A Taste of Things To Come (Dalia Nadeen Mahmoud [D] vs Tomas Ferreira)

[DSX93]

Deidre had also been the woman who, although inadvertently, had nonetheless introduced her to foot fetishism. And helped her realize that she liked being on both ends of the deal. Although relevant, these details weren't for telling in the ring. Certainly not anywhere a camera or microphone is present, period.

Indulging on her hands and knees, however? Not for her.

And Tomas? Her years of experience was telling her that the all-around stiffening of his body just now -- that stillness -- was sheer surprise. There wasn't enough there to say whether or not he liked this, but that raging hard-on made it abundantly clear that he didn't hate it, despite that "Que diabos." She knew enough to figure that was something among the lines of "What the hell".

She'll have to do some more poking and prodding. Or licking and sucking, as it was. Later. Story time had gone on for long enough.

Tomas had the same idea. And to his credit, there was a way out from the position he'd found himself in. But the squirming he did, with her knees used as a base for him to use to power his way through? That wasn't it. At least not against anyone who knew what they were doing. He struck her as a rather savvy man, so she offered some token resistance to help him along to the train of thought that his desperate move was just enough. She gave up her hold on his ankle to take better control of the leg she still had tucked underneath her arm, giving it a firmer squeeze and placing a hand at the knee, as though she were getting ready to crank a half crab. And she actually did, as far as she needed in order to further instill that sense of urgency in him. But when he pushed himself far enough, that hold too would be abandoned. After a careful placement of one foot, that is. Planted flat on the mat at an angle as she turned her body partially. Less for stability, and more to prepare her pursuit.

Fly, meet web.

An effort like his would already take a lot of energy in a regular ring. The oil would demand more of him, still. And predictably, it left him gassed. Time to eat.

Dalia was ready to scramble right back on top of him. His tired body rose to begin an another escape when he saw her coming. No matter. Sluggishness had been tacked onto his list of struggles, and combined with the hard time he was having working with his slickened surroundings, she felt like she could take a risk.

Her hands reached for his thighs. They'd provide just enough leverage for her own push, to spring up and forwards, legs open and ready to

She'd still have some maneuvering to do, but the jump would knock what little breath Tomas gathered out of his lungs and give her the time to get him perfectly aligned. Higher up her thick thighs, chin tucked against the scant material covering her crotch...

Dalia would use his shorts as a means of propping herself up, then squeeze, crushing his face into something comical. "Deidre tried that too." She regarded him with a predatorial smirk. "I'll be frank with you Tomas: You're not going to escape this. No one has. What I want you to do is hold out for as long as you can." Harder, now. "And when it becomes too much for you to bear..." Even harder. The Mistress of the Oil has had ample time to hone her craft, locking foes and clients of all shapes and sizes in between those deadly legs of hers. As a result, she always knows exactly how much pressure to apply in any situation.

In this instance? How to make it feel like he was seconds away from having his skull crushed into powder and chunky salsa. Periodically letting up just a little whenever it seemed like he was on the verge. Just enough to keep him in the game for a while longer in this round.

"Then you tap. And when you do that, you will worship my body like you're a devoted follower at my divine altar. You will love every nook. Every cranny." Her tone was one that left no room for debate. "Do that, and you'll find that I'm a fair mistress." A guarantee. Of what, she'd leave Tomas to ponder.

[GoingBananas]

For the briefest moment, there was relief. It wasn’t much, just a fraction of space—his face no longer trapped between the crushing embrace of Dalia’s thighs, his lungs able to take in a desperate gulp of air, the pressure that had threatened to split his skull finally relenting. It wasn’t a proper escape, not in the sense that he had broken free entirely, but it was something resembling progress. A step forward, no matter how small.

But then, dread.

