Madeline Christiansen vs. Armando 'Army' Rodriguez - Our Dance

[BlackAkuma]

Okay, he could get out of this, he just had to…no, that wasn’t it.

Well, maybe, if he moved a little bit to the left, and then ... .yeah, that wasn’t going to work.

But if he just pushed…actually, no. Nope,not that way.

Army was stuck. He wasn't exactly sure when and how it happened, but yeah,Madeline had him dead to rights on the floor, keeping his body on lockdown. He knew she had strong legs, his bell was still ringing a bit from the kick she’d clocked him with a few minutes ago, but you don’t really know how strong someone’s legs are until they’re them to saw you in half. ”Okay, not ‘clingy’ then.” He grunted and tried to shift down, hoping he’d find some relief that way. ”Well, how else would you-”

In a single moment, Madeline spun them about, flipped them over, and took her spot on top, reversing their position with a single, deft move. He instinctively went into a struggle, his instincts telling him to fight his way out of the pin, but that was far easier said than done. Madeline wasn’t heavy by any real definition, less so compared to him, but she had a perfect mastery of her weight. He kicked, twisted, turned, pushed, struggled every which way but loose, but she rode him with ease.

He was pinned, couldn't move, wide open, and Madeline could’ve done any number of things to him that would’ve clinched this fall, maybe even the match. Army braced for the worst, but what he got, instead, was…light. A gentle touch. A caress, soft on the skin, as her fingers found his chin like a longtime lover. ”How do you keep pulling off scary and comforting at the same time?”

Despite the joke, he welcomed her touch, moving his chin about and accepting every contact. His lips chased after her fingers as they past, trying to sneak a stray taste, and he breathed deep as she lowered her hair and put them both in a cage of strands.

”Closeness, I don’t mind.” And he proved that as he lifted up and met her lips with his once again. ”Don’t mind losing control, can always get that back. But I do like being active, you know?” His hand came around to find the curves of her ass and pressed against them. ”It’s give and take.”

[Lightman]

Staying on top had never been about weight for her. It was about placement. Madeline settled her knees wider, not to crush him but to root herself, toes tucked just enough for traction, hips angled so his strongest bridge did not line up with her centre. Even with the strength in his torso and the tension coiled in his legs, the space he needed simply never opened. Every attempt he made to turn became a turn into her base rather than out of it.

His frantic attempts to twist and kick were met with a fluid grace that turned his own momentum against him. She rode every desperate heave of his chest with the calm assurance of a master mariner navigating a familiar swell. To him, it must have appeared he were wrestling a shadow that transformed into lead the moment he attempted to find purchase.

A soft and musical laugh escaped her as she caught his wandering gaze while her fingers continued to trace the line of his jaw. “That's because they are merely two sides of the same coin.” Her voice was a velvet purr that carried a sharp and competitive edge. “One ensures you are paying attention while the other ensures you do not want to leave.”

As his hand found the curve of her derriere, she did not recoil from the touch. Instead, she leaned into the contact and acknowledged the heat of his palm through the thin fabric of her wrestling gear. Her hands slid down his forearms, not hurried, not rough, fingers closing around his wrists with a quiet certainty that had nothing to do with force and everything to do with timing. She lifted one, then the other, guiding them upward before pressing them gently back toward the canvas above his shoulders. Not quite a pin - she can't win like that in this round - but just to show him where he was.

“Being active isn't a flaw.” said Madeline. “There are those who relish the risk of the trade. But activity without choice is just flailing.”

Her grip firmed just a little, enough for him to feel the shift. “And what happens when the other person does not allow you to take your turn? When someone does not give you the space to push… to pull…to answer back?” One thumb brushed the inside of his wrist, right where the pulse jumped fastest. “The ultimate goal remains unchanged, regardless of the pleasure involved. Either you force the other to drown in the waves of ecstasy or you get swept up yourself.”

