L.A.W. - League of Anime Wrestling

Even Madeleine was regretting the olive collar. It made her sick to look at it, and she wondered why she even owned something so ratty.

She deserves the degradation. The thought rolled to one side of her tired head like mollasses. But do I deserve something so degraded? sighed the other.

Before Madeleine could figure out what to do with those conflicting feelings, however, Angelina pounced.

She hit Madeleine like a spear, flung her against the bed, grabbed her throat. Adrenaline spiked in Madeleine's skin, making it glow as a fire wracked through her body. But when she tried to breathe, her empty chest heaved, agonized, and she felt a sharp pain in her windpipe like a split in the cartilage.

That image was a dunk into a cold, deep riverbed. Madeleine's fingers trembled as she fumbled around the bony hands clenched over her windpipe.

What if it did split? Can the windpipe split?

But now her body was demanding oxygen. She could feel the need in her fingertips turning numb, in her head expanding like an inflating tire, in her chest burning and heaving like a car engine flooded and choked.

She was getting weaker. She could feel her body bouncing less high. Her legs responding with less vigor, fading, like a candle burning down. Her grip slipped on Angelina's hands and she began to tear at Angelina's flesh with her nails.

As her vision began to tunnel, halo, and darken, she could see Angelina's face wild overhead, mixing in her sputtering imagination with a vision from the ring. A furious face curled with anger and disgust. A grinning cat's smirk, grinding her down for the cameras.

Spittle gurgled from between Madeleine's lips and ran a long, wet line down just under her ear, to mix with the sweat erupting in a panic on her quickly bruising throat.

Angelina was stuck between wanting Madeleine to speak, to say what Angelina wanted, what was right, then they could resume like nothing happened. She would take her rightful place, seated on a foot or a lap. But she also wanted Madeleine completely silent.

“Everytime. The wrong fuckin’ name. Every! Time!”

Shimmerlace had Angie. Ange. That fucking rake to her eardrum. But Madeleine had an arsenal that wore out its neighbour, no matter how they individually sounded sweet. None of that was hers. So just what the fuck am I, Madsy? -- She'd think as she thrashed Madeleine against the bed with more anger.

Madeleine's resistance was dying. When the eyes stared back at her emptily, she tilted her head.

Studied.

Madeleine was beautiful. The drool, her mouth. The angry empty eyes. How her body was positioned underneath her. Defeated, but still defiant and strong-willed. Oh the wrath she’ll bring when she’s up. Just what name will she have for you, then? Angelina’s smile flickered for one nano second, then realised with a sigh that she was still holding Madeleine’s neck at full force.

She let go. On her forearms were white and red lines all over with irritated valleys of pale skin going up her hands, forearms and upper-arms. It was warm. Some itched. Angelina looked at a point of particular pain and found a shallow cut on the side of her elbow, hardly even bleeding but still, there was blood.

Angelina’s nose curled, face tensed. She punched Madeleine's cheek. Gasped. Shit.

She lowered herself down, planted two kisses on the cheek and one on the upper lip as she unsaddled from Madeleine’s stomach, then went out the door.

---------------------

Angelina used the black floors and the overweight moonlight to see her reflection. An olive collar with plastic. Fucking plastic. Angelina knew that click sounded ratty. Cheap. She whimpered, her mouth downturned. She walked across the floor of the empty dining area, passing by the wonders of travel, giving them passing glances as she approached what looked to be the kitchen doors beside a bar. Black doors with a steel rectangular trim. Rectangles on the middle where the handles should be, standing up, which she pushed and entered.

The kitchen looked like a restaurant. A lot of steel. There were columns with their own purposes she hadn’t deciphered. However, close to the door about four feet was a simplistic microwave and counter beside it. Then beyond that a contemporary sink. And beyond that was ranges. All top-of-the-line and completely fucking spotless. Pots, pans, spoons and more.

Angelina took the microwave, raised it up and threw it against the oven range. It pinged off, slammed against the ground with a KERCHUNK, then rested on its back. Angelina opened the microwave door and kicked it. Kicked it. And kicked it until it snapped off.

She went and grabbed a knife from a block. It was a Japanese Damascus style stainless steel, with its patterns and dark-brown wooden varnish being the tell. She picked her finger gently to test it. She bled, then sucked on the finger and walked out. When she did, she made sure to pick up a full bottle of Rye by its neck after climbing the counter, knocking down a couple pieces of glassware. She hopped over to the bar itself, then hopped down, wincing as her old knees caught a throb.

What else?

---------------------

Missed my turn. Shit.