Relief was a fleeting thing. Because Dalia was already moving, flowing effortlessly in the oil like a predator reclaiming its prey, and he barely had time to realize his mistake before he felt them again—those lethal legs, wrapping around his head with even greater precision, even greater strength. It was as though the last hold had been a mere test, a taste of what she was capable of, and now she was showing him the full, devastating extent of her power. This time, Dalia trapped his head again, and it was worse. Tighter. Unforgiving. His body stiffened instinctively, muscles coiling as he braced against the overwhelming squeeze. The Black Widow is enjoying this. And despite himself, some primal part of him had understood why.

Tomás had known pain before, felt the sharp sting of elbows slicing into his brow, the deep ache of ribs battered throughout a long fight. This, however, had been something else entirely. This was control. Mastery. He had been caught in a hold so calculated, so impossibly tight, that it had felt as though she could keep him there indefinitely. The flex of her muscles had sent a fresh pulse of agony through his skull, and his fingers had dug into the oil-slicked mat, searching for anything—leverage, space, salvation. Dalia knew exactly how much force to apply, exactly where to position him so that every flex of her thighs sent a fresh wave of agony through his skull. The pressure built relentlessly, crushing his jaw against her flesh and tunneling his vision.

And it was controlled. It was constant. That was the worst part.

She wasn’t squeezing with reckless abandon. No, she was applying just enough pressure to bring him to the very edge—to make him feel like his head was moments away from imploding—before backing off just enough to let him breathe, to let him suffer a little longer. It was a game, a torment expertly crafted, and she was playing it to perfection. His fingers clawed at the mat, hands grasping for something, anything, to anchor himself. But there was no escape. Not in the oil. Not when she had every advantage. His body was slick, but so was hers, and somehow, she used it to move with such refined grace that it only made her control over him stronger. He could barely shift. His struggles met with nothing but the tightening embrace of her thighs. A pulse of muscle. A slow, deliberate flex. More pressure. More suffocating, mind-numbing pressure.

His breaths came quick, each one a struggle against the relentless constriction around his head and neck. A dull ringing filled his ears, and the edges of his vision blurred with creeping darkness. His heartbeat pounded in his skull, each throb making it harder to think, harder to focus on anything but the crushing force slowly reducing him to nothing.

And then her voice. Low, sultry, taunting. She spoke with the confidence of someone who had done this before, countless times, to countless men and women, and knew exactly how it would end. Her words slithered into his ears, filling his head with a command so absolute that it almost felt inevitable.

Tap. Give in. Submit. Worship.

The promise of relief dangled in front of him like a cruel illusion. All he had to do was yield, let his hand slap against the mat, and accept his fate. He could make it all stop with a single motion. She knew it. He knew it. And yet…

“Não, porra…!” No.

The word echoed in his mind, stubborn and unyielding, refusing to be drowned out by the pain and suffocation. A primal defiance, an instinct woven into the very core of his being. His muscles burned, and his body begged for respite, but he refused to listen. He wouldn’t let her have it so easily.

The crushing vice of her thighs allowed Tomás little movement, so with what little strength remained, he gritted his teeth and shook his head. His hand hovered over the mat, fingers twitching, but he didn’t let it fall. Not yet. Not while there was still fight in him. He wouldn’t give her the satisfaction. Not yet. His arms, trembling from exertion, moved with a newfound determination. His palms pressed against the slick mat, his legs shifted, seeking purchase, desperate for any angle, any opening that could grant him even the slightest chance of reversing his fate. The oil made it almost impossible, his limbs slipping with every attempt, but he refused to stop. He pushed against her thighs, fingers digging into the firm muscle as if he could pry them apart by sheer will alone.

A foolish notion. They didn’t budge. They only flexed in response, tightening further, sending another pulse of unbearable pressure through his skull. Nevertheless, he fought. He had to. Every instinct screamed at him to preserve what little pride he had left, to push himself beyond reason. If he had to endure, if he had to suffer, then so be it. But he would not submit. Not like this. A choked, ragged breath escaped him as his vision darkened further, his body nearing its limit. But the fire in his chest still burned, however dimly.

Not yet.