She lowered her head once more so that her lips hovered mere millimetres from his. “You say you do not mind losing control, but I wonder if you truly understand the cost of such a total surrender…” She nipped at his lower lip, providing a playful yet punishing reminder of who currently held the keys to his kingdom.

[BlackAkuma]

Army was not stupid. He wasn’t a genius, but he wasn’t as dense as a lot of people thought he was. He didn’t blame them, he knew he gave off ‘Big Dumb Muscle’ energy, and he didn’t care enough to actively change that, so he let people come away with the conclusion. But people who knew him figured it out pretty quick, and he got a kick out of surprising him when he said something they assumed would be over his head or figured something out quicker than he expected.

That being said…Madeline was smarter. A lot smarter. He could tell that from the way she conducted herself. Wiser, too. She had this old-soul sageness about her that, veered close to condescending, but never quite reached there. There was a sincerity about her that was doing things for him. And she definitely had his number - as he laid there, unable to budge her with her superior gravity control, he’d never felt more helpless.

Or turned on. A fact he was keenly aware of, and one that anyone who noticed the rising tent in his pants could guess.

He was having a good time thus far, enjoying the curves of her backside along his fingers, and while she didn’t seem to mind it all that much, it seemed like she had other plans in mind. He looked up, curious, as his wrists were pressed up above his head, leaving him pinned and vulnerable. Well, moreso than he was a second ago.

Her lips were close, so close, and it was tempting to just inch up and take her with another kiss, but Army resisted the urge. It felt like giving up with the little game they were playing, and besides that, he enjoyed the gap between them. Her breath slipped into his mouth, leaving a taste on his tongue, the heated pouring over his lip. The hint of magnetism, that subtle pull…

He shivered as she bit his lower lip. Such a small sensation, but it sent ripples flowing through his body. He was hooked.

”And what…” Army planted his feet, bridged up, arched his back and stretched his neck out, making what would likely be another failed escape attempt. Or just satisfying his need to grind against. Could be both. ”And what is the cost? Don’t keep me in suspense, lady.”

[Lightman]

Madeline let Armando rise into her rather than fighting the motion, allowing the arch to travel through his body while she simply stayed where she was, balanced and calm, her weight settling through her hips and knees in a way that blunted the effort without denying it. She had him, quite literally, beneath her control. His strength was impressive, a coiled surge of energy waiting for release, but her weight was distributed with such precision that every escape he attempted only fed more information into her grasp.

Against her command of leverage, his power meant little. The small tremor in the Puerto Rican's arms told her he was measuring his resistance, perhaps curious to see just how thoroughly she had anticipated him. A tiny smile curved her lips as she watched the struggle play out, his muscles pressing, testing, and finding no answer.

Her hypnotic gaze swept over him, calm and calculating, taking quiet pride in the contradiction before her. A man built to tear through opposition was pinned by the playfulness of her touch, undone not by brute force but by control, timing and the faintest hint of seduction. His body betrayed him, a mixture of strength and surrender, and she could almost taste the conflict in him. Power against patience, desire against restraint. It was all deliciously transparent.

His question drew her eyes back to his, sharp and expectant, his tone carrying both playfulness and need. For an instant, she seemed amused, as though considering whether he deserved an answer. Her hands, still braced near his wrists, began to slide down along his arms, calm and sinuous, her fingertips tracing the thick cords of muscle as if exploring a map she fully intended to redraw. The movement was threaded with soft distraction, a deliberate misdirection masked by the slow incline of her body closer to his.

One arm slid beneath his neck, simply finding space. Her other hand followed in a mirrored motion, forearm resting across his collarbone, her body angled just enough that his head turned slightly with the contact. It still felt like a caress. It still felt like closeness. But it would be neither.

“It would be terribly dull if I told you.” she murmured, her voice smooth and teasing against his ear as she settled into position, her breath grazing the skin of his neck. “Suspense is the best part, wouldn’t you agree?” Her tone dripped with the confidence of someone who already knew the answer. Her weight shifted again, barely perceptible. She tucks her head close to Armando's, trapping his own arm against his carotid artery, her chest lowering closer as her forearm pressed a little more firmly into place, her shoulder drawing in just enough to remove a fraction of the space he had been using to breathe freely.

