Nefretiri vs. Mistress Beatrix - A Rough Start

[BlackAkuma]

It definitely held that the view was nice down Nefretiri’s legs, giving her a fine view of the woman’s toned body, head to oh-so lovely toes. Beatrice would be lying if she said there wasn’t some attraction here, with her dealing with this objectively gorgeous, exotic woman. For someone like her, still trying to come to terms with how she felt about certain things, it gave her more than a little food for thought…

But she could process it later, when she had a few spare moments to think it through in private. For now, she focused on making the struggle believable, putting real distress out into the world. It must’ve worked well enough, too, because the referee was having a fit, acting like Beatrice’s life was on the line. She took a small amount of pride in that. If a person who hung around wrestlers and wrestling matches all day couldn't spot her out, she must’ve been doing something right.

It didn’t last forever, at least, with Nefretiri giving up at the four count and sparing them both an ending no one would’ve been satisfied with. Beatrice sagged in the corner, breathing heavy and weakly adjusting her cap, not wanting it to fall off. Not just yet.

She had only started to pull it out of the corner when Nefertiri shut that idea down outright, meeting her with the same simmering fury. Kicks now, stomps to the stomach, but ones that barely registered as love taps to Beatrice’s stomach. Credit where it was due, the woman had amazing control of her body, could exercise restraint in a way Beatrice had never encountered before. It was honestly a little more impressive than if she’d just used pure brute strength.

Most of the work here fell on Beatrice and she worked with it, ratcheting herself back with each hit, legs scrambling and arms flailing. She even threw in a few pathetic cries and gasp, enough to leave the nearby crowd gasping. More than anything, though, they were cheering, getting beyond the dominant conquer. A few pity boos came her way, but it sounded like they were getting into the display more than anything, which wasn’t too surprising, they’d come to see beautiful women beat each other up, after all, so this was all part of the plan.

[CyanDimitrik]

Each clatter of Beatrix's slender frame clashing against the corner post was like a violent bell ringing to the audience, shrieking a tale of Nefretiri's aggression and ferocity. And with Beatrix collapsed under the weight of the onslaught, the audience is filling the arena with the sounds of their overwhelming approval. And some disapproval, from the dissidents yearning to see the spunky blonde make a comeback. But even they can see the writing on the walls. Nefretiri is insulted at the dominatrix's defiance, and is making her pay. Each hit is a pummeling, punishing tour de force, a barbaric painting upon the canvas that is the girl's body. It's savage in all the ways this audience came to see.

Nefretiri relishes that attention, that mixture of adoration and fear. It's a powerful feeling, the very thing that appealed to her when she first turned her attention to professional wrestling years ago. It feeds into her, hits every nerve and sets it ablaze, makes her heart thunder against her breast, every fiber of her being surging with adrenaline. And though she usually savors the opportunity to assert her actual strength and skill over an opponent, physically and mentally dominating whoever stands against her in the ring as a genuine testament, there is a unique appeal to this that she's experiencing with Beatrix tonight.

Offering herself to her is precisely what the blonde is doing.

She seems to be making herself a willing sacrifice upon the altar of her glory.

She's... trusting her with her body. That she'll conquer her, but not hurt her. Girls have submitted to her before, often in tears and screaming. Never like this. Never. She wouldn't know how to verbalize the feeling if she even tried. There's a... warmth behind it? Maybe? An affection? A sense of protection? All spurred by one silly, earnest remark, a simple acknowledgment - whether implied or explicit. The girl currently collapsed in the corner of the ring has successfully put the sorceress in a position no one ever has before.

Maybe that's something to be proud of. She wouldn't even begrudge her that, as she looks at her in the corner, playing up the beating she absolutely has not actually given her. Even with the referee-girl crowding her front, those exotic purple eyes are cast past her shoulder to the slumped, costumed girl. She's a pretty thing. She's even cute-looking when imperiled, with her big blue eyes and messy bob. No doubt it's partly why the audience is going wild. They love that sort of thing.

"Are you listening to me!?," demands the referee-girl, cutting into Nefretiri's attention.

