Storm v The Morrigan – Bar Brawl Hardcore Match

[hamish1024]

Usually Storm hated smart-mouthed opponents; being made to suffer by someone affecting to not take it seriously was an especially humiliating hang-up for the prideful Scot. The Morrigan’s flippancy wasn’t quite as irksome, though; in part because it came from her no-nonsense domme persona, and absent of any brattishness, but mainly because she was so powerfully in control of proceedings that Storm would grudgingly concede the Irish woman had earned trash talking rights.

Playing the role of human punchbag, the quivering Storm was struggling to focus, let alone fight back. Gripping her attacker’s fist before it could smack her stomach with yet another sickening blow felt like a win, and she was pleased her arms still had strength to stand her ground, but it was a phyrric victory in the face of the Morrigan’s relentless aggression.

The Goth girl responded to the show of defiance by getting up close and personal, almost nuzzling Storm’s ashen, sweat-soaked features as she grinned, an untamed look in her eyes. It was a tense moment, and Storm’s heart skipped a beat as they held each other’s gaze. There was a wildness in this woman, a sense that she gave very few fucks when it came to violence. This was hardly new information, but it still gave the beleaguered Storm the feeling that she was swimming in some extremely deep water here.

The Scot didn’t respond with fear, though, and gripped her opponent’s arm all the tighter. Unfortunately, this worked against her, as Morrigan smartly shifted gears and hauled herself upright, taking Storm up with her. It was an impressive show of strength, although somewhat lost on Storm as the groggy, grimacing, punch-sickened stooge wondered dimly why she was now unexpectedly standing on unsteady legs.

She wouldn’t like the answer. The hapless Storm gave a splutter of protest, as the statuesque Morrigan swept her off her feet, and into a fireman’s carry.

“Oh, no…” she groaned as she was manhandled yet again, utterly disoriented and trapped in the bigger woman’s grip, held firm across those broad shoulders. Storm initially braced for another ruinous slam, but the dreaded plunge down to the ground never came.

Instead, she got firm hands on her head and inner thigh. Storm moaned, but not in pleasure, as she began to be stretched back across Morrigan’s frame.

“Unghh..” she grunted, squirming as her spine suffered fresh pain, and her battered midsection was once again tested. Storm flailed weakly, but the Torture Rack was aptly named, the elevated nature of the hold giving Storm no chance to push back or wriggle free.

She had to hang there, and suffer.

Storm grimaced, biting her lip, trying her best to ignore the growing burn of pain in her belly. A steady, insistent agony replaced those regular, pulverising punches; hardly an improvement in her position. She was bitterly aware of how helpless she must look - the past few minutes had been dismal, and she was getting utterly dominated here by the burly Goth. The Torture Rack was sadistic and showy, an impressive display of Morrigan’s strength. In fact, the only ray of light for Storm was the knowledge that she herself was a heavyweight too, and holding the big Scot broadside would be sapping her opponent’s stamina as well.

Storm knew that “wait for your enemy to tire themselves out torturing you” utterly sucked as a strategy, but it gave her something to cling to as she endured the pain.

Riding out the submission hold would be a mental battle as much as physical, and Storm realised she should show some defiance to that end, to demonstrate to her tormentor that she wasn’t giving up just yet.

“Ngh… you want… workout tips… huh?” she grunted, as nonchalant as possible give the gruelling circumstances. “I’ll definitely… ugh… teach you SOME kind of fucking lesson…”

Not Storm’s best banter, but given she was utterly helpless, drenched in sweat, and suffering an increasingly untenable level of anguish, she didn’t much care.

[BlackAkuma]

Submissions weren’t really Morrigan’s thing, despite being a dominatrix-themed wrestler who was an actual dominatrix. She wasn’t wholly ignorant of them, and even had a simple one as a finisher, but for the most part she preferred to straight-up brawl in her matches instead of trying to fold her opponents in half. It just seemed like the more direct way to go about things. Even if she was a wrestler now, she’d come up trading shots in pubs just like this, standing toe to toe with whoever started shit and trading shots until one of them fell down.

