Nefretiri vs. Mistress Beatrix - A Rough Start

[BlackAkuma]

It would be a safe bet to say that this wasn’t starting off in the way that Beatrice had planned - not that she had any real ‘plans’ when it came to this match, per se, but she certainly hadn't foreseen getting ragdolled by a woman who looked like that hot evil chick from the second Mummy movie. While she’d only taken a belly-to-belly so far, that was one hell of a belly-to-belly take, coming dangerously close to launching her out of the ring. This woman had power.

She was relentless, too. Beatrice had only begun to rise when she was on her again, grasping her by the arm while she grabbed hold of her neck, keeping her locked up and in complete control. Beatrice rose up on her tiptoes, struggling to stay erect as she was moved forward.

That being said, she didn’t totally hate the way Nefretiri’s chest felt against her back, nor did she hate the way she whispered in her ear. She bit her lip, suppressing a few sounds that she would rather keep to herself, as the woman continued to march her towards the corner.

”I…don’t not mind, I guess.” She rolled a few ideas in her head, playing out how this could go if she were more resistant. It was already clear who was the stronger woman here, Beatrice had been squashed enough times to know. But that didn’t have to be the way things went. ”Maybe I can help with that.”

At the mention of Morrigan, Beatrice turned to see her fellow domme hanging out a ringside, lackadaisical leaning on the apron with a flat gaze into the ring. ”Oh, that’s Morrigan. Or the Morrigan, sometimes. She’s my teammate. Kind of. Sort of. Not really yet, but we’re workshopping things out, seeing how I fit.”

That was the best explanation she could give, and she was wholly aware it wasn’t the best one.

[CyanDimitrik]

It's difficult to describe how Nefretiri is looking at Mistress Beatrix right now. She's a bit of an oddity in an opponent. She can appreciate her flare for the dramatics, for wanting to create a distinct image. Even if she isn't entirely sure what it is yet. But more than that, her rather frank and guileless manner is kind of refreshing. Aside the opening remark, everything Beatrix has said has been unusually earnest. The fact that she's physically overpowering her doesn't take away from it; it might even enhance it.

The double negative causes the Egyptian to scrunch her nose briefly, however. No, she didn't care for that. It almost sounded like she wanted Nefretiri to dominate her in front of everyone. What a twist that would've been. But what she says afterwards brings the two to a natural pause before the turnbuckle. The position is a threatening one, and with Beatrix restrained as she is, the audience is on the edge of their seat waiting for it - for her pretty face to probably collide with the top buckle.

In fairness, that is absolutely what Nefretiri is planning. But once again, Beatrix has earned a moment of consideration. She isn't loosening up on the hold, keeping the girl's hand trapped between mid-back and abdominals, and keeping the arm wrapped snug around her throat and collar. But her head turns just slightly, the lips a couple inches closer to the edge of her ear. Once more, the audience wouldn't notice it; that small, intimate adjustment would only be noticeable from the warm breeze of the Egyptian's breath against her skin, and the shift in her voice's clarity.

"Are you offering yourself to me?," she whispers.

The question lingers a few seconds in the air, against the backdrop of untold scores of people cheering for the impending impact.

"It sounds like things are still in the air..."

There's a pause. Then the arm withdraws from Beatrix's neck to instead move her hand to the back of her head, fingers clamping a fistful of messy blonde near the scalp. And then, it's a forward thrust, bending Beatrix's upper-body forward and, most particularly, her head careening towards the top turnbuckle. Though likely painful, Beatrix has earned another subtle mercy - she's attempting to manually turn the girl's head so her cheek and brow take the hit, not her delicate nose or lips.

Regardless, she means to keep that wrist bound behind her back. Nor does she shy away from her figure, letting Beatrix's rear press back into her hips.

[BlackAkuma]

Oh, dear. Beatrice did not like the way that turnbuckle was looking. She had been trying to suss out what Nefertiti’s next move would be, and as they edged closer to the corner, it was starting to be made painfully clear that her nose was about to have unwanted meeting with the pads. She'd been here before a few times, always hated having her face rammed into stuff.

Only that didn't happen. Not right away, at least.

The pause took people off guard, herself included. Some of the mystery was taken out of things when she whispered in her ear, however, asking an interesting question - was Beatrice offering herself up? She’d never been much of a masochist, wasn’t the sort of person who got off on being beaten around a ring, even if it was by an admittedly beautiful woman. But she wasn’t the type to fight a losing battle, either - she’d tried to play the enduring hero a few times, and it only got her hospital bills.

If she couldn't win, she would settle for being memorable, at least. Maybe there was a way they could both get something here.

