L.A.W. - League of Anime Wrestling

He had expected the moment her foot left his chin. The tension in her posture, the quick coil of her hips—those small tells gave away the intent even before she fully turned. A spinning kick, textbook in setup but timed with such ruthless precision that few would have seen it coming. But Tomás wasn’t most. And so he dropped. Hard. The moment gravity answered, he obeyed, knees buckling under him like a felled tree. Her heel carved through air just inches above his skull, missing him by a breath and a heartbeat.

The hiss of her frustration was reward enough. But the reprieve was brief.

Even crouched low, head still ringing from the earlier abuse, Tomás registered her shift in demeanor. The finesse was gone, replaced by fury. She came at him not as a tactician, but as a storm. Her foot came down fast and relentlessly, one stomp after another slamming into his side and shoulder, each one a white-hot flash of pain. He tried to roll with them, shielding his ribs as best he could, but the barrage kept him pinned in place, a relentless downpour of rage dressed in leather and intent. And then, the last one came—different. The way her weight shifted, how her foot drew back, told him all he needed to know. This wasn’t a stomp. It was a strike designed to end.

The punt caught him square in the ribs.

His body lifted off the mat, breath shoved from his lungs in a broken gasp as he sailed backward, sliding across the canvas and under the bottom rope. The apron passed above him in a blur before he hit the floor outside the ring with a dull, rattling thud. Ring-out. A penalty. He knew the rules well enough—what came next would be no reprieve. But even sprawled out on the floor, chest rising shallow and eyes squinting against the overhead lights, Tomás’s fingers were already curling into fists.

The match wasn’t over. Not yet. For now , he would have to take whatever she had to give.

Whilst in control of the bout thus far there were moments of resistance and cleverness from Tomas that kept Cleo from truly securing the advantage that she had wanted to get on him. It was... frustrating. Incredibly so. Just as her fun began, just as it began to feel fully satisfying to break him down and out of the ring to get a move of her choice on him... but he kept stalling her and providing just enough obstacles to create problems.

That was why she briefly allowed her anger to take hold of her, unleashing a devastating flurry of stomps on the man and driving as much pain and blunt force trauma as she could on him until he was vulnerable enough for her to finish him off with a final brutal punt kick to the ribs that finally did as she wanted and left the man knocked out of the ring.

Smirking smugly as she did so, the anger and frustration leaving her body as a feeling of satisfaction coming over her nodding to herself as she watched the man get back up, holding his ribs, knowing exactly what was about to happen. Slowly taking a seat on the mat and spreading her legs as she did so, Cleo would support herself with one arm while holding her other hand out to the man, giving a subtle and teasing 'come at me.' gesture with her hand as her face changed from full of anger and frustration to pure flirtatious satisfaction.

"On you're knees before me peasant... and into my legs.... you're new home." Cleo said with a smile, waiting for him to come as commanded, once he would she would reach up and grab one of his arms before yanking backwards and wrapping her legs around his head, pulling him tight into a reverse triangle choke hold, squeezing his head and pulling his arm out while pushing him face first into her groin in the process!

Every breath was a lance through his ribs. The punt had been merciless, brutal in its precision, and as Tomás pulled himself up from the arena floor, he felt the ache spreading like fire along his side. It wasn’t the first time he had been driven out of the ring, but this time the sting wasn’t just physical. It was the gnawing frustration of having been outmaneuvered. He had resisted, made her fight for every opening, but in the end Cleo’s persistence had left him sprawled, paying the price for defiance. His jaw clenched as he dragged himself upright, clutching at his ribs, willing his body to obey even as his pride wavered against the weight of her dominance.

The sight that greeted him as he raised his head was a vision both mocking and commanding. Cleo sat with deliberate ease, one arm propping her up while the other stretched outward, fingers curling in that subtle, taunting beckon. Her smirk was no longer touched with frustration, it was pure, self-satisfied pleasure, her eyes dancing with cruel amusement as if she had always known he would end up here. Every gesture, every line of her posture, radiated authority. She was not simply inviting him back—she was summoning him, like a sovereign demanding fealty.

Tomás felt his pride strain against the order, a flicker of rebellion sparking in his chest, but his body betrayed him with every shallow breath and wavering step. He understood the stakes. The rules dictated his course, and her words sealed it. Each step forward felt heavier than the last, a march not just into her reach but into her control. Kneeling before her was a humiliation his fighting spirit balked at, yet he found himself sinking low, ribs aching, head bowed—not in reverence, but in reluctant submission forced by circumstance. His fists tightened against the mat as if trying to hold onto what remained of his defiance.