The cold amethyst gaze returns to her. "Not really," she replies coolly. She makes her way forward, not bothering to adjust her trajectory out of consideration for the human obstacle in her way. The result is a stiff shoulder-check with the referee: "Aside, gnat."

The referee-girl stumbles several steps aside before falling onto her rear, astonishment written on her face. The audience's reaction grows more feverish with both sides pitching in loudly with their varying opinions.

Upon reaching Beatrix, the Egyptian leans down to take her by a single ankle. And with it, she begins to effortlessly drag the girl across the mat with one hand, cutting across the sightline of the referee again - who continues to stare in disbelief. Upon reaching the center of the ring, Nefretiri releases the captive ankle and drops to her knees at her left side.

The Egyptian lies herself over the girl, snaking her left leg between Beatrix's thighs. Her left arm gathers beneath the blonde's right knee, hooking the leg. Her bare midsection presses against the side of Beatrix's stomach, and she allows the plush curvature of her chest to settle directly upon Beatrix's breasts. Her right arm hooks behind the girl's neck, cradling her head to give it some lift. And when she's fully settled in, her back arches to press her body tightly into hers, pinning her.

Naturally, this brings the two women into close contact, the warmth of her exertion radiating from her generously bared skin - but especially at the touch of her soft cheek to Beatrix's. Her chin lifts, bringing her lips closer to her ear and leaving scant centimeters of separation, every exhale a heavy, heated breeze against her. And when she speaks, it's a rich, honeyed sound: "Lift your shoulder on two."

The referee finally gets her thoughts in order, and she springs to all fours to begin crawling hurriedly beside the pair. In the meantime, Nefretiri murmurs further, "Listen to them... they're aching for more..."

She inhales slowly, her chest pressing tighter to Beatrix's in the process. The sigh to follow is slow, indulgent. "You don't want out yet, do you?"

[BlackAkuma]

The Morrigan watched from the sidelines, unsure what to make of it. At all.

She hadn't paid much attention at first, more out of spite than anything. She didn’t want to be here, didn’t want to babysit, and it wasn’t as if she had any plans to be more than decoration around the ring. The only way she could see herself getting involved was, maybe, if Nefretiri’s big henchman over there decided to try anything funny, but that didn’t seem to be on his agenda. Not that he’d really needed to, since his boss was doing a fine job of dominating Beatrice all by herself.

…wasn’t she?

It was hard to put a finger on, but something felt a little off about…well, all of it. This niggling feeling that she was missing something, like her brain was picking up on some subconscious cues that hadn't reached her front lobe yet. Maybe it was nothing, just paranoia, but the feeling persisted and grew as Nefretiri hammered away in the corner, battering the German with ruthless abandon.

It was funny. Maybe too funny. Maybe she was just overthinking things.

And maybe Beatrice was having the time of her life.

She knew she probably shouldn’t. She knew this was the worst way to start a wrestling career, especially in LAW, of all places. The internet was festooned with tales of women who’d come to the promotion bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, only to get folded in half and sent packing in under a week because they faced the wrong opponent on the wrong day.

And yet, Beatrice was having the most fun she could ever remember having in a wrestling match. Winning or, more often than not, losing one. She sat in the corner, eating kicks and making them look like murder, and the crowd ate every moment of it, some counting along, some cheering for more. They had no clue, and it made sense, critics always said wrestling looked fake, so when it was actually faked, no one was the wiser.

It was a small miracle that she didn’t burst out laughing, but she held it in. If she was going to do this, she was going to commit, and it helped that Nefretiri seemed committed to the bit, as well. Antagonizing the referee was a good move, playing up her persona, even throwing in that shoulder-check to help sell the arrogance…if that was really selling. She was still getting a feel for how much of Nefretiri’s act was real and how much was just an act.

She groaned, long and exasperated, as Nefretiri dragged her out of the corner, planting her square in the middle of the ring. A pin came next, of course, and that shouldn’t have been anything to write home about. Beatrice had been pinned like this more times than she could ever hope to count.

But maybe it was all in her head, or maybe she was taking this pin with so little damage that it distracted her, but it was the most comfortable pin she had ever been in. Soft. Warm. Inviting. There was power in those arms, but that strength was kept at bay.

Like holding. Like cuddling.