“I’ll give you a clue. The answer isn't pain…” she went on, unhurried. “…Or loss…or being beaten.”

The moment flickered on the edge between tenderness and control, her forearm now poised just so, ready to close the trap when the time came. Beneath her calm poise, she could feel the quiet pulse of his defiance still alive, and she smiled to herself. He was strong enough to make it a contest, clever enough to recognise what was coming, and curious enough not to stop it. For Madeline, that combination was irresistible. “Figured it out yet~?”

[BlackAkuma]

Army pushed up hard, put all of his strength into the effort of throwing Madeline off. Muscles surged with immense power, honed by a thousand workouts. A body he’d been crafting since the time he first learned to walk, forged in steel, tempered by hardship and experience. He was a living weapon, dangerous and lethal, with fists that could break bone and arms that could dent steel.

And it got himself absolutely fucking nowhere. He was the fire, but Madeline was the earth. Unyielding, ungiving, unmoving. Try as he might, the only thing he could accomplish was making himself tired. Meanwhile, Madeline was as fresh as a daisy.

Or a rose.

She was moving again. Slow, sinuous, but with a clear purpose. Army might not have known much about juijitus or judo or whatnot, but even he could recognize the danger he was slipping into, as her forearm came to rest perilously close to his throat. He suddenly found it easy to sympathize with a mouse being used as a cat’s plaything.

[color=#8000000]”Fuuuuuuuuck.”[/color] Army gasped and hissed as she spoke into his ear with that lilting voice of hers, making the fine hairs of his skin stand at attention as she did.

Army laid and listened - because what else could he do? - as she prodded him with her riddle. All the while, her body tightened, constricted. The jaws were closing in, fast and tight. ”Mm. Never was good with riddles.” He had a laugh - or tried to. His throat, sadly, needed more room for that than it currently had. ”I kind of want to say ‘consciousness’, but that seems too obvious.”

Army could still fight. He probably should. He might not be able to throw her off, but there were things he could’ve done to make her position much more precarious and at least give her some pain on the way out. Instead, he laid there, languishing in her hold as she covered him, caressed him, consumed him. His struggles were more reflex than anything now, as she put him at ease with every word. He could just melt like this.

”God.” He breathed her scent as deeply as she would allow. ”You are amazing.”

[Lightman]

The man came alive beneath her, a sudden surge of heat and power that strained every muscle in his body. Madeline could feel each breath, each contraction, echoing through the mat beneath them as though the floor itself recognised his strength. He was magnificent in the way storms were: wild, uncontained, operating on instinct and will. And yet, for all the violence of his effort, his energy met the unrelenting stillness she commanded. His fire broke upon her foundation, strength dispersing into futility. She did not resist with force; she simply existed where he could not move her, every inch of her body a quiet declaration that his chaos would find no purchase here.

The Englishwoman shifted her weight with an almost cruel grace, a precision born from long years of honing control. Grappling teaches patience, but it also celebrated inevitability. A slight tilt of her shoulder, a tiny migration of her hips, a perfectly placed knee on the mat beside his flank. His body worked harder for every inch, while hers seemed to float above exertion. The more he gave, the more she took, transmuting his resistance into her strength. She smiled faintly, one corner of her mouth curving into something closer to delight than mockery. Roses were beautiful because of the thorns, after all.

Her movement kept an unhurried confidence, deliberate and fluid. The forearm that rested against his neck became a sculpting tool, carving space in the air, settling the shape of control. With the other hand she adjusted her grip on her own bicep, pressing into the structure she had built, a living mechanism closing about its subject. The technique was pure and technical at heart, but in the closeness of their bodies it carried something else, something intimate, a whisper of possession woven into suffocation.

