever command or reaction she might deem fit to grant.