Only a moment passed before Nefretiri sprung back into action, ramming Beatrice’s face into the turnbuckle…sort of. It was quick, the audience would never catch it, but it wasn’t nearly as bad as it could’ve been, and she could tell the difference. Even she could take a hit like that without much problem…

…but you wouldn’t have known it from the way she sold the moment. She whipped her head back, cried out, and grew weaken in the knees, looking like she would’ve collapsed without Nefertiri’s aid. The Egyptian could almost certainly tell that wasn’t the case, there’d hardly be any weight for her to support, but that wasn’t the story her jelly legs were telling.

She sagged in the hold, drooped forward, and let her hair cover her face, as her hat threatened to spill off. ”Again.” She threw back, speaking through her heavy breaths. ”Gimme two more.”

[CyanDimitrik]

The question was meant to be anproning one, to get an insight into what this "Beatrix" was thinking. And the impact of the girl's pretty face against the corner spoke volumes. Nefretiri is acutely aware of how much force she put into that forward slam, and how she had tilted the head to avoid any real damage. So when the recoil comes and the Mistress seems to buckle helplessly...

...she knows.

She knows what is being offered.

What a delightful little ruse it is. It costs the sorceress nothing and rewards obedience, it gives the audience a show, and might even endear her a little to the girl with the hat.

Oh, that hat will not be staying on long. She'd rather the freedom to wrangle that head however she pleases. But that can come a little later, unless it falls off on its own.

Hearing her request two more sent a dark little thrill into the Egyptian's heart. She rears back on Beatrix's hair to straighten her spine again, bringing her ear to her lips once more.

"Close your eyes..."

The voice is a soft, low purr of a tone, riding just before the forward thrust again. Her wrist turns, bringing only the girl's cheek and temple against the top buckle in a rattling impact. And immediately, she yanks the head back again. The pull on her hair isn't fake - but the tangling of her fingers near the scalp affords it less give, and with that, more control. Less sting. And then another forward plunge, driving her cheek into the corner.

Once finished, she releases her hair in favor of grabbing for her bare shoulders to turn her around manually in the corner. One arm at a time, she makes to drape her limbs over the top ropes at each side to open her body up.

[BlackAkuma]

Though you’d be forgiven for never guessing, Beatrice had some experience in this area. She had done a few plays in secondary school. Never a starring role, mind you, but she handled it well enough to get some good performances out of it and pick up a few decent experiences. She’d especially killed it as the Mother Abbess in The Sound of Music.

So she had some acting skills. More importantly, she knew what it felt like to get beaten up, and what it was supposed to look like. It might not seem like much of a talent, but in a case like this, it could save a life. Perhaps even literally.

She wasn’t sure how Nefretiri would react to the fakery - she was fairly sure they were on the same wavelength, but you could never be 100% sure about such things in wrestling. That fear faded when the woman tilted her head back and whispered in her ear again, a sensation she was growing increasingly comfortable with.

Beatrice did as bid, closing her eyes and entrusting Nefretiri as she gave her face a couple more smacks. Beatrice shook with each one, her body jolting about like she’d just run straight into a brick wall, left limp at the end of the assault.

Breathing hard, eyes blinking rapidly, she groggily shook her head as Nefretiri turned her around and put her against the corner, where she hung her out to dry. She couldn't know exactly what the woman had in mind next, but she could hazard a few healthy guesses, and she planned accordingly. Her head rolled back as she sold the stun, turning her chest into a prominent target, but not so far out that anyone would notice.

All the while, she balled her fist and tensed, knowing it would ease the pain. Somewhat…

[CyanDimitrik]

The world of professional wrestling is full of a great many different personality types. You have your athletes, born to compete. You have your superstars, striving for the crowds affection. You also have your nihilistic, who thinks none of this matters but the endorphin release. The exhibitionist, whose primary goal is to humiliate their opponent. You even have your sadist - hurting the night's rival is all that matters.

But you also have the escapists. The type of person who wrestles to be free of something, who chooses to struggle because this is what freedom looks like to them. This is what it means to live on their terms. To be something they want to be, away from what the world would demand of them.

Despite her sadistic tendencies and willingness to break rules to win, despite her full ambition being locked onto the title scene... Nefretiri is an escapist. And feeling Beatrix react to each hit, seeing the way she slumps into the corner, the way her body arches just so to offer her chest forward... she suspects there might be a bit of an escapist in her, too.

Nefretiri's hands now rest upon Beatrix's upper arms, just a few seconds longer than strictly necessary. To the audience, it would appear as though she's deciding what to do with her. But for the blonde, she'll feel another subtle reward for giving herself over to her - a noticeable squeeze on the arms. A couple seconds' worth. Should she spare her a glance, those blue eyes will be met with the quietly intense purple gaze looking back to her.