It was a good thing her hair covered her face, because she was 100% sure she was blushing right now, and no amount of acting would hide it.

The referee came over, thankfully taking her sweet time and missing Beatrice’s chuckle. The woman’s hand came down once, then twice, and she threw her arm up right on the second count. Didn’t want to escape too early, but she’d save a closer escape for later, if she needed one for drama.

”God no, keep going. Having a blast.” She slumped off to the side as she mumbled, staying close enough to keep their conversation private. ”Think you can do a Gorilla Press? I’m pretty light, it’d look killer.”

[CyanDimitrik]

Slap!

"ONE!"

Slap!

"TWO! ..Ah! No fall! Only two-count!"

Nefretiri couldn't see the blush heating Beatrix's cheek, but she certainly feels it. Or perhaps it's coming from her own. She couldn't say. But pressing her body into the blonde's form, holding her wrapped so neatly in her arms, legs tangled, cradling her neck to support her head close - this isn't anything new for the Egyptian. But pinning someone while knowing that they're more or less fine but for some chops and light battering, that the girl lying under her is a willing participant in this position, is a new kind of thrill.

There'd be no shortage of simps out there lining up for the chance to have the sorceress pin them. But that's different. They're coming in with a kink, an itch to scratch. Beatrix came in originally with the desire to win, didn't she? To challenge her, to try to pin her. And then that changed into... this. This sublime offering of her body to her. While a match is still going, while there was every risk that she might still hurt her. It comes back to that unusual level of trust, basically blind faith. Her gimmick aside, it's the closest to a goddess she's actually felt. And that earns a subtle press of her cheek into Beatrix's a little more snug and intimate than strictly necessary, subtly adjusting the pin into an intricate embrace.

And in this way, Beatrix's read on the pin is not wrong. The audience would have no idea. This is meant only for Beatrix, an unspoken cue that she approves of her. And when that arm shoots up to break the pin, her head lifts by degrees, alert. Then lowers again as her arm eases the girl's leg back down to the mat. In the process, her hand glides along the circumference of her thigh until the hook is completely undone, instead coming to rest at the side of her wait.

A sound escapes the Egyptian before she can catch it again. A quiet, short-lived laugh, betraying the mixture of confidence and enjoyment she's starting to let herself sink into with this. It's almost absurd, hearing someone so enthusiastically want to be manhandled like this. But it's exquisite. Calling the shots to be made against her own body, wanting it to be visually impressive - truly outrageous. Even scandalous. And that adds another level of budding excitement in her heart.

"That's... I'm glad to hear it," she says, at a loss of how else to communicate what she's feeling. "And easily."

She draws up from the pin, moving the hand from her waist to her wrist. With her neck still hooked in the other arm and pulling on the captive limb, she guides Beatrix up to her feet with her again. But upon standing, she bends her knees and leans her shoulders against her torso. The arm around her neck adjusts, pulling her upper-body forward while the other hand swaps to hooking her thigh. And in a single, smooth motion, the slender blonde is loaded across Nefretiri's shoulders into a fireman's carry.

Her head turns slightly, gaze cutting across to try to catch her eyes. "This will be a rough landing. Protect your face," she says quietly.

And then, more audibly for the referee's benefit and whatever microphones can pick up the traces of the words spoken in ring: "If you're unwilling to accept your place beneath me, we'll see if you prefer a place above me!"

Her hold adjusts, swapping to a supportive position. The right hand sets against Beatrix's collarbone just above the curvature of her chest - and careful to slide the hand beneath the padlock dangling from her choker so as to not painfully push the solid object against her skin. The other hand sets to the front of her right thigh, just beneath the hip, squeezing the leg securely to keep her stable. Then, squaring her stance and with a soft huff of effort, the Egyptian hoists the blonde's body directly above her head in a full press.

Most wouldn't look at 'magic types' as being physically robust. But there's no denying the raw physicality Nefretiri brings to the table. Thighs are flexed, every sleekly chiseled line of abdominals in her core engaged, the supple and smooth muscletone of her arms tightened as she displays the German to the audience in a fully supported horizontal plane. She doesn't have to put in this much effort to lift her - Beatrix is easily within her lifting range. But she understands the proposition - this is meant to be impressive. This is meant to show something off. Namely, her impressive body and her opponent's impending punishment.