And she would’ve loved to do that all day with Storm. And maybe she would.

Just a little later. Not now, not exactly.

For now, she knew she needed to slow things down just a bit, with Storm proving to be a special case. It wasn’t every day that she found herself running about against someone who hit back hard enough to give her pause, but the Scotswoman fit the bill. Hefting her up wasn’t exactly easy - she was the lighter one between them, but ‘lighter’ didn’t mean ‘light’. Even a bruiser like her could only hold Storm up here for so long, but she fully intended to get the most bang for her buck.

Stretching, bouncing, twisting, Morrigan moved about and pulled down hard on Storm’s body, punishing her midsection. She could feel the woman’s body break along her shoulders, could only imagine how her innards felt, the way her ribs were being pulverized.

”Don’t suppose you want to tap anytime soon?” More of a rhetorical question than anything - she’d only known Storm for a few minutes, but she already recognized the type, way too stubborn to let something like this put her down. The match might’ve allowed for knockouts and submissions, but she already knew which was more likely. She needed to put this woman to sleep.

And she wasn’t going to do that with a torture rack. After a few more punishing bounces, she stepped to the side of the room and unceremoniously dumped Storm onto a booth table, laying her out on her back. She took a moment to breathe, rolled her neck, then started climbing up on top after her, trying to pin the Scotswoman down and take the dominant position. ”Let’s get to know each other a little better.”

[hamish1024]

Was this an especially vicious Torture Rack? Storm hadn’t found herself in this hold too often, so she found it difficult to judge the Morrigan’s technique. It certainly hurt like absolute hell, and her brawny tormentor wasn’t holding back – stretching, bouncing, working Storm’s body across those broad shoulders with both savage strength and wicked enthusiasm. The Scot’s face was a grimacing mess as she tried to keep her composure in the cruel, domineering hold. An increasingly difficult task, as her ribs, abs and spine all cried out in grinding agony. She was going to be feeling the after-effects of this treatment for days, she mused grimly, as the gruelling hold wore on and on, her plan to simply ride out the move looking more foolhardy with every passing moment.

Still, she had to keep her spirits up, to maintain some kind of foothold in the match’s mental battle. Storm was adept at bottling up pain, pushing it down within her and battling through regardless, a stoic almost to a fault. It was a trait she felt especially strongly with this woman; she almost wanted to impress Morrigan with how much punishment she could take. Which was a perverse way to look at a wrestling match, but one that was helping Storm survive right now. She certainly managed to rebuff the offer of a submission.

“Nahh… I’m good…” she grunted laconically, a slight cracking in her voice betraying the fact she was anything but. “I told you… gnhghh… not doing the subbie thing….” she added in a halting groan, defiant throughout the hard and heavy Torture Rack.

Storm wondered if she’d regret those words. She felt Morrigan begin to move across the room, and the Scot braced herself for more rough treatment. Given the power and ruthlessness at Morrigan’s disposal, being dumped down onto a table was almost a relief ; she was acutely aware that there were worse ways to exit an elevated hold. It nevertheless still sucked for Storm, and she spluttered in pain as her pulverised body dropped clumsily down onto the hard wood surface, her back taking another bruising bump.

Poor Storm lay groggy and still, staring up at the lights, her muscles quivering at the sheer stress they had been put under. The light shaking almost made her look fearful, although in truth Storm’s swirling senses could barely chain two thoughts together to manage the complexity of being scared right now.

Perhaps she should have. Certainly, the brief window where she might have been able to squirm away snapped shut, as Morrigan began to clamber up and join her on the tabletop. The sweaty, limp Storm could barely move, let alone offer resistance, as the bigger girl took a dominant position, grinning about getting to know each other better.