She leaned in near his ear, her breath feathering across the line of his jaw as his curse broke against her skin. And Madeline relished it. Each well-placed moan and purr from Madeline carried the faintest vibration through her throat, a soft hum that slid down into the small space between them. He stayed beneath her because she let him, and that truth lingered between their bodies, heavy and electric.

As he tested her again with laughter that came out strangled, she shifted her stance, the trap deepening. The choke was not yet full, but the walls were closing. She adjusted her angle, her chest pressing closer, cheek brushing against his temple like a mock reassurance. “It may seem obvious…” she said, stilling him with tone alone, “…but obvious things have a habit of slipping away before one notices.” The bicep pressed a little firmer, forearm wedging into the tender crook of his neck. Every exhale shortened; every inhale met resistance.

Her right leg found an easy path between his, sliding upward as she repositioned. The movement was innocent in appearance but wicked in effect. Her bare thigh brushed against him, feeling the hard evidence of his pleasure. Madeline let the contact linger, eyes flicking across the map of his face as though considering whether to reward or punish that reaction. Slowly, deliberately, she began to grind, the motion slight yet purposeful, pushing a thin line between comfort and cruelty.

The tightening continued in measured steps. She drew her shoulder down, locked the elbow tighter, and pulled her hips toward his, sealing the space that had once given him breath. Her movements were composed, guided more by knowledge than strength, an education of years distilled into an art. Eventually, it will get to the point where breathing will be a luxury, rather than a choice, letting him taste the edges of surrender while she traced the contours of his endurance.

When his words blurred between reverence and exhaustion, her lips grazed his temple once more. “Mmhmmhmm~…” she purred, tone flecked with humour and the faintest tenderness. “Do you mean the view, or the lesson?” Pressure increased one last fraction, a final, breathless punctuation to the poetry of control she had written with her body.

[BlackAkuma]

The audience was quieting now, dropping to a steady hum, but unlike before, this wasn’t a sign of boredom - far from it. Army had seen this sort of reaction from crowds in hentai matches, before - a sort of muted acceptance as things got heated and personal, like they were voyeurs watching something they had no business seeing. They would settle in, murmurs, and some of the less shameful ones might even use the distraction to seek their own relief. Needless to say, the bathrooms tended to fill up rather quickly after each a good hentai match.

But what did Army see more than anything when he managed to take break away from Madeline’s medusa gaze for a second? Envy. So many men and no shortage of women wishing they could trade place with him now. That they could have her all over them like he did now. Pinning him down. Control. Dominating.

They were right to be. Army felt safe in saying that he hadn't been this turned on in a good, long while. The referee, who kneeled beside them to get a better look at the action and had the best view of his lower body, could certainly attest to as much.

She was closing now, taking away more and more of his freedom and keeping him under stricter control. Despite the discomfort, despite knowing what she could to him, there was a weird comfort in her deadly embrace that he hadn't anticipated. She held his life in his hands and could snuff that flame out in a second, but she kept him on the edge, dancing like a flicker in the wind.

It was a control he hadn't experienced before. He’d been in submissions before, even one that leaned more towards, but he was sure that none of them had ever driven him this wild before. And that was before the knee came in.

Slow, subtle, but strong. Army tensed up as her bare thigh pressed between his legs. Reflexes reigned at first and his legs began to close, only for the rest of his body to realize how good she felt and granted her full access. The grind was a welcome motion, and his hips began to push against it and move in tandem, welcoming her every touch.

It was enough pleasure that he almost forgot about his distress, but it was a little hard to be totally distracted from being choked. He fought for every breath, and speech was a luxury he couldn't afford - though that didn’t stop him from trying, anyway.

”B…both.” He wheezed out, with what little breath he could afford, as the noose tightened even further still. It was hard to imagine he was the one in control, only a couple of minutes ago - he’d gone from smashing her up against the pads after a brutal knockout to lying on the floor while she used him like a throw pillow and asphyxiated him at her leisure. Quite the turnaround. He’d applaud, if he could use his arms.