She turns a slow circle with her, ensuring the audience gets a full view of the blonde - and herself - from every angle, to soak it in. And to perhaps indulgently invite Beatrix to play up her predicament.

[BlackAkuma]

There was that laugh again.

It was short. Small. It could’ve been easily lost in the crowd's din or drowned out by the referee’s feet on the canvas. She could’ve mistaken it for a cough or a sigh if she hadn't been paying attention, and even now, she was 100% she heard what she thought she heard. Put it at 90%.

But no, she didn’t think she was wrong - that was a laugh that came out of this woman’s mouth. A genuine one. It was subtle and sweet, like delicious wine, and probably just as rare. A peek under the goddess’ exterior, showing the very human woman underneath. Beatrice didn’t often think this deeply on her opponents, but she couldn't help but ponder what the real Nefretiri was like. If she wasn’t the haughty, domineering destroyer she performed for the world - and her experience here made it look like she was - then who was she, really? Was Nefretiri even her real name?

Questions, questions, questions. Sue her; she was a wrestler, she loved a good story.

Beatrice shivered as the woman’s hand slid along her thigh, a gentle and electric touch. Probably unintentional, too, though that didn’t make it any less effective. Tempting as it was, she didn't want to read too much into it, knowing any intimacy was all in her head. Women like this had enough suitors to fill the arena; there was no way a mousy little thing like her would ever pop onto her radar.

Back to business. Knowing what was coming next helped Beatrice prepare, and she sucked in deep breaths to get her bloodstream pumping. She shook her head as Nefretiri hauled her up and pulled her by the shoulders, hoisting her with ease, like a fresh kill brought home from the hunt.

Good speech, there. Nef had great command and voice, projecting well enough that the cameras certainly caught it. She should probably add a little spice, too. [color=AD4800]”No, wait!”[/color] She squeaked, her voice mewling and pathetic. ”Don’t, don’t-”

Nef did. Oh, boy, did she.

Beatrice didn’t have to fake the yelp as she was lifted skyward. Sure, she knew it was coming, but some reactions just can’t be suppressed no matter how hard you try. She was about as far from a heavyweight as you could get for her height, but lifting her like this was still a feat, especially since the woman wasn’t kidding about the ‘easily’ part.

She did her part as well. There was actually a real trick to this; as strong as Nef was, even she would have trouble keeping her up if she moved around too much. Lifting someone up like this was one thing, but keeping them balanced was a whole different kettle of fish. Too much one way or the other and she’d tumble down, and maybe land on something important.

Beatrice had to keep the balance. Subtle titles, this way and then, mastering her own gravity and keeping herself centered, anticipating Nef’s movements around the ring and compensating. All while giving her a wonderful soundtrack to work with.

”Ah, no! Put me down, put me down! Please, please, I can’t-”

She let it dissolve into incoherent blubbering.

[CyanDimitrik]

The sea of velvety black expanding out from the ring is aglitter with flashing phone cameras, immortalizing the moment. Everything from the Amazonian way Nefretiri is physically holding her challenger high above her head like a trophy, the coolly confident smile playing on her face, the comparative panic and fear in Beatrix's expression, and the way their bodies look in this dramatic silhouette. It's serving precisely the way the German had thought it would - it was a good call, theatrically speaking. Nefretiri can see that clearly.

Moreover, the Egyptian can feel every subtle shift and tilt in the other girl's frame. She's doing her part to support her steadily, to be the sturdy anchor carrying her, but every time Beatrix flexes a muscle or twitches to compensate for a little dip in the balance, she can feel it. Fingers press carefully against her collar, adjusting the weight between that and her palm as needed to work in tandem with her, and the hand holding her by the thigh squeezes. Not too hard, not enough to leave bruising, but it's firm.

At last, it's time to deliver on the payoff. Amidst Beatrix's cries to be put down and the roar of the audience urging Nefretiri to go through with it, she lowers her arms before pumping upwards again, tossing the blonde into the air. Not in a flip, not in a spin, just a pop up, freeing her of her stabilizing hands. And Nefretiri quickly walks forward, letting the girl drop unceremoniously - heavily - to the mat, likely on her front. Naturally, this would be why she told her to protect her face.

