The individual entering the match as the "goddess" must force her opponent to concede her godhood. The challenger must force the "goddess" to concede that she is not a goddess.
Safiya Ashour respected two things above all else: a heavy bank transfer and a woman who understood that wrestling served as a business, not a brawl. She also adored when fellow session workers possessed the good sense to prioritize the aesthetic over the athletic - and offered her the proper respect in the process.
Natasha Vaughn. Safiya admitted she had not heard the name prior to the booking, but she rarely wasted energy keeping tabs on other wrestlers in her "genre" unless absolutely necessary. She tracked annoyances like Wendy, mostly to ensure the woman got smothered out by someone else or to find an opportunity to do it herself, but otherwise, Safiya focused on Safiya. However, through shared channels - LAW, Safiya's "entourage," and the private networks of session wrestling - they had arranged an agreement. Not a match, precisely, though they would call it such, but a showcase where their particular talents would shine. The kind of arrangement Safiya most favored: making a wealth of money while ensuring she enjoyed herself immensely in the process.
They planned to mat wrestle here, in one of the prop rooms within the main arena - a specialized apartment setup with proper lighting and cameras. High-quality mats covered the floor, bordered by plush furnishings they could call into play if the spirit moved them. The Egyptian, slowly morphing more and more into the Goddess Neith with every passing second before their meeting began, peered back at the room with pleasure as she finished the last bit of work on the camera. She adjusted the lens, ensuring it captured enough of the room to give them space to work without losing the intimacy of the close-up.
In this suitable arena, they would grapple until Natasha conceded that Neith was indeed her goddess... or the goddess admitted she was not one at all. Of course, Neith did not plan to do the latter. The arrangement they had made, however, sounded as if it could make her domination efforts all the easier.
That stood as one of the reasons why she had already decided she quite liked this woman. Never mind that Natasha's pictures promised a gorgeous opponent - a necessary bonus for this sort of performance and for Neith's enjoyment as she squeezed such a body - but she seemed to understand the value of spectacle. They planned to make this an event. They would lock each other down, and they would give each other a performance of suffering. That suited Neith more than plenty. Limited pain, maximum sensuality, a perfect show with a beautiful dance partner.
At the thought, she stood and stretched in front of the camera, admiring the image in the little monitor. The outfit she had chosen - a deep, blood-red latex - gleamed under the studio lights like liquid danger. The crop top hugged her heavy breasts, shimmering with every breath, while the high-cut bottoms elongated her thick, powerful thighs and showcased her soft, flat midriff. Matching vinyl sleeves covered her arms, and thigh-high tights of the same dark red encased her calves, promising a shiny, suffocating hell for anyone trapped between them. Even her hair, styled with glossy, blunt bangs today, framed her blue eyes with predatory intent.
She checked the clock. Ten minutes to go, and she was already prepared. Fantastic. Taking the opportunity, she strutted over to the prop couch - far more plush and impractical than a normal piece of furniture - and sat down. She crossed one gleaming, vinyl-clad leg over the other, her foot bouncing rhythmically in the air as she fixed her gaze on the door, waiting for her subject to arrive.
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