[DSX93]

It's amazing how much pain you can cause with just a little bit of flexing of the right muscles; Dalia always went much easier on the head than she did on the body. Even here, she wasn't approaching fifty percent. Nor would she. That was in the realm of hospital visits, as she learned one evening in the sexfighting circle she fell in with in college. An accident that almost scared her away from performing scissorholds altogether.

Tomas was going through all of the usual motions. The realization. The panic. The struggle. Dalia was indeed relishing that fear, more than she normally does. This one was strong. The walls of agony were closing in tight, and he was staring doom so close in the face, he was practically kissing it. The way out was closed the moment he stepped into her domain.

And yet, he fought, searching for anything, anything to cling to, outside and in. Desperate for something to save him. Hoping against hope.

"Tlwa wakhadish kama yahlu liki. La shay' sayunqidhuku!" She laughed at the foolish notion, then moved towards a push to force him towards the Acceptance stage, taking a more proper seat on him. Not quite on his face, but close enough to apply a

A little more alluring for him, perhaps, with his nose and mouth pressed tightly against scantily clad crotch, in place to get better acquainted with her nether lips. Practiced precision that would make him give her pleasure during his most pained moments, which were soon to come, whether he meant to or not.

This position required even less effort from her, yet allowed her to put even more pressure on him. "Sawf tutie 'iiradti, 'aw tulqa fi alzalami!" And that's exactly what she did, squeezing her legs closer together and flexing those thick thighs, this time with no give. No mercy. She crossed her arms underneath her breasts. The cherry on top, the ultimate display of the power she held over him.

"Yuqariru!"

Translation

"Tlwa wakhadish kama yahlu liki. La shay' sayunqidhuku!" -- "Squirm and claw all you want. Nothing will save you!"

"Sawf tutie 'iiradti, 'aw tulqa fi alzalami!" -- "You will obey my will, or be cast to the darkness!"

"Yuqariru!" -- "Decide!"

[GoingBananas]

The Portuguese Pugilist had thought the worst had passed. That the peak of the pain was behind him. He had survived that first crushing squeeze, refused to tap, clawed through the black edges of consciousness with willpower alone. That had to count for something. He was still breathing, wasn’t he?

But what came next wasn’t mercy. It was a revelation.

The pressure returned—not just matched, but elevated. Elevated in a way that made the last hold feel like a warning. This was not a test. This was punishment. Her thighs—those sculpted, unyielding columns of muscle—tightened with a level of precision that felt engineered, calibrated. She wasn’t giving her all. He could sort of tell. He didn’t know how, but some part of him understood instinctively that she was still holding back. That if she wanted to, she could end him with a thought and a single flex. And yet, this was more than enough.

His head was no longer his own. The pain wasn’t sharp—it was total. A smothering, pulsing force that sent every nerve fiber into disarray. His jaw ground against her thigh, ears ringing as the blood slowed in its flow, as the world narrowed to the relentless rhythm of her body compressing his. He fought to breathe, but his nose was buried in the soft fabric, his mouth sealed uselessly beneath the curve of her heat. A position too cruel in its irony—suffocation wrapped in seduction.

Dalia’s voice fell around him like a chant. He didn’t know the words—Arabic, maybe—but he didn’t need a translation to understand what she meant. He could hear it in the tone: certainty. Triumph. Her laughter was rich with dominance, her control absolute. She was seated like a queen upon a throne made of his submission, arms crossed beneath her chest like a woman who no longer needed to fight for authority—she simply embodied it.

And still, he refused to go quietly. His arms twitched, scrambling across her hips, pushing weakly against her thighs. Not to break the hold—he knew that was impossible—but simply to move. To show he was still resisting. Still aware. Still defiant. His legs shifted beneath him, trying to find some kind of leverage, anything at all to hold onto. But the mat might as well have been ice. The friction wasn’t enough. The strength wasn’t there.

His vision began to melt at the edges again, blackness bleeding in from all sides. His heart thundered in his chest, but even that began to sound distant, echoing in a body that was no longer responding the way it should. And in the center of it all—her. Dalia. Unrelenting. Merciless. Divine.