The sorceress proceeds up to the ropes, facing the audience. Her left hand presses down against the elastic top rope and she leans herself forward. The right hand dramatically sweeps back towards Beatrix, gesturing to her. "This!? This is the competition you offer me!?," she shouts over the crowd. "Is this a challenge or a sacrifice!?"

The words hang in the air, letting the roar of the audience be the response. It would be impossible to pick out any coherent 'answer' from the cavalcade of voices.

"Do you want to see her suffer!? Is that your prayer to me!?"

The roar continues wildly.

It would be silly to assume all of the noise is encouragement to keep hurting the Mistress. Some must be mixed in, urging the blonde to rally and fight back. But the purely gladiatorial tone this match has taken is hitting every right nerve in the audience, every desire to see two beautiful women fighting for dominance.

And for Nefretiri's part... this isn't fake. These are things she would normally do; at least this part, egging on the crowd, whipping them up further. Her plans for Beatrix would emphasize this dynamic between them further - but that's where the true authenticity would ease back in favor of protecting her willing... opponent? Partner? What would she even call her at this point? This has started to feel more like a mutual dance than competition, and to her own surprise, she's enjoying it. It makes her want to go easier on her, to make sure the worst she gets tonight in this ring is a little battered and sore, not hurt. When the time comes to pin her, she wants her awake to feel it.

To feel it. That maybe she'll enjoy it as much as Nefretiri knows she's going to.

But first, there's the matter of putting the girl's beautiful, suffering body on display for the crowd. And with that, she turns to begin stalking back towards the center of the ring...

[BlackAkuma]

Beatrice was keenly aware of the phones pointed her way and all the attention they were getting. She knew how this sort of thing would pan out, having i seen it a few times. By the time this match was over, GIFs would already be circling her, a few of them showing this very moment. She would be the subject of a dozen Reddit threads, no shortage of them saying she should get out of the business if this is the best she can do. A few AI images of her in weird poses would probably circulate, with more than a few showing her and Nefretiri in compromising positions. There might even be a fanfiction or two of them over the weekend…

Beatrice reined in her imagination before it ran too wild and filled her head with ideas that almost certainly wouldn't come to fruition. But how could she not think like this? This wasn’t too far from what she did in her spare time, writing out fics for her favorite shows. Crafting a story, a narrative, plotting things out. The big difference was that she was using her body for it and not a keyboard

It was art. And if there was one thing Beatrice knew well, it was art.

It drove her as she poured on the theatrics, wailing as Nefretiri dipped down and suddenly rose up. All at once, she was flying, but she wasn’t on a dangerous path. She was in control. She probably could’ve landed on her feet if she really wanted to.

It was funny how people could hear something and see something and let the former dictate the latter. The crowd was so used to see wrestlers go splat like this that they didn’t notice the finer details. They heard the impact, but they didn’t see that her hands slammed into the canvas to both make the noise louder and absorb the damage. They didn’t see how her head whipped forward and her hair went with it, but her face didn’t quite touch it.

In other words, they only saw what she wanted them to see, exactly as she planned. If the collective winces she saw when she peeked under the ropes were any indication, at least.

She looked to the side and saw Nefretiri soaking in the crowd’s energy, milking the moment for all it was worth. She had to admire the woman’s showmanship, the way she pulled in the crowd, haters and lovers alike. Beatrice had known more than a few like her, destroyers and wrecking balls, and most just wanted to wreck shit and collect a paycheck. Nefretiri made a spectacle out of things, put on a show, and it immediately made her stand out.

Beatrice had to match that. Gritting her teeth, she began crawling toward the edge of the ring, dragging herself along like she was going through the trenches, reaching for the safety of the ropes - but, notably, not moving so fast that Nef wouldn’t be able to stop her with ease.

She also made sure to jut out her butt accordingly as she went, making the world get a good look at her glutes. She’d been hitting the stairmaster hard for the past month, no harm in showing off.

