Nefretiri vs. Mistress Beatrix - A Rough Start

[BlackAkuma]

So, her signature was delayed vertical suplex? Pretty oldschool, Beatrice liked it. So many wrestlers these days felt they had to add something to the classic, put their own kind of spin on it and ‘make it theirs’. She could respect that line of thinking, but in her opinion, sometimes it was best to stick with the simple stuff. In this case, it worked well for Nef - easy to execute, she knew how to work with the move, sold it well enough, she thought.

Now it was just a matter of waiting for her partner to move in for the pin. That was typically how these things worked - go for your signature, try a pinfall; sometimes it would work, maybe it wouldn’t. Beatrice was already prepared for the woman to come over her.

And oh, did she ever.

Beatrice’s eyes shot wide as Nefretiri, for lack of a better word, poured over her, laying across her body in what some might’ve called a pin. Her wrists were seized and pressed down, and for a moment, Beatrice feared she had done something to legit piss the woman off, though she couldn't imagine what that would be.

Then she spoke, and those fears were gone and replaced with somethinging heavier. Hotter. She was suddenly acutely aware of their bodies’ proximity to each other, the curves pressing between them, Nefretiri’s heartbeat thrumming against her chest, her breath flowing across her face like a hot, desert wind.

Keep it together, keep it together. People were watching, eyes were all over.

”I’mokayI’mokay.” She hurriedly whispered back as her body responded to Nef’s touch, involuntarily grinding back against her. ”But you’re…you’re too…” She closed her eyes and chewed at her lip, fighting back the raging sensations, warring between what she needed to do and what she wanted to do.

[CyanDimitrik]

"Too what?," asks Nefretiri immediately. "Is it too tight? Don't worry, I have it covered."

She may have misunderstood what Beatrice meant. Or Beatrix, rather. She'll have to learn her real name later. For now, she feels the other girl's body shifting into her, voluntarily grinding. It isn't that she's a mind-reader, despite what her gimmick might suggest; she's simply... not immune to her own pins, one might say. The act of pinning a girl down was dominant enough, but to pin her down in such a way as that it's a full-body affair, every corner to corner, it becomes even more of a visceral thrill. So even behind the concern she's trying to hide from the audience is a subtle - for the audience, at least - inwards buck of her body against Beatrix's.

To the outside world, it would look like forcefully establishing the dominant position over the other girl.

Between Nefretiri and Mistress Beatrix, it couldn't have been more deliberately angled. Her outer-thighs flex against the blonde's inner-thighs, her hips pressing assertively into the gap to meet her directly. Her smoothly-chiseled midsection shifts along her belly, inwardly wishing Beatrix's attire showed off a bit more midsection. The breasts brush together, as if establishing a hierarchy between the two.

Her hands twist a little, digging into the forceful claim over Beatrix's wrists to assure she remains lying pinned and taut beneath her.

Cameras continue flashing, capturing the moment of their eyes meeting, every writhe of Beatrix's body beneath the Egyptian, the way they're looking at one another - as predator to prey, Nefretiri's lips parted with each eager breath.

"Rest for now. I'm going to pull your shoulder up for you. We're not done. I am not done with you."

That sentence means more than just the surface. She's aware of it, herself.

"That will make these people... either very happy, or very angry. I like both." Her hips shift, a discreet but indulgent figure-eight roll between her legs. "And I'm going to tell off your... friend. Partner. Whatever she is to you. Let me make up hurting you, though. Listen..."

The referee drops down beside the two of them, unawares as Nefretiri lowers her face beside the blonde's. Her hair falls like a silky black curtain, obscuring her face - and words - against prying eyes and ears. "..get up while my back is turned. Hit me. Don't hold back. I don't want to fake it. I want to... feel what you can do. I'll know you're done when you try to pin me..."

"ONE!," shouts the referee, her hand slapping the mat.

"Understand?"

[BlackAkuma]

That was definitely not the response Beatrice was expecting. She wasn’t sure what she was expecting, but certainly not that.

Beatrice wasn’t the best reader of people, and she had only known Nef for, what? Five, ten minutes, tops. That wasn’t enough for her to understand the woman, yet she felt confident saying she wasn’t playing when she misunderstood what she was getting at. Maybe this sort of thing just came naturally to her. She certainly didn’t seem averse to physical contact, even by typical wrestler standards, showing no qualms with pressing their bodies together so tight. It seemed to come naturally to her, and Beatrice couldn't help but wonder - if this was how she was when she wasn’t even trying to be intimate, what if she…

Focus. Focusfocusfocus. God, she was either going to talk to this woman after the match or take a long, cold shower. Maybe both, depending on how that talk went.

She stayed pinned - not that she had much choice, mind you - as Nef gave her a few instructions, dictating the next phase of the match. She was, more or less, fine, but she nodded along with the plan as her partner laid out her own retribution, seeming genuinely sorry for hurting her.