[Lightman]

It was interesting to watch the events as they played out before her. The resistance was slowly giving way, yielding to the pressure, while moments of defiance flickered and faded. Armando was not yielding in defeat; he was choosing to relent, recognising the reality of her control without ever appearing small beneath it. There was a quiet intelligence in that, the sort she deeply admired. A lesser man would have thrashed until exhaustion betrayed him. He, however, understood nuance. Even when still, every movement he made had significance.

Madeline had spoken often of how much she enjoyed a good competitive showing, the kind that invited a test of wills rather than one-sided dominance. Some might think to compare this to her previous encounters with men like Yuto, but the comparison would be hollow and disingenuous. Yuto had “struggled” with her out of misplaced inanity; Armando competed with purpose. The difference was in the eyes, in the way he met her gaze without bitterness even as the choke bit deeper. The air between them throbbed with something heavier than contest alone. It was a communion of power, shared and traded until it no longer mattered who had started the game.

Madeline's hold stayed immaculate, sitting snug about his neck, precisely aligned, just tight enough to make each breath labour without inviting panic. Breathing would become a conscious act for him, deliberate and rare. The pressure held constant because she made it so, her knowledge of leverage turning her body into a patient machine. Should his heartbeat climb too high, should his body stiffen too much, she would adjust imperceptibly, easing the angle before returning him to the threshold. A cruel kindness, one she gave freely.

Around them, the air shifted with the crowd’s murmur. She had grown so used to their noise over the years that it became a kind of accompaniment, a faint harmony of gasps, sighs and swallowed envy. Their eyes sharpened the edge of the scene, painting them in a voyeur’s light. Madeline was aware of it, the strange aura her matches tended to draw. She neither invited nor resisted it. The audience was a tide, one she let wash over her while her focus remained fixed on the man beneath her.

Her exposed thigh slid between his legs, guided by deliberate intent masked in instinctive grace. There was a moment’s resistance, the kind born from dignity rather than refusal, and when it passed, she rewarded it by increasing the friction slightly. The slow drag of her thigh against him invited soundless exhalations that mingled with the strain of the choke. She watched the small changes in his composure, his eyes flickering, mouth parting against the short breath he managed.

The motion of her body followed no single intention, and yet everything about it served the same purpose. Her chest began to roll over his, the sweat between them turning warmth into a kind of shared pulse. Each exchange of pressure aligned them further, the grind of her stomach to his, the slide of her hips meeting his upward push, a conversation conducted in flesh and breath. The choke invited surrender, but her movement promised reprieve if he stayed with her, if he trusted her to guide the balance between pleasure and defeat.

When at last he forced out a reply, strained yet distinctly audible, her lips curved in quiet satisfaction. He said both. Both, indeed. Madeline’s laughter was low and brief, the sound vibrating through the proximity of their bodies. “Good answer~.” She murmured near his cheek, her tone playful yet touched with genuine pleasure. “But only one will stay with you in the end. Let us see which.” The choke deepened, not in malice but in artistry, and she held him gently inside that perfect balance of light and dark, control and comfort, until the crowd quieted into reverent silence once more.

[BlackAkuma]

Army wasn’t unconscious, but he wasn’t conscious, either. He was flittering between the waking and dreaming worlds, like a moth dancing between the lights and the shadows. In and out, in and out, drifting between both, committing to neither.

It was, putting it mildly, a fucking trip. Army didn’t do drugs - save for a little weed, now and then - but he’d had experiences described to him, and this one reminded him of what they said of the crazier ones, the psychedelics, the hippy stuff. The world was melting into this electric purple haze, as the sun danced in and out of his visual range. The crowd’s murmurs were melting together into a low, rumbling hum that he could feel in his gut.

And there, in the center of it all, was Madeline.