[CyanDimitrik]

The sight of Beatrice crawling for the ropes was, in a word, delectable. It almost made Nefretiri pause her advance simply to admire the spectacle; her slender body, stretched out against the mat, the desperate look in her eyes, the way the pulls herself along, that oh-so-subtle perk in her pert rear. She knows Beatrix is playing it up; at least, she's very confident she is. There's always the chance that she took the landing wrong, and she was genuinely knocked breathless. But the good news there is that she'd have a chance to recuperate. Just not against the ropes. It'd be tangled with her.

Nefretiri emerges behind her like an imperious bogeyman, arms crossing just beneath the curvature of her bust. Her stance is squared, frame rigid, brow pinched and glaring down her nose at the German girl. The audience is screaming at Beatrix to look behind her, to watch out - some not out of genuine concern, but more taunting. There's a definite anticipation in the air for what Nefretiri would do to her next, and whether they were hoping to see her suffer or not, everyone is inching to the edge of their seats by degrees. And they aren't even aware of it. Which, of course, is the beauty of the thing.

Nefretiri had hoped to linger long enough to give Beatrix a chance to look back and 'notice' her; an opportunity to play up the moment. For whatever reason, she has come to expect her to be committed to the bit now. She thinks she knows how to anticipate the blonde at this point, without really thinking about it. Which, in a way, is a measure of trust she is putting in Beatrix. However, she won't milk the moment until it's gone sour. She may 'cast spells' in the ring, but she knows the limits of deniable plausibility. So she leans down and aggressively snatches the girl by the ankles, one hand for each, to forcefully drag her back to the center of the ring - that inescapable prison!

Once they've reached their destination, she throws her legs down to the mat and steps forward, straddling her - and suddenly dropping her hips against Beatrix's backside. By not specifically perching upon her lower back and saddling into the dip between that and her rear, she's allowing her back to have a little more play before reaching agonizing arching degrees. Perhaps just as importantly, it'll give her more of the front of Beatrix's body to show off to the audience soon. But for now, she can at least settle into the seat she has, her inner-thighs hugging tight alongside Beatrix's hips.

One hand plants firmly behind Beatrix's shoulder to hold her down against the mat. And in fairness, that pressure is real - dominant and forceful with the other girl's body. Her free hand shoots into the air with a fist. She scans the audience with a sardonic smirk, ensuring everyone is nice and ready for the torture about to be displayed. Then that fist lowers, slowly uncurling as it reaches low to slide her palm beneath Beatrix's jaw. The other hand joins in, reinforcing behind the first.

Finally, after the anticipation has been built, she lifts Beatrix's head - and most importantly, her upper-body - backwards. Steadily, the girl is arched between the Egyptian's legs, working methodically and incrementally, not rushing just in case she isn't flexible enough to handle the pressure earlier than she'd expect. The arms aren't trapped over her knees in the traditional camel clutch, instead letting the visual forcefulness of the hold speak for itself. Letting herself feel the other girl's waist raising between her thighs is a guilty thrill on its own, but it also allows for more dramatic suffering!

Bit by bit, she lifts Beatrix's head closer and closer to her own. Despite not mounting her lower back, there would be unavoidable pain in the hold just by the virtue of having her spine arched backwards to such a degree, along the neck being strained. It would still certainly count as a submission hold, but nowhere near as bad as Nefretiri could make it if she really dug into her lower back. This is more of a showcase of Beatrix's figure stretched taut for the audience.

And, as it so happens, bringing her face close enough to her own to whisper to her.

"Don't tap out," she says. "But squeeze my arm if it's too much. I don't want you submitting like this."

Her gaze shifts briefly to the referee getting into position next to Beatrix, watching more closely. Fortunately the next thing Nefretiri says makes just as much sense either way: "I want you lying on your back beneath me in the end..."

[BlackAkuma]

”Behind you! Look behind!”

”Get up! Get up!”

”Just keep crawling!”

It was so, so hard for Beatrice not to laugh.

She didn't need to look behind her to know Nefretiri was imperiously closing in, since she could see her all too well on the titantron screen up the ramp. Even if that wasn’t there, it was a bit hard to miss the vibrations of a towering Egyptian coming up from behind her on the canvas, and even if she didn’t have that, she could’ve just guessed based on the way things were going. If Nef had any sense of drama - and since she was dressed up like something out of a Karl Freund movie, that was a safe bet - then she would be slowly approaching her from behind, closing in like a stalker in a monster movie.