Angelina was staring down a hallway with no sense of where she might be. There were a few options. Doors. She chose the closest one. Inside there was a very fuzzy carpet. Red walls. White trim. There were more stuffies placed around here in what seemed to be a whole room dedicated to it. Birds on strings, casually going around in circles at different altitudes. Shelves in the walls had smaller scenes. Tea time. Laying by a tree. Watching a movie at the cinema.

The clothing was intricate. Had to be custom. But clay was also a part of it. The small props were fixed, detailed but the texture was all the same as clay. She took her finger back, then turned around.

A workstation. Wool, needles and even a cute sewing basket with a desk lamp on a green wooden station. She investigated the basket, finding coils of cotton rope about as thick as an index finger. Actually, there was a lot here. Some thicker and some less. Different colours. Her face felt warm, so she picked up the basket and went back out.

Back to the same problem.

---------------------

After a spell of what felt like two hours ( ten minutes ), Angelina returned to Madeleine’s room. She laid down her instruments, grabbed a coil of cotton rope and started to lay out the schematics of her newest creation. I call it, the Bitch-knot! Patent-pending.

Shibari Reference ( Alas, poor Madeleine v_v )

Almost all of it was used. She wrapped up Madeleine’s legs in dozens of wrappings into column ties, careful not to overlap. They were spread wide, folded, then knotted together. The gap between thigh and shin was wrapped over. Next, the arms were secured to the body then wrapped in an X friction knot, then again, lowered and tied into a square friction knot on the back. Then there’s cross hitches and intersecting diamonds for the torso, looping across Madeleine’s body, around the back and then feeding around the legs like the framework of a new leotard, tied with prusik head inline knots.

At Madeleine’s feet, she paused. She had an idea. She searched Madeleine’s room for it, found her vanity, her dresser and finally at the nightstand: a pink and white vibrator wand. Angelina walked back to the bed and started fiddling with it. At first she thought about pressing on Madeleine’s belly with it. Over the womb. Melt her fucking brain with it.

But-
Another idea.

She wrapped Madeleine’s feet up together with the soles pointed at each other, legs widely spread, with the vibrator tied in-between and wedged pushed against Madeleine’s scarlet underwear. It just took a bit of wedging to make the vibrator fit snug before she flicked it on.

Then she sat on Madeleine’s belly. The damascus knife was placed on Madeleine’s chest while Angelina cupped Madeleine’s throat, held it. Then squeezed it.

“Madsy.”

Madeleine bucked and choked, and then her eyes flew open, wild and careening. She rolled, left, right, heaved with her chest and hips. Her body flexed against the rope.

Off, off, OFF!—

She wanted to shout, but all that came out was a spittle-flecked hiss. She was an animal lashing at every shadow, writhing in the dark, until her eyes settled on her. Those purple slitted eyes and curved, barbed horns.

Then Angelina let her throat go.

"Oh—oooooOOH..."

Relief flooded into carotid and washed over her brain. Her vision telescoped as her body went loose and she felt every inch of the ropes on her body. Her head lolled onto the floor, and she rolled left, right. Tried on instinct to close her legs and moaned when flexing her legs only pushed...

She was vibrating. Her feet and her groin were vibrating. Sweat beaded on Madeleine's forehead, then ran down her chees as her lips parted in an "o." A shiver of pleasure snaked up her inner thigh. She squeezed her fingers until they ached.

"What did you do?"

Madeleine's eyes fluttered open. The gold and blue and scarlet moodlight of Madeleine's room cut Angelina's face like a stained glass window. Her expression was as cold as a glass Moses or Abraham. Unsmiling. Watching her.

Madeleine breathed quick, light rabbit breaths against the weight crushing her ribs. Her face curled like a dog snarling. Her teeth bared, her brow contorted, and her snout wrinkled. If Angelina had been close enough, Madeleine looked like she would have bitten her.

"Rat." She heaved against the ground, and pain pinched her joints. She didn't care. She wrenched harder, lifted Angelina and her back inches off the ground before they flopped back down. Thud. Again. Lift and flail and kick and Thud. Then collapsed on the ground, breathing heavily, and her mind swam.

Pointless said something at the back of her mind, and the vibration invading between her legs cast a sudden violent contraction down her navel.

"Gyyuuunnng—" She bit her lip. Hard. Swallowed. A cold rush swam over the entire organ of her skin. She squeezed her eyes shut.

"You...did this. YOU did this. To me. To me, Angelina. ME." Her voice was a rasp. Her chin trembled as her jaw worked. Then her eyes slit open and she glared up. "I can't breathe, you...you...you..." Rat was too good. She couldn't find the word good enough, vile enough for this. "Get. Off. My. Chest."