Her opponent. Feeling bad. About hurting her. Her.

It was honestly, genuinely, seriously quite cute, and so far from the conquering destroyer that Beatrice had seemed coming down to the ring, the devastating goddess with her retinue.

”Teammate.” She broke off from her subtle enjoyment of Nef’s rolling hips to correct her about Morrigan. For some reason, she felt this woman needed to know what her relationship with the big Irishwoman truly was. The plan was solid, though, probably unnecessary, but the gesture was sweet, and she wasn’t about to argue with her about it.

”Understood.” As the referee continued her count, Beatrice closed her eyes and entrusted her body to Nefretiri.

[CyanDimitrik]

"TWO!"

The hand slaps the mat again.

"Good." Nefretiri's gaze narrows on her, the smallest, most coy of smiles tugging at the corner of her lips.

It was most definitely unlike her, allowing an opponent to take advantage of her. Much less trusting one to not fully take advantage. After all, it's something she would do. If she were on the losing side of a situation and the opponent was brazen enough to leave herself so open, she'd likely find the screaming impact of a steel chair hammering across her back for her trouble. Then likely her finisher executed atop that chair.

But Beatrix couldn't really hurt her. Not that quickly, not that effectively. Not this submissive, doe-eyed thing. And she's thinking that in the most positive way possible. More importantly, however, she feels she did something wrong to someone who was being submissive to her; she hurt her when she didn't mean to. That can't stand. She was assuming responsibility for the other girl's well-being, and sure she seems okay, but it doesn't change the fact.

Guilt. What a wretched feeling.

The hand swings down again. "THR- anh!" The referee stops just short, rearing back onto her knees with wide eyes.

Nefretiri has yanked on Beatrix's wrist, leaning back enough to manually lift her shoulder off the mat. Her gaze cuts across to the referee, a cruel smile on her otherwise pretty face. "I'm not done with her yet. I want her to..." Her gaze lowers down to Beatrix again as she releases the wrist in favor of running her hand through the girl's choppy blonde bangs, seeming to not mind the sweat over her skin, "...really know her place."

"I'm not gonna let you beat up on someone who's too hurt to fight!"

"Enough." Nefretiri lifts onto her knees, reaches aside, and promptly palms the referee's face. She manages a confused and startled noise against the palm before a single, forceful pump topples her onto her back. Nefretiri rocks back onto her feet and lifts to her full height to lean over the mentally stunned official. "Your role in this is a formality. I decide when this match is over."

Her head lifts, confident and regal as a queen, and her focus pans across the roaring audience. This is what her international fans have come to expect, those eager beavers out there collectively labeled the "Sunless". Her "cult" followers. Japan would no doubt have its strong share of edgelords, sadists, social rejects, simps, and lovers of dominant female brutality, especially in this sport. She wants them to know who she is. And she wants them fawning over her. The share of the audience who are of a, shall we say, more typical Japanese sensibility will have already started booing the brutal sorceress. But seeing her put hands on the referee spiked it so much further. She's just doing her job!

"Hmh."

The eyes land on Morrigan at ringside, and a cocky smirk quirks the corner of her lips. She steps over Beatrix almost casually (avoiding stepping on her), and her gracefully confident stride carries her to Morrigan's side of the ring. She leans forward, back arched, forearms folding upon the top rope as if a match weren't literally still underway, all to look down on the Irishwoman. "Perhaps it should've been you in this ring. But if this is what passes as your peer," she says, jerking her head to indicate Beatrix, "I expect you would've been no more than a disappointment, yourself. Or is this your idea of scouting? Throw the minnow to the shark, see if it shows mercy? Gauge its abilities on how badly it tears your little friend apart?"

She leans in closer, eyes narrowing into nigh-glowing purple slits, and her smile becoming visibly wicked. "To do that to someone who trusts you - you're even more of a monster than I am."

It felt so strange to be doing this, knowing full well that she's deliberately making a 'mistake' in letting Beatrix recover. No doubt the referee has turned her concerns to the blonde to make sure she's okay to continue - maybe even quietly urging her to take the menacing Egyptian down. Is she laying it on too thick? Knocking herself down a peg by doing this? She doesn't know. It's hard to say. It's harder still to see past this exact moment, her focus fixated on the heavyweight below.

[BlackAkuma]

A small part of Beatrice, the instinctual side that knew a wrestling match meant she needed to stay in attack mode, tempted her to take advantage of the opening. Nefretiri was giving up her back, leaving herself defenseless. Beatrice wasn't the hardest hitter in the world, but even she could’ve turned that into a quick win. A rollup with her legs on the ropes, a rear naked choke, even a punt between the legs if she was feeling particularly dirty and the referee wasn’t looking.

All options, all viable, but none of which she was going to take. Rightly or wrongly, this was Nef’s attempt at atonement, and taking advantage of that in some dirty way just felt…wrong. Profane, even.