She couldn't just look back, though. She had to milk it. Slowly raise her head, turn it slightly, slightly, slightly, until she caught the approaching Nefretiri in her side-eye and froze up with sheer, unmitigated terror.

”No, no-” She scrambled forward only for Nef to grab her by the ankles and drag her back against, pulling her away from the ropes as her nails futilely dug into the canvas. It wasn’t too long before they were at the center, and Beatrice grimaced - a real one, no faking - as the heavier woman sat down on her spine.

Granted, it wasn’t as unpleasant as she might’ve expected. Nef might’ve been heavier, but she wasn’t crushingly so, with her weight not making it too hard for Beatrice to breathe. She put up a flurry as the woman pressed her into the canvas and posed triumphant above her, but all in all, there were far worse positions to be in.

Beatrice wasn’t sure she could keep saying that, since she knew what was coming next: the Camel Clutch.

Her head was pulled up, and her body followed along as she was bent further and further and further back into the classic hold. Thankfully, Nef was going slow, which gave Beatrice time to adapt and prepare her body. It wasn’t pleasant, it was never going to be pleasant, but this was by far the better way to do it.

And most importantly, it would look killer. Beatrice wasn’t exactly a contortionist, but she was more flexible than most, and she used that to give Nef a healthy degree of slack, arcing back to sharp angles and putting more of her chest on display, as her hands flailed about, so frantically that she nearly hit the referee when she approached.

”Beatrice! Beatrice!” The referee kneeled nearby, concern wrought across her face. ”Do you submit?”

”N…no!” She cried out between her desperate breath as she shook her head. She strained her neck, pulling it back so far that her face brushed Nef’s lustrous black hair.

”I’m good, I’m good.” Pain laced her whisper, but she kept her tone upbeat. ”Mix in a choke? I can play with that for a while.”

[CyanDimitrik]

Four inches and twenty-two pounds. The size difference between them wasn't dramatic. It would've been enough to distinguish them between lightweight and middle, but in the grand scheme of things, both women are trim and lean. Perhaps the most noteworthy difference between their physiques are the way they carry themselves and the refined muscletone in the Egyptian's frame. She has the body of a sleek jungle predator. Beatrix, perhaps closer to a model. And in their current position, Nefretiri can certainly appreciate that about her.

As can the audience.

She adjusts her position further, ensuring her weight is centered more on Beatrix's rear rather than her back, giving her more mobility to play with. She's going to need it for what she has in mind.

Her face turns, just enough that Beatrix would be able to feel her lips barely grazing her cheek. "I intend on it. But first..."

The hold suddenly relaxes by several degrees. The juggles the blonde's chin from both hands to instead support only along her right forearm. The left hand suddenly grabs for that persistent cap, defiant against the laws of physics as it has been insofar! She means to snatch it right off of Beatrix's head, turn it over, and crown her own head with it.

Hat theft! A mockery! It drives up the volume of noise from the surrounding crowd even further, the cameras catching Nefretiri's smug smirk all too well.

Then another transfer. Her freed hand sets to Beatrix's collar to help support her while the right arm releases, only to loop in again in a reverse hook. The arm closes backwards around Beatrix's throat, forcing her head backwards further - until she's facing up at the skylights. Her upper-body is presented upright, anchored at the hips under Nefretiri's weight.

She'll be able to feel the sorceress flex her arm against her throat, likely insinuating a choking pressure. But that's all it is - a flex. Meanwhile, her free hand moves to the girl's waist, sliding forward until a couple fingers pass over the lowest keyhole of her singlet, touching skin. "She's about to go limp!," she shouts to the referee. "This is what you all wanted to see! Her final moments! When her body submits to my will!"

Cameras feverishly flashed to immortalize the image of Beatrix's body stretched to such an acute angle, Nefretiri ruthlessly wrenching on her. This would likely appear on a magazine cover somewhere. And the person with the best seat in the house to enjoy it is none other than the sorceress, herself, sparing a discreet glance over the blonde's beautifully taut figure. Chest emphasized, slender figure pulled to what would visually appear to be its limit.