The hands depart her arms. Beatrix already knows what's coming. The Egyptian's right hand slices laterally in a backhanded motion, lashing the ridge of her hand and half her palm across Beatrix's upper chest, resulting in a snapping *CRACK* of flesh-on-flesh contact. There's no faking a chop. That's going to hurt.

She had every intention to cease after that and swap to something the blonde wouldn't feel so keenly. But the audience tonight has cottoned onto their dynamic, at least at this moment. Beatrix is being manhandled. And the beautiful domme looks good on the receiving end.

"ONE MORE TIME! ONE MORE TIME!"

Nefretiri glances aside, flicking an aloof glance to the chanting audience. Then her gaze returns to Beatrix. It lingers there for another moment, seeking to make eye contact. Her left hand moves in to delicately cup her chin and lift it, ldirectly angling her face to look at her. The touch is soft, even delicate - but soon, she's leading her to lean back into the corner to present her chest.

Her right arm draws in again. She releases her chin. And the arm lashes out to slash a second chop across her fair skin.

[BlackAkuma]

This was oddly exciting. Beatrice couldn't lie.

Okay, she could lie, that was technically what she was doing right now, but still.

She leaned against the turnbuckle, groggily hanging out, selling the moment for all it was worth, and anticipation burst through her skin. She knew what was coming, and her body was raging for it, begging to be hit, but not in the same way a submissive was looking forward to the pain. Her mind was already running through the best way to make the chop look good, to get the most bang for the buck.

The good thing for her was that, while chops could and did suck, they honestly weren’t that bad, especially if you were ready for the impact. Even more oddly, Nefertiri’s tender touch helped a lot, too. There was a softness to it, utterly apart from the goddess persona she was putting on. It felt special. Intimate, possibly. She didn’t have the bandwidth to process it at the moment, but she suspected she'd remember that touch for days to come.

In came the chop. A hot, blazing strike across the chest, searing the skin. It was far from pleasant, but she added a little theater to the impact, rocking back against the turnbuckle and letting her legs leave the ground before she came back down and sagged, hissing through her teeth as she suffered.

It looked good. Maybe too good, even, because the crowd clearly wanted more.

Beatrice watched, glassy-eyed, as Nefretiri took her by the chin and pressed her back into position. It was slight, but Beatrice went along, even giving the slightest nod in affirmation. Give the people what they want.

Another strike, another cry. This one wasn’t quite as bad as the first, with her nerves growing numbed to the sensation, but she sold it even better than before. This time she staggered forward, grasping her chest as she took a few wobbly steps out of the corner. She pressed her face into Nefretiri’s chest as she moved past her, getting close enough to hide her mouth.

”Gonna try to chop you back, get ready.”

Beatrice took a few steps back, then balled her fist and contorted her face, letting indignation show. With a wild glare, she spun and lashed out, throwing a chop at Nefretiri’s chest. It was fast, moving like a blur, but it had no muscle behind it, like she was hitting her with a large, wet noodle. She even made sure to throw it with her right arm, despite her beign a lefty.

[CyanDimitrik]

A tiny, nigh-imperceptible notion of approval from the Mistress - such a curious thing. In her experience, Nefretiri has only ever known someone to welcome punishment from her if they were... well, one, a dude, and two, had a dominatrix fetish. And in those cases, the menacing man in the suit standing at ringside was often the one to physically lob them out of her vicinity. That was his job, after all. Protect daddy's errant princess.

No one would believe that dynamic, not in this audience. Not of the svelte predator currently beating on her opponent in the ring.

The second chop lands, the SMACK sound of skin against skin ringing out into the open air and eliciting a higher pop from the crowd. It probably didn't have anything to do with them disliking Mistress Beatrix! But to see her get worked over like this, to go from a confident, cap-wearing diva to being pummeled and suffering... well, that's precisely what they paid the ticket to witness. And seeing Beatrix accept her role in this paradigm was so, so interesting to Nefretiri. Ironically, it instilled in her a small need to make sure she doesn't hurt her.

Oh, she intends to hurt her. Absolutely she does. It's deeply satisfying to exert raw dominance over another body. But not hurt her. She's even hoping the chops don't leave a lasting mark on her creamy-smooth skin. But with the way Beatrix languishes forward in the throes of agony, she wouldn't be surprised if it did.

Beatrix's face meets her chest, and Nefretiri's hands raise instinctively to catch her at her elbows to not let her fall. Again, a small thing. Some might take note of it, but it's innocent enough - easy to rationalize that she wants the girl to remain upright for more punishment. But Beatrix would, once again, feel the steady softness of the touch, perhaps especially as the palms slide up to cap her shoulders. It lasts only a second, maybe two. Nothing more. Because the hands vanish from her frame the moment she hears her words.