The word rat was sharper than Angelina’s knife.

It cut. Made her wince. She twitched an eye and watched Madeleine thrash. The strength wasn’t anything for Angelina sneezed at. All tied up, yet still the pirate was heaving off the bed with the flex of Madeleine’s strong back, even if her balance was never threatened. She was a seat that raised before going back down quicker, wasting stamina at a bonfire.

“Shut the fuck up! I didn’t do shit!” Angelina took one hand off Madeleine’s throat to pick up the knife. The moment Madeleine said ‘chest’, Angelina slashed the blade across Madeleine’s naked cheek from ear to lip. The disgusted ichor of Madeleine’s tone wasn’t lost.

“You did!” Her voice filled the room, but she didn’t look amused or afraid. Her expression was ice, calm but intense. She held the knife steady across her chest. Inside, she felt warmer on her face and then between her legs. It felt good, and that feeling was squeezed into the knife's wooden handle until her hand felt numb, itching to swing a second time until they squealed, You were right, Angelina. You were right.

Her hand sweat. She sat up on Madeleine’s chest, then slid down to her belly. Her legs spread over Madeleine’s bound arms so the knees were on the opposite side of the elbow. A second hand now spread on the base of Madeleine’s collar for balance.

“Listen.” Angelina’s expression turned plain. “Now you’re bleedin. Your face.” Her tone lightens, then her gaze drifts to the knife that was being pinned against Madeleine's shoulder, the tip face-up towards her head. “You can see how this is what Shim—Charlotte, wanted, right?” Angelina leaned forward, bringing the knife along.

“She made ya this angry. Angry at me. Why else would ya give me this collah? Is this what ya wanna look for our whole weekend?” Angelina animated her complaint with her hands forearms which ranged from ready to strike to intimate, close to the chest. She already knew the answer in her subconscious and readily accepted Madeleine would agree. She leaned in further, her red hair now spilling along into a curtain around their heads. “No, RIGHT? Because I am not a rat.”

Each of the stuffed animal dioramas were arranged so that they faced the bed. When Madeleine woke up, she liked to lie in the silence, to peer out over her room and see all the glittering eyes and muted animal expressions of her babies at play. Now they watched her choke quietly in the night.

Madeleine chin shook violently. The searing sliver of pain had caught her off guard. Then the pain cooled to a burn that pulsed and itched. She tried to look down, to see the cut, but even when her eyes practically rolled into her cheeks, the slice was out of her vision. The blood slithered down her neck, leaving her damp and sticky.

"You don't think you're a rat?" Madeleine's words came out in a low hiss, as if she struggled to pull her teeth apart. Her face pointed down, chin to her chest, but her eyes peered up at Angelina. "You...just cut open my face, Angelina. A face I'm going to have to wake up and see every. Day. In the mirror."

Do you think I want a scar to remind me of you she almost said. A part of her wanted to reach out, grab Angelina's head, and...but then she remembered the knife resting on her chest like like a wasp. She forced her mind to slow down—or tried to, anyway. The more she tried to focus on the woman straddling her, in her black slip and bare legs, pointing a knife at her throat, the more the pressure between Madeleine's legs seemed to stir her gray matter as much as her sex.

She closed her eyes. In a lower voice, she said, "Why don't we slow down, Angelina. We'll just...lower our volume. Dim the lights." As she spoke, Madeleine licked her lips and pictured all her favorite toys. She imagined taking one...a cat...and hugging it close to her chest. "So then. What do you want?"

Look at her. She’s bleeding. If I fix it, then it’ll be like it never happened.

“Sorry.” Angelina glummed. “I know a makeup trick for it.” Which would correct the wrong that was on Madeleine’s face. The blood was spreading more than what Angelina wished for. Her hand flinched towards the wound, wanting to clean it all off with an omnipotent smear. She pulled the hand back.

“Okay.” And nodded slowly. What do I want?

Angelina looked down at her lap. The knife was re-positioned at the centre. Her cheeks went pink thinking about it. Her head tingled. Her belly fluttered, picturing hands. She pictured herself sleeping. She looked different, smiled differently and had no knife in hand. Just an arm wrapping over her, pulling her in closer. That imaginary Angelina would stare at their joined hands. Gold on their fingers. Diamond on top.

“...” Angelina got up. She dismounted, stood up and wiped her face. Then went over to the stuffy scenes and plucked a cat from a biplane. It was a tabby. It had flying goggles, a white collar with a bell and golden metal tag and was permanently positioned in a loaf.