And then came the snare. The moment he was within reach, her hand seized his arm, dragging him with decisive force. Her legs coiled around him like serpents, smooth yet suffocating, clamping tight across his shoulders and crown. His head was pulled forward, trapped, pressed against the intoxicating cruelty of her body as the reverse triangle locked into place. Pain lanced down his neck and shoulder as his arm was wrenched, the constriction around his throat cutting the air from him once more. Darkness edged at the corners of his vision, but sharper still was the sting of realization—he was exactly where she wanted him, smothered and shackled, his pride crushed as surely as his breath.

Managing to knock Tomas clear out of the ring Cleo now had the free reign to perform any move on him that she wished, even submissions which otherwise were banned in this match. Perfect. Now there were any number of holds humiliating and painful alike that she could do, which was why it may have been surprising to some for her to choose the relatively basic triangle choke hold. However with her framing of it, and the specific positioning she chose it was equal parts embarrassing, emasculating and painful.

The exact combination she wanted to subject this young man too and as she tightened her thighs like a vice around his head with crushing force that would deplete him of oxygen as well as will to fight. In fact just to further mock him while squeezing his head Cleo would drive her hips upwards, grinding her groin into his face to show him who was boss, all while giving some especially hard tugs to his arm to put his shoulder joints to its limit.

Eventually however she would get a signal from the referee that her allotted time for the punishment was over and she was to release him. "Ugh killjoy." Cleo muttered in annoyance but reluctantly she agreed... Albeit slowly. Gradually unwinding her legs from around Tomas and letting him rise up... But she kept a hold of his arms and if he needed a little lift from her feet pressing against his shoulders so be it.

However the full extent of Cleo's plan would come to light when he was on his knees, her hands still holding onto his arms, one foot pressed against Tomas's shoulder while the other now hung directly in front of him... To which she would then start rapidly beating his face side to side with her foot. Not especially hard mind you, they were more akin to mocking slaps just with a foot rather than a hand and the intention was clear, to further humiliate Tomas. An action Cleo would take a step further literally as she pressed her foot against his face, pinching his nose between her toes and then suddenly rolling the two over!

Sitting up suddenly without removing her foot from his face Cleo would rise into a standing position, now outright stepping on Tomas's face with the sole of her foot pressed against his mouth, a devious smirk on her lips as she looked down upon the man. "Get used to this position love, you'll be in it quite a bit going forward." Cleo said in a haughty tone as she finally removed her foot and took a few steps back to give Tomas the chance to rise back up to his feet finally.

Tomás had expected pain when he was sent sprawling out of the ring, but he hadn’t anticipated this particular brand of degradation. The triangle choke she clamped onto him was as merciless as it was suffocating, her thighs sealing around his skull like steel bands. The pressure was dizzying, a constant vice closing tighter with each pulse of her muscles. But what unsettled him more than the raw force was the cruel artistry of it. Her hips grinding deliberately into his face, her tug on his arm wrenched to the limit, the way she bent a basic choke into something humiliating, designed to strip away not just his strength but his dignity. The referee’s voice calling time was almost a salvation, though Cleo’s annoyed hiss made it clear she had only begun to savor her torment of him.

Relief came slowly, too slowly, as her legs uncoiled from his head like a serpent loosening its prey. He drew in a ragged breath, the air sharp in his lungs, but she refused to give him even that small victory without strings attached. Her grip on his arms remained tight, her feet finding leverage against his shoulders to help force him upright. By the time he reached his knees, his head was pounding, vision still blurred at the edges. The pressure may have lessened, but her control had not. He was still in her grasp, and she made it abundantly clear with what came next.

The first slap of her foot across his face was insulting in its casualness. The next, and the next, compounded that insult, a rhythm of disdain that had little to do with force and everything to do with ridicule. Each strike stung, but more than that, they mocked him. Tomás clenched his teeth and tried to turn with the blows, but he couldn’t disguise the humiliation. Her smirk above him, the gleam of delight in her eye—it all made clear this was not about damage. This was about ownership.

And then came the final twist of the knife. Her foot pressed flat across his face, her toes pinching his nose, smothering him beneath the softness of her sole as though he were nothing more than a stepstool. The world inverted as she suddenly rolled them over, using the leverage of his own trapped limbs to reposition him. Before he could react, before he could even process the motion, she had risen with her foot planted firmly on his face, standing tall and dominant while he lay beneath her, pinned by nothing more than the weight of her disdain. Her words, dripping with arrogance, made the statement undeniable: this was not just a fight to her. It was a display.

When she finally stepped off, Tomás remained flat for a moment, the imprint of her sole still hot against his mouth, his pride scalded deeper than his body. He rolled to his side, forcing his body to obey, pushing himself back toward his feet. Every movement ached, his ribs throbbing, his jaw sore, his breath uneven—but the fire in his chest was far from extinguished. She had mocked him, stepped on him, paraded her dominance for the crowd to see. Rising again, no matter how battered, was not just necessary, it was inevitable.