Going to try to chop her back. Get ready.

It's almost arresting. So foreign, so bizarre the notion that she should just... accept being hit. Everything in her is demanding that she reassert herself. Who is this worm to even suggest that she should allow such a thing? It's her giving the small mercy, here! She has no need to placate--

..!

Beatrix's arm lashes out! The gloved hand strikes just above Nefretiri's Nefretitties, skirting the fabric of her top with nary a burn in its wake. It's sudden enough to be jostling, but far from impactful, far from damaging. The sorceress recoils, eyes widened, falling back onto her right foot as her stance widens.

The exotic eyes widen as well.

Her shoulders square. Her stance straightens again, with a noticeably heavier breathing causing her frame to rise and fall. Beatrix was letting the whole audience know how much those head-smashes and chops hurt by selling it. What Nefretiri is conveying perfectly clearly to the audience isn't pain - it's outrage. Outrage that this person would even deign to fight back.

Her hands suddenly seize forward again, this time to grab for Beatrix's nape in one hand, her elbow in the other. With a sharp torque, she attempts to fling the girl right back into the corner, to put her back in her place. Except this time, the intention is to immediately follow it up with something more dramatic than a chop. Her right leg raises, supple and powerful, angling as she leans in to meet the sole of her foot across Beatrix's throat. Her hands grip onto the top rope for sustained leverage and balance as she appears to lean into it, to be crushing the other girl's throat in a blatantly illegal but arrestingly limber foot-choke.

For Beatrix's part, there would be pressure. Some pressure. Enough to support her weight if she thrashed and struggled, enough to show the pad of her foot is firmly against the swan-like neck of her smaller adversary. But only a modicum of constriction. Enough to make it exciting, perhaps. But not enough to cause alarm; the ropes are being used to hold her back and manage the pressure, not to lock her in place.

The referee wouldn't know that, though. She'd be hurrying in to try to break it up as if Beatrix's life might be on the line.

[BlackAkuma]

Those chops did hurt, but Beatrice was working through the pain, far from the worst thing she’d experienced in the squared circle. One of the good things about taking so much punishment in her career was that she’d grown accustomed to it, learned to work through it, and stay functional. She was still working on making something useful out of that, but hey, she had the base; it was only a matter of building from there.

It helped knowing that Nefretiri could likely do way worse if she wanted to. She was already getting a sense of how her ‘opponent’s’ body worked, spying the muscles bulging beneath that smooth skin. She might not have looked like some towering bodybuilder, but she was strong, way more than you’d guess, and Beatrice surmised she would be in a world of pain right now if she’d taken a different tactic.

It made her increasingly curious about this woman, with her bodyguard, her servants, her grand entrance, and her regal aura. There was a story there.

Also, she smelled nice.

Beatrice discovered that little factoid as she fell forward into the woman’s waiting arms and got a good, if involuntary, whiff. Warm, too. Not even the normal heat of a human body. Maybe it was only her imagination, but her skin felt as if it had been baking in the desert sun, as if she had the internal heat of an Egyptian goddess, buried for centuries under the blazing sands.

…probably just her imagination. It made for a striking image, though. And speaking of striking…

Beatrice’s counterattack, for lack of a better term, had about as much effect as the average mosquito bite, but it drew a disproportionately strong reaction. Nefretiri once again showed her acting chops, letting up with a fire and flaring with barely constrained rage. Who was this little mouse who’d dared to stand against her? Who was this little fly buzzing about her ear?

Fear tightened Beatrice’s face. Shock. But not too much, not enough to go into Looney Tunes territory, just enough to make her look like a woman who'd just realized how she had fucked up. A fact that the audience was keen to remind her.

”YOU FUCKED UP! YOU FUCKED UP!”

Beatrice tried to move away, but Nefretiri was too quick, snatching her and hurling her into the corner, as if silently demanding she stay put and know her place. This time, she was brought low by her foe’s foot, as that barefoot heel rose towards her throat and pressed, pinning her in place and choking her all at once.

That's what it would look like if she pulled this off. In truth, the hands that came up to Nefretiri’s ankles were less interested in pulling her away and more about holding on and supporting herself, as she stood on her tiptoes, making it seemed like more weight was being supported than it really was. Beatrice choked, gagged, flailed, but while it wasn’t exactly pleasant, it was far from a distressing position. She could certainly handle it for the few seconds that the referee was counting.

She also tried to give Nefretiri’s calves a quick massage while she could. She was no expert at that sort of thing, but she figured the woman might appreciate the gesture, if nothing else.