She took it to Madeleine, kneeled on the carpet beside the bed at Madeleine’s right about head-level. The cat was placed on the comforters, then Angelina’s head over-top. The cat had a face-up three for a mouth, closed eyes and upright ears. The smug bastard.

“This.” She turned her head to look at it, then tapped on the collar. “Can I have him? Her? Since ya took Codsy. Gave him to someone else. I wanted one from you.”

The initial shock from the cut bled out of Madeleine as Angelina rolled off her chest. In its place, she felt...branded. She hadn't even been able to flinch. Or rather she had been able to flinch—and all it did was squeeze the vibrator so tightly against her pussy that her insides ached. As if Angelina had thrust inside her when she sliced her. Madeleine's cheeks burned.

Can I have him?

"Hm?" Madeleine blinked.

Ah, Amewlia Airpaw.

Madeleine's face sagged as she registered the stuffy. Her lips twitched towards a smile. She nodded slowly and shakily, as if her neck had gravel in the joint. "Yyyyyyes. Of course. I'd be delighted for you to have Amewlia."

As Madeleine had to force the words through her teeth. Her throat seemed to want to close around them. Her face prickled.

Buzzzzzzzzzzzzz. The vibrator filled the silences.

It was more than just her panties. Her thighs were cold and wet, and the bedspread was damp in a wide circle around her. She could feel her natural lubrication dripping down her bare, exposed ass, and what was worse, she could smell herself—sweet and heavy. She couldn't see Angelina's face, since in her new position at the foot of the bed, she was backlit. Madeleine felt like one of her stuffed animals, wrapped up like a gift. The ropes held her legs open in a way that made her feel like an animal exposing its belly.

"...I had actually been planning to gift you a stuffy anyway," she said, on a burst of instinct. She swallowed, "It was going to be your big sendoff on Sunday. A little bit of Citronelle sparkle for my special kitten. I suppose that will be redundant now, hm?"

The line where Angelina had sliced Madeleine's face open throbbed with a low level of pain. She had been speaking very quickly, and she cut herself off, literally biting her tongue. She breathed and started again. Slower.

"Angelina. Kitten. Listen." She forced her mind to focus. What would Batson say? She paused, running two, then three scripts through her head. Then she shaved it down to the nub. "You can't cut my face again." She willed herself still, and despite the growing smoldering burn between her legs, she managed for the moment to slow her breathing. "We can talk. I won't ask you to cut me free until you're ready. But." Madeleine's voice was cold. "If you cut my face again, I won't forgive you."

“Amewlia.”

Angelina smiled. Her eyes drifted to the object underneath her dainty hands, warm, soft and cuddly to touch, the short brownish fur combing back. She said the name again silently, mouthing it, then adding another stroke.

“I’ll take good care.” Pat, pat.

She got up. Slowly, with her hands pushing down and knees visibly ached.

"...I had actually been planning to gift you a stuffy anyway,"

“Were ya?” Then she reached for the knife sitting on-top of Madeleine’s self after putting one knee on the bed. She pointed the blade against the skin with black fabric blocking her way. At first, she contemplated yanking the knife for another clean cut. Instead she dragged it along slowly and easily at first. It started at the shoulder, with the point coming down the collarbone to the middle. Her chest went tighter. Madeleine’s uneasy breathing was… stimulating.

"It was going to be your big sendoff on Sunday. A little bit of Citronelle sparkle for my special kitten. I suppose that will be redundant now, hm?"

She smiled on one side. The knife’s upper fifth was pressed down, then being dragged between Madeleine’s tied clothed chest. The handle pressed harder and harder to challenge the fabric, following the creases of squares.

“Ain’t nothin redundant when it comes to stuff.”

The knife reached Madeleine’s belly. She placed a hand on one of Madeleine’s breasts, leaned on it, squeezed, then focused on the knife. It played on Madeleine’s stomach, going around where her belly most flexed to the sides. She adjusted herself between Madeleine’s legs, sitting on her calves with occasional glances at Amewlia, then one at Madeleine as she said…

"If you cut my face again, I won't forgive you."

Are you really able to make that call? Her brain said it didn’t matter. She was ours to behold. But when hearing one request from a person who calls you a Special Kitten, or at least remembers this one time out of a million, she had an inkling to play along. So she smiled more sweetly, head-tilted and entranced with the mappings of Madeleine’s covered skin. The knife was by the hipbone, making its way around to the lower naval.

“Ok.” She said, “Not the face.”