Down came the third count, and Nef remained true to her word, lifting her up at the last second and getting a mixed reaction from the crowd - some crowing at her, demanding she show mercy and hating the arrogance, others demanding more and throwing a couple of suggestions her way, a few of which were R-rated and not remotely appreciated. The referee, whose patience seemed to be the only thing actually taking damage in this match, was definitely not a fan.

Beatrice gasped and writhed below, playing up her distress as Nef got up and had another spat with the referee, this time daring to put her hands in the woman’s face and shove her off, pushing her down to the mat. The Egyptian, come to think of it, was assuming her nationality, but it felt like a fair bet; she made the most of the moment, taking a moment to look out and survey the crowd, which grew more animated with each passing second.

But she needed a little something more to draw attention, didn’t she? Someone else to work with. Enter Morrigan, who’d just been standing nearby with her arms folded and some mounting concern. She perked up as the Egyptian came over to address her, one goddess to another, hurling down all manners of accusations.

That was…a little worrying. Nefretiri was tall for a woman, well built, solid in the middleweight class, but Morrigan was deep into the heavyweights and had, at least half a foot on her. Beatrice had seen the big bitch in action, and while she didn’t doubt the woman’s skills, well…it wouldn’t be pretty if she pissed her off enough to actually do something.

Fortunately, Morrigan seemed content to just stand there and hurl insults. ”Oh, I’m a monster all right.” She snorted and turned her nose up Nefretiri’s way. ”Keep talking bollocks and you’ll find out exactly what sort of monster I am, princess.”

All the while, though, Beatrice was working. She rolled onto her stomach and, groggily, slowly, surely, began to rise as the crowd rose around her, trying not to get too low and alert Nefretiri. As she pushed up to her feet, her mind raced with ideas, things she could do for the best reaction without getting too crazy, and she settled on one solid choice.

Beatrice rushed in, dashing to Nefretiri’s side with a sudden burst of energy. She dipped down and leaped through the ropes, making Morrigan jump back, clearly thinking she was about to get hit for some crazy reason, but that wasn’t the plan.

Instead of flying out, Beatrice grabs the ropes and swung her legs around in an arc, rebounding into the ring with all of her momentum behind her, a path that would, ideally, end with her legs smacking into Nef’s stomach, as she nailed the woman with a Tiger Feint Kick to the gut.

[CyanDimitrik]

"Come now," coos Nefretiri, going so far as to poke out her bottom lip. "When it comes to monsters I might fear, you and your whelpling of a teammate don't even register. No, as far as monsters go, you fall somewhere between 'Cookie' and 'those ugly things from that children's book'."

She could do this all day. In fact, she enjoys doing this kind of thing. To her, this is fun. It might have something to do with coming from an exceptionally wealthy background, talking down to others is practically second nature to her. But pair that with her latent desire to dominate and impose, and this sort of repartee finds a nice, comfortable nook in her heart. That said, every line the two of them volley strains her desire to turn around. After all, Beatrix might be waiting for her to face her. And stalling too long could start to look ridiculous and foolish. She doesn't want that being the takeaway!

But just as she starts to lean back from the ropes, she feels the telltale tremors along the mildly springy mat heralding her opponent's rapid approach. It takes a deliberate beat from her, a conscious choice to keep her back turned. Though there's a chance Morrigan will see it; a mere moment before the attack launches, Nefretiri's focus softens. Like she knows she should turn around, but doesn't. She's not looking at Morrigan anymore, it's a stare into the middle distance. Concentration. Willpower.

Beatrix's slender body whips between the ropes. A pair of knees collide solidly with Nefretiri's stomach. The abdominal muscles instantly clench, a protective and sleek wall along her midsection. But even that can't stop physics. The momentum of the run transferring into a pendulum swing, ultimately landing with a pair of knees plowing into her abdominals could only result in one thing. The sorceress is taken off her feet, folded forward from the impact, and sent down hard to the mat.

"Aangh!"

Exotic eyes were widened at the point of impact, but upon hitting the mat, they squeeze shut. Her arms instantly wrap around her middle, knees steepled. That sound wasn't faked, nor is the way her eyes screw shut and teeth clench now. It was a solid hit, fully unprotected. She starts to get up again, but her midsection clenches painfully again, leading the sorceress to drop flat to her back again, hair fanning out upon the mat behind her again.

In the end, she's left on her back. One arm drapes her midsection, the other resting on the mat. One leg rests flat, the other heel scoots against the mat in a writhe. Her chest rises and falls heavily, pressing into the gold compression top covering her curves.

The dark-skinned man at ringside has moved closer to the ring's edge, frown somehow intensifying. Though his eyes can't be seen through the sunglasses, they can assuredly be felt penetrating the sight before him, with Nefretiri vulnerable on the mat.