Cleo watched with sadistic pride as she pulled her foot off the man's face and took a few steps away from where the man laid on the mat, evidently needing a moment to catch his breath. Of course this was a ok with the supermodel as she placed her hand under her chin, watching the man slowly sit up and push himself back up to a standing position, the anger and determination burning in his eyes clear but not making a difference for her whatsoever.

"Oh no. Don't rush getting up on my account sweetie. If you need time to get yourself together I understand. Of course, if you want to quit I'd totally understand. Wouldn't be the first time I've dealt with a man that had performance issues." Cleo said mockingly in a sickly sweet tone, trying to piss Tomas off more and more after already humiliating him rather publicly, but any additional embarrassment she could hand him would be welcome.

Tomás sat there for a moment longer than he wanted, his breath ragged, ribs still aching from the brutal punt that had launched him out of the ring, his pride even more bruised than his body. He could feel the heat of the crowd’s gaze pressing down on him, their murmurs lingering after every humiliating second of Cleo’s performance. Her footprint still burned on his face, her words still rang in his ears, and though he wanted to pretend, they slid off him like nothing, the truth was more complicated. His eyes locked on her—perfectly poised, gleaming with smug satisfaction—and something churned inside him. A twisted cocktail of rage, defiance, and something else he refused to acknowledge, something that made the memory of her sole on his lips sting in ways that weren’t entirely hateful.

He forced himself up, pushing through the ache, his fists curling tight. Cleo’s syrupy taunts dripped into his ears, her condescension sharp enough to cut deeper than any kick she’d landed. His jaw clenched hard as he spat to the side, glaring at her through the fringe of sweat-soaked hair. “Performance issues?” he rasped, his voice low, accent thick and hoarse but edged with iron. “Querida, the only one with an issue here is you for thinking you’ve already won.” The defiance in his tone was real, but so was the truth he couldn’t voice: that every second of her mockery was sinking deeper into him, needling at instincts he wanted to bury beneath the fury that kept him upright.

His body screamed at him to rest, to give in, but surrender was not a language Tomás had ever learned. He drew himself taller, rolling his shoulders back as his stance settled into the familiar roots of Muay Thai—feet light, arms raised, torso angled. Pain carved lines through his every movement, but his body still remembered the rhythm of the fight, the cadence of his art. His eyes didn’t waver from her as he stalked forward, each step measured, his breathing steadying against the fire in his ribs.

Inside though, the storm churned. He could still taste the humiliation of her heel grinding across his face, still feel the mocking sting of her sole pressing down on his mouth. As much as he hated it, that sensation pulsed through him like a shadow, mingling with the adrenaline and rage. He shoved it down, clamped it behind the walls of defiance, and let only the warrior stand in the light. “You wanted me on my knees?” Tomás growled, tightening his fists as he edged in close, every muscle coiled to strike. “Careful what you wish for.” And with that, he surged forward, his body ready to snap into a chain of elbows and knees designed to cut through her taunts the only way he knew how—through force, through grit.

Cleo was naturally smirking wide in absolute smug glory as she saw that her little taunt had really gotten under Tomas's skin. As he stood he looked visibly upset and flushed, granted that could have been due to her actions previously but she could tell it all worsened with her comment which is exactly what she wanted. 'Just a bit more and he'll be putty in my hands... or rather feet.' Cleo thought to herself as she just continued to smirk in light of his own attempt to talk back at her.

"Well now can you blame me? You make it rather easy for me." Cleo commented mockingly back at him, watching and already tensing her body subtly as she noticed his own tensing, no doubt ready to fire off at her. Well that was fine, she was more than welcoming of his attempt. Because as soon as he started to come close she would suddenly spring forward herself, cutting his chase off half way and raising her leg up before he had the chance to do anything.

Snapping her limb out while balancing on her standing leg Cleo would unleash a devastating kick! Or rather... she would have had she not intentionally paused the kick just short of kicking Tomas in the face, her sole hovering half a inch from his face, intending to stop him in shock, maybe even traumatize him. "I think the one that needs to be careful is you." Cleo said in a voice far colder and more severe than before.

As she did so Cleo would move her foot to the side before extending out fully and then bringing her leg around, smacking her foot into the side of Tomas's face. Not necessarily with a lot of strength, more akin to a push in order to shove Tomas away from her as she brought her leg back down and went upright, smirking at him once again. "But not too late to get on your knees like a good boy." Cleo added as a final cherry on top of her mental assault.

Tomás’s blood was boiling, every nerve ending set alight with anger and wounded pride. He wanted nothing more than to wipe that arrogant smirk off Cleo’s face with a flurry of knees and elbows, to remind her he was no one’s toy to be mocked. His steps forward were heavy, deliberate, each stride fueled by the singular urge to strike. His fists clenched so tight his knuckles cracked, his jaw a locked stone.