Before taking a pinch of the dress’s fabric over Madeleine’s gut, pulling it up into a tall tent then flipping the knife-grip in her hands to point downward. She raised the arm out, paused, then thrust from a sloping arc at her shoulder, coming in at the side to penetrate the dress about an inch from the belly. The cold knife then laid there on her skin, pressed down as Angelina licked her middle finger, then slid it into the dress’s new slit, tugging it to open Madeleine’s covered midsection by inches. When her second hand joined, they pried the dress together. Once, twice and thrice within shibari squares. The widened slit was a large open diamond from the waistline to under the chest. Black dress hung off the waist, sliding back.

Angelina was holding Madeleine’s waist with both hands, thumbs pressed over. Caressing, and lifting. Meanwhile, her knee slid up and started to gently play with the suspended vibrator, pushing it in and towards the sides. Whatever made her face change.

“You wanted to talk? Talk.”

Madeleine curled away from Angelina, tightened her fingers and flexed her ankles. Angelina's smell — that now-familiar strawberry — washed over Madeleine.

Talk.

But if she talked, she might give away...Feelings. Impulses. Sensations

For example, she might have jumped as Angelina's soft fingerpads stroked her bare sides—and then she'd know Madeleine was ticklish. Or perhaps Madeleine would have huffed. That wouldn't have been so bad—it would only have told Angelina what Madeleine's face ready betrayed with its flushed cheeks and sweaty throat.

The worst, though—she could feel the worst as a pressure in her chest. The seed of a moan, rising from the unspeakable feeling that welled like honey when Angelina pushed in with her knee.

Angelina's face hung over her own, cast in blue light one second, then pink as she shifted her weight. Her knee brushed along the bulge in Madeleine's panties, and the Countess had to push, had to think, to not grind against her captor's thigh.

Think.

Batson had taught Madeleine to think. If life feels too big for thinking, then choose a part of it. Cut it down and make it smaller.

The problem was to talk. OK. What about? Angelina. How much she wanted cut her, smash her, fuck her? No—no no no. This was a moment for empathy—for projecting herself into Angelina.

Madeleine swallowed, her eyes glassy and tongue dry. She focused her attention away from the chaos of sensation, towards a single point on Angelina's forehead. Identify a talisman to occupy your focus. And then she conjured up Angelina's mind within her own and realized—

This bitch is into me.

Madeleine choked a tiny laugh at the back of her throat, her dimples curling. For a flash, the electric buzz along her skin's surface was sweet. Lovely even. Then the bindings on her wrists ached and reminded her of where she was.

Of course, Madeleine already knew she was attractive—and obviously Angelina wanted her. This was not new information. But it was a point Madeleine had somehow let herself forget as Angelina hogtied and gagged and cut her. She's only doing all this to please herself. Our little kitten must have a bondage fetish, no?

And that made something else clear—

"You feel second to Charlotte." Madeleine's voice was half a whisper, her eyes lidded. "On your special night, when I promised to make you the most darling kitten in the whole mansion. You felt outshone by my...ex." For half a beat, she had considered not saying the last word—substituting something else. Perhaps Charlotte or pink-haired friend. But as the light caught and gleamed in Angelina's hair, Madeleine committed. Be bold. "That, kitten, is why you're so angry. Right?"

Talk more. Talk never.

That’s where Angelina was at. Where her hand was tense, but her forearm remained light. She wanted to swing her knife arm with closed eyes, but still see it through her eyelids. Gosh, who would do such a thing? She’s a m-m-m-mess. S-Someone c-call an a-ambulance. Good riddance, my s-s-sweet!

That was one part of her mind. The other wanted touch. She wanted to lay down somewhere warm, close her eyes and wake-up with someone waiting for her to. Tomorrow would be completely new once again, with her neck bejewelled and head crowned by a hand. Madeleine seemed like the fit. The tour, the robots, the time in the shower…

Her grip on the handle was getting sweaty. The more she thought about it… On your special day. Did it even exist in the first place? It was all fucking Charlotte. Shimmer. Whoever the fuck. Could be any of those LAW fuckers, it didn’t matter. All second-rate snakes. But Shimmer…

“A fuckin… EX?!” She quietly clawed into Madeleine’s gut with her fingernails, harder and harder until it was full force. Her eyes feel heavier afterwards. Once that puzzle piece clicked into its new home, she had half a brain to go see Charlotte herself. There was always more rope. Then the other half was here, wondering and lamenting…

“...Did I do somethin’ wrong, Madsy?” Angelina laid between Madeleine’s legs, chest-to-chest and belly-over-belly, heart-rates mingling in a chasm of warming and sweating skin. She placed the knife up by her face, letting the handle rest in the bed by an angle, then wiggle around as her exhaustion sapped her coordination. Angelina placed her cheek to Madeleine’s shoulder, peering up.

“I wanna know, so I can keep ya to myself.”