Okay, seriously? A "Smother Goddess" belt?
Dinah adjusted the top of her gear in the mirror, making sure everything was hoisted and secure. Her "Risk It" Patreon tier was usually full of fun, chaotic little challenges - eat a ghost pepper, do a lyrical prank call, wear a ridiculous cosplay to the gym. But this? This was the result of the internet taking her intentional tease for a smother segment of that match with Clyde and turning it up to a hundred. They had pooled an obscene amount of money for charity to make this happen, and Dinah Barbeau wasn’t about to let the children - or her bank account - down. Even if she were facing the consequences of her own actions.
She turned to the side, checking her silhouette. She looked good. Great, even. She wore a tight crimson crop top with a daring diamond cutout that highlighted her cleavage, layered under a cropped black leather jacket adorned with silver studs that caught the light. Below the waist, she sported a black pleated micro-skirt that flared out just enough to tease the matching red trunks beneath, paired with thigh-high black stockings that squeezed her legs in all the right places. It was a look designed to draw the eye down to her thighs - the very weapons she planned to use to win this ridiculous title.
But she’d seen the photos of Louise "The Wildcat." That woman was built like a brick house with a luxury annex. Dinah looked down at her own chest, then at her hips. She was fit, she was curvy in the right places, and her thighs could crush a watermelon if she focused, but she wasn’t a heavy-duty piece of machinery like the Frenchwoman.
Whatever. It wasn't about size.
The cue hit. Her
music blasted through the arena speakers.
The second the curtain parted, the nerves vanished, replaced by the automated, high-wattage charisma of a pop idol. She spun, she pointed to the camera, and she smoothly and alluringly belted out her own song, treating the ramp like a runway with an occasional pause to brush up against a few fans and slap hands with them.
After the chorus, she slid into the ring, popping up to her feet instantly to wave at the cheering crowd. They ate it up.
Then, she turned around, and Louise's figure ate her up.
Photos didn’t do it justice. Louise was... substantial. Standing in the opposite corner, the Frenchwoman looked like she could smother a small village, let alone a pop star. The belt looked almost like a toy resting on those hips. Dinah felt a very real, very sharp spike of jealousy lodge itself in her throat. If she ended up on the bottom of this equation...
But Dinah Barbeau didn’t do fear. Not where cameras could see it.
She sauntered to the center of the ring, dropping into a hip-cocked pose that screamed unearned confidence. She looked Louise up and down, lowering her sunglasses to the bridge of her nose to peer over them, before speaking loud enough for the ringside mics to catch.
“Cute belt, Wildcat,” Dinah chirped, flashing a bright, dangerous grin.
“But my fans paid a lot of money to see me wear it. And honestly? I think gold is way more my color.”