“Oh, sure…” Storm panted, trying to pull herself back from the brink of utter exhaustion. “Love to chat… why don’t you go… fetch us another round of drinks?”

Storm allowed herself a half-smirk, despite her disadvantaged position. She knew her request for a timeout was extremely unlikely to be granted, but she had to buy all the time she could whilst her battered body tried to recover atop the table.

[BlackAkuma]

‘Didn’t do the subbie thing’, huh?

The Morrigan had heard that before. Maybe not those exact words, but certainly different flavors of it. She’d put the screws on a lot of women - and some men, too - who thought the dominatrix thing was just some gimmick, and that she couldn't put them down if push came to shove. In the end, they folded. Hell, the ones that put up the most fight tended to fold the easiest.

Maybe Storm would be the exception. Morrigan was doubtful.

She planted the big Scot on the table and took a moment to enjoy the sight of her - big, beautiful, bruised, broken. It reminded her how long it had been since she’d mixed up with a woman in her own weight class. The closest thing would be Sabine, and while their sex was good, she could be a little too procedural for her liking, sometimes.

So, while this could just end up being a match, nothing too intimate, Morrigan wouldn’t mind if it turned into a bit more. And she wasn’t going to be too shy about it, either.

The Morrigan made her way on top of her opponent, mounting her, hip to hip while she straddled. She made the most of the position and started a slow grind, one that got her senses firing even with her baggy pants getting in the way of the sensation. She could only imagine how things would feel with one or two fewer layers in the way.

She was keen to find out, too, when Storm spoke up and suggested things take a bit more cordial of a path, bringing out a smirk from Morrigan. She wasn’t so dim as to not know she was being played, but she wasn’t the sort of woman to say no to free drinks, either. She was in control, why the hell not?

”Sure, we can do that.” She leaned back and started to slide off Storm’s body. ”Before that, though…”

The Morrigan pulled back her arm, jerked forward, and tried to land an elbow square in Storm’s face, hoping ot knock the living daylights out of her and leave her stunned for a bit. Once that was done, she hopped over the table and casually made her way her way to the bar again, whistling along the way.

[hamish1024]

Storm gave a grunting sigh as she was straddled by the Morrigan, and tried process what was happening. She leant her aching head back against the table, bracing herself for a fresh attack from the dominant Goth. Storm’s body had been so tenderised by the rough treatment, that even just being sat on by the big Irishwoman was causing all kinds of painful discomfort in her core.

The attack never came. Instead, the Morrigan used her controlling straddle to start grinding her hips into Storm’s own, a slow and steady statement of intent.

The supine Scot moaned in surprise at her opponent’s louche move. It wasn’t an unwelcome development; getting ground on was a marked improvement over being beaten up, even if the movements were still causing pain in Storm’s pummelled stomach.

Plus, Morrigan was fucking hot. Storm was done with denying her underlying wants; the Irish woman was big, strong and curvy, with an excitingly savage edge to her dark beauty. Looking up at the vicious vixen’s face, Storm saw obvious, possessive lust. She found it flattering, and it would be foolish to resist; Storm let herself enjoy the crotch-to-crotch contact. Clothed though it was, she felt a delicious tingle between her legs.

She groaned as she began to give in to it. The rush of pleasure into her pain-wracked body was a welcome reprieve, a delicious distraction from her aches and pains. The contrast in sensations made it all the sweeter, and Storm had to bite her lip to keep her arousal on a leash. She planned to use this fresh energy, not lose to it, her cobwebs somewhat clearing.

Between the pleasure and the pain, she tried to take stock. Storm was severely battered, being dominated, and obviously on the back foot in a barroom brawl where Morrigan was in her element. What the fuck was she going to do?

‘Stop playing fair,’ urged a voice in her head, sounding a lot like her partner Lyssa. Storm blinked with the worrying realisation that she’d internalised the little brat, but even she would have to admit her partner was an absolute Houdini when it came to weaselling out of situations that would otherwise leave her wrecked.