She really was beautiful. Army had seen no shortage of women he considered sexy or pretty or gorgeous, but Madeline was the only one in recent memory that he would peg as truly, undeniably beautiful. She had this Wonder Woman, Warrior Princess thing going on, like a goddess carved out of marble and brought to life. A voice that could put him to sleep and a smile he could get used to waking up to. So warm, inviting-

Army came back to reality with a start, teetering back from the very brink of unconsciousness. He forget where he was for a moment and began to buck, only for the pressure on his throat and the pressure between his leg to remind. He eased back down as a euphoria swept over him from head to toe.

Stay awake. He needed to stay awake. It was probably too late to avoid the orgasm, he realized that, but if that shoe was going to fall no matter what, then he wanted to be aware of it. To be awake. To experience all the pleasure she was trying to gift him

Short breaths. Controlled, calm. His cardio came in handy as he focused and made the most of every wisp of air that could slip past his lips. All the while, he pressed against, searching for every inch of skin contact he could find. His abs, flat and hardened, met against hers and slid together pressing together so tightly that a single sheet of paper couldn't get through. Their chest met and impressive pair molded against him, so tight he could feel her nubs tickling him through her top. And her leg, that leg…

Well, suddenly the asymmetric design made a lot more sense, he could say that much. ”I’m almost…” He moved his head as best as he could as his lips reached out for her, desperate for even the slightest touch. [color=#800000”...almost there…”[/color]

[Lightman]

There’s a particular alchemy to the way air deprivation heightened every other sense. Madeline knew it well; the loss of air stripped everything down to the essential, body and mind turning inward until touch became sacred and sound became light. The brain fought for oxygen, and in doing so turned every pulse of pleasure into something transcendent.

She could all but trace the pattern in him. The trembling effort to endure, the faint flutter behind his jaw where her arm held him, the involuntary arch that sought both release and relief. It was art to her, the perfect intersection between power, precision, and desire’s surrender.

Under her, his body became yielding, a metamorphosis, not a collapse. Every moment of quiet was a richer offering, and she received it with the calm dignity of someone who fully understood what she was bringing out in him. Her thigh pressed deeper between his legs, gliding against him in slow, tight circles. The contact grew deliberate, friction building with just enough weight to make his hips rise in answer. Her breathing stayed measured, the only visible movement coming from the slight expansion of her chest against his. She maintained the choke with delicate finesse, hands locked and shoulders aligned, keeping him tethered between ecstasy and oblivion.

His head tilted towards her, and in the dim sheen of the lights, she studied the haze in his half-shut eyes. That dazed, flickering look was unmistakable. The mind floating between wakefulness and surrender, the dream bleeding into the flesh. It was what she had expected, precisely what careful control was meant to achieve. Her lips curved slowly as she adjusted her position, moving her weight forward so that her body moulded more completely to his, her chest sliding along his with unhurried dominance. The friction of skin upon sweat, the soft drag of fabric and flesh, each motion fed into a mounting inevitability.

“Oh, I know~.” She let out a soft exhale, the vibration brushing across his ear before she dipped to plant a kiss along his jawline. “I can feel it.”

Her lips trailed down to the corner of his mouth and paused there, denying the contact he reached for, letting that gap tease him further. The absence was as intimate as the pressure of her thigh now grinding with deeper emphasis, finding the precise alignment that would undo him.

Madeline held him through the sensation, never letting the choke tip fully past its point of balance. “Nearly there…” Her leg worked in an unbroken flow, friction maintaining a subtle, torturous consistency that promised and withheld in equal measure. Her breath was steady, calm, as though her pulse and his were the same measured current. Every subtle contraction of her thigh, every brush of her chest, reminded him of the precision behind her strength. The technique remained immaculate, even as sensuality wrapped around it like silk.

When his hoarse whisper came to her, almost lost in the strain for air, her answering smile was soft but predatory. His lips brushed against hers, a fleeting contact caught between desperation and worship.

And then her thigh pressed in one final, knowing motion. “Now.“