And then her foot came up.

In an instant, the rage surging through him was short-circuited. Her sole hovered a mere breath away from his face, and Tomás froze as though shackled in invisible chains. His eyes darted there immediately, unable to look away—the arch curving so perfectly, the faint flex of tendons across the top, the teasing way her toes seemed to stretch and relax. His throat went dry, and before he could stop himself, his gaze lowered again, lingering shamelessly on the sole in front of him. By the time he shifted his stance, trying to regain control, the strain in his pants had already betrayed him—thick, undeniable, visible.

A trembling exhale left his lips. His body betrayed him. Sweat beaded on his brow, not from exertion but from the suffocating heat of arousal creeping up his spine. He shifted on his feet as a tremor worked its way down his arms, his once-coiled fists now quivering. His breathing quickened in shallow bursts, chest rising and falling faster, and the rigid pulse in his pants told him exactly what his body thought of this humiliating scene. The realization made his stomach twist with disgust—and yet, he still couldn’t tear his eyes away. Every instinct screamed at him to move, to fight, to do something. Instead, he stood rooted, trembling, his erection pulsing shamefully with every beat of his frantic heart.

Her words cut sharper than any shin or heel she could’ve thrown. He swallowed hard, lips parting as though to speak, but no sound came. Instead, he licked his dry lips, gaze flickering up to her face only to falter and drift back down to her foot again, shame radiating off him in waves.

When the slap finally landed, the sole of her foot smacking across his cheek, Tomás stumbled back with a grunt. The sudden jolt only seemed to make his arousal more pronounced, his bulge pressing against the fabric of his trunks in a way that left no doubt. He grunted in frustration, both hands twitching as if he wanted to cover himself, to hide, but doing so would be the same as admitting it aloud. And when his gaze darted downward again, lingering shamelessly for just a second longer than it should, the humiliation was complete. The sting blossomed across his jaw, but it wasn’t pain that burned him most—it was the knowledge that he hadn’t moved, hadn’t blocked, hadn’t even tried. He’d stood there, trembling and hard, waiting for it. His head turned, sweat dripping from his brow as he steadied himself, and still—still—his eyes flicked down as though hoping for another glimpse.

His chest heaved as he dragged in air, torn between self-loathing and the undeniable pull he could no longer deny. “Merda...” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head, trying to summon the fire that was quickly slipping away from him. He raised his gaze finally, jaw tight, but his voice betrayed the conflict raging within, low and ragged.

“You think I’ll kneel so easy, mulher? Don’t... don’t mistake this for surrender.”

Yet the twitching bulge in his pants, the sweat on his brow, and the way his eyes—traitorous, hungry—kept threatening to drop downward said otherwise. And Tomás knew she could see it all, every shameful detail.

There it was.

As she rose her foot up in front of her opponent's face Cleo knew that this was in of itself a gamble. After all if Tomas wasn't as shell shocked as she assumed then she would be leaving herself all but completely open. But.... if her thinking was correct then this would not only stun him into stopping, but reinforce all the mental superiority she had been pushing on him since this bout had begun. Sure enough however Tomas stopped dead in his tracks, the look on his face being unmistakable.

Fear. Longing. Desire. Submission... It was written all over his face, and even though she didn't need any further indicator the man's rapidly rising pitched tent in his shorts was making it clear how he was feeling with her foot in his face, whether he wanted to admit it or not.

As such Cleo had no issue giving him a playful smack with her foot, knocking him a bit away, and seemingly also finally breaking him of his stupor. Still the fact he didn't react to her foot rising up period, let alone the little smack she gave after was all the proof either of them needed. Cleo knew it, and she knew that Tomas realized it as well. Even if the man was being stubborn as he cursed and tried to back talk her.

All that being said however Cleo would just slowly, tantalizingly lowering her leg back to the mat, taking note with her eyes how Tomas's own lingered towards her feet. "Acalmar..." Cleo said in his own native language as she began to walk casually towards him. "We both know you want it now, there's no need to deny it... you just need to be shown its ok, even the correct way. I can do that." Cleo said in a methodical tone with a sickly sweet smile.

Then she exploded forward the moment her foot touched the mat next, bursting towards Tomas in a flash! Then as she neared she'd kick her foot again the mat and leap into the air while bringing her leg around to slam a kick into him, then regardless of that blows successful she would already be turning bringing that first leg down to the mat to land on while pulling her other leg around for a spinning back kick before switching limbs, using the leg she just kicked with to stand on suddenly while bringing the other up and snapping forward suddenly for a scissor kick aimed to land directly into Tomas's gut!