With that weaselling in mind, Storm offhandedly suggested that Morrigan go fetch a drink, and was gobsmacked to find the delaying tactic worked.

“Oh, cool,” she beamed, for a fraction of a second before her face exploded in pain.

“Ungh!” she gasped, head snapping back on the table as she took a solid elbow to the brow.

Laid out, Storm had a blurry, upside-down view of Morrigan sauntering over to the bar.

‘Bitch thinks she can fucking toy with me…’ Storm mused, wrinkling her nose in anger.

Resolving to channel her own inner bitch, Storm took a moment to rouse herself, and sat upright on the table. She had to ignore the agony she was in; she only had a few moments to act. Her eyes alighted in the picture hanging on the wall above the booth - some kind of tribute to Celtic football club, the kind of thing adorning faux-Irish bars across the globe.

‘Fucking perfect’ Storm thought to herself, plucking the heavy-framed picture from the wall. She spun her legs to the side and clumsily clambered down from the table, swaying uneasily as she did so.

She’d be royally fucked if this didn’t work.

Storm rode out her stagger and turned it into a wild charge, wanting to close the gap on Morrigan before the domme realised what was happening.

The Scot raised the picture high with both hands, and SMASHED it straight down onto the top of her opponent’s head.

[BlackAkuma]

Oh, Morrigan hadn't missed any of that.

Being a dominatrix required a wide variety of skillsets, more than just being really good with ropes and knots. The profession was actually more psychological than physical, in her opinion - in more than a few ways, she was like a therapist. You needed to read your clients and tell what they wanted and needed, even when they didn't truly know the answer themselves.

And she could read Storm like a storybook. That groaning - or maybe a moan? - as she made their hips press together, told the whole story, spoke of those cravings deep inside, and she didn’t mention the woman biting her lip, no doubt trying to stifle such wonderful sounds. There was attraction here, a natural thing between two ladies like them. Not to mention the violence between them. Pain had a wonderful way of making pleasure so much sweeter, and she had given this woman oh so much of the former.

Granted, she should be taking this woman more seriously, and a small part of her, more focused on the business side of things, was sounding warning klaxons. She knew she shouldn’t take Storm lightly, she’d already proven she was more than capable of giving as hard as she got, but, well…Morrigan was having fun. That was what mattered, at the end of the day.

That was her thinking as she made her way from Storm and leisurely strolled her way to the bar, rolling her neck to get out the cricks as she went. It might’ve seemed overly cocky, and it was, but she figured that elbow in her opponent’s face would be insurance enough. She wouldn’t be walking that one off anytime soon.

Besides, she was thirsty. Might as well top off, especially when the drinks were free.

She swung her way around behind the bar, pulled down a couple of mugs, and began going through the selection, this time find a good bottle of Tennants to pour out - probably a little presumptuous to think Storm would like it, but she figured it was a safe enough bet. She filled up one glass, then another, blew the foam off, turned with both glasses in hand, and-

The picture frame came crashing down on her head with a resonating crack, shattering on impact around her ears, utterly destroyed.

And Morrigan didn’t move. She stood, stockstill, staring at Storm, with a curious glint in her eyes. The smirk crept along her face, her nostrils flared, and she bit her lip as she began to move forward, wild and hungry, glad to see that her opponent still had some fight left in her.

That was before the pain really registered. The Morrigan might’ve been many things, but she was not Jason Vorhees, and she couldn't shake off blunt force trauma, a sad fact that was made perfectly clear when she stepped forward and immediately dropped down to her knees. The glasses fell out of her hands and broke apart around her, joining the picture frame’s glass, and her gaze sunk to the floor. A red stream was working its way down her forehead from where her skull cracked open, and the scent of copper was already filling her nostrils.

”Heh.” She managed a chuckle, even through her stupor. ”Good one.”