There was no air. There was no way out.

His fingers, once curled with fury, began to uncoil. His limbs, once tense with resistance, softened. A warmth crept over his mind, slow and numbing, beckoning him toward the edge. There was no pain now—just silence. The slow fading of thought, the gentle collapse of will.

And then, at last, Tomás went still. The fight had left his body, his arms dropping limply to the mat. His eyes, wide with defiance moments ago, fluttered closed beneath the crushing dark. There would be no tap. No surrender. Only silence.

[DSX93]

A fighter to the bitter end. Dalia respected that. And were she in his place, she can't say that she wouldn't have done the same. Resisting just to show that he could and that he would, even if it took him nowhere. So devoted was he to his struggle that he wouldn't even let a single whimper escape. The ones who screamed -- she'd sometimes ride their faces as it vibrated through her, taking pleasure in their suffering in more ways than one. There was none of that to be enjoyed here.

She didn't let it show much on her face, but her eyes softened as she looked down at the defiance beneath her. And...a burning anger. She'd pushed a button.

Would Tomas even recognize that as he went out? And if so, would he remember it when he wakes up?

Dalia released her hold the moment that light was extinguished and moved to his side, taking care not to hover anything over his face, lest any oil drip down and seep into his nose. Then she turned and pointed at the ref. "You!" Her voice claimed full authority of the situation, her finger pointing down at her unconscious opponent as she issued her commands. "Check his breathing!" She was confident that this wasn't anything major, having worked with her share of clients who requested that she knock them out. Be it through chokeholds, face sitting, or smothering. But still, it pays to be cautious. "Don't get any oil on your hands! None!" Referees weren't medical personnel. It felt prudent to stress that point.

The woman nodded and did what she was told, confirming that he was breathing normally. "Good. Now help me turn him onto his side." Into the

[GoingBananas]

There was no light. No noise. No sensation. Only the deep, formless silence that swallowed him whole. It wasn’t death, but it wasn’t sleep either. It was familiar. A cold, heavy void dragging down by weight and pressure. Somewhere, deep in the back of his subconscious, a dull ache persisted. Not pain exactly. More like the memory of pain—like the echo of something that had pressed too hard, too long, and left its shape behind. The last thing he remembered clearly was the sound. Not a sound from outside—but the sound of blood rushing through his ears, the growing pressure of his own pulse turning inward, then disappearing altogether as darkness finally won.

A brief flicker sparked in the far reaches of his senses. He wasn’t sure if it was a thought, or a dream, or the moment just before waking. But somewhere beyond that shroud, he felt it: softness near his cheek, pressure lifting from his head, air passing freely through his nose for the first time in—how long? Seconds? Minutes? Time didn’t exist here. But awareness trickled in. The strength that had clamped down on him like a vise. His neck throbbed with the imprint of her thighs, dense and unrelenting. His jaw ached from the strain. She had been methodical—not just in how she applied the hold, but in how she ended it. Precisely when the light in his mind dimmed, when thought stopped becoming thought and fell into stillness, she had let go. There was care in that.

Even unconscious, some part of him knew she had been watching. His body felt strange. He was moving—or being moved. Not violently, but with control. Steadied hands rolled him, shifted his weight. The mat was firm beneath him, but he was no longer flat. His chest rose and fell again with more ease now, and as the fog started to thin, the first full breath hit like a wave.

It came with a cough, weak and muffled. A sputter that cracked the stillness. His brow twitched. Then a finger. Then his tongue pressed lightly against the roof of his mouth, dry and metallic. Sound returned next. Distant voices, indistinct at first. Instructions. Commands, maybe. Then movement. Someone nearby, someone not panicked—but intent. Focused. Tomás blinked once, slow and half-lidded, lashes brushing against skin slick with sweat. His eyes didn’t open fully. Not yet. His muscles didn’t cooperate. But there was something there now. A murmur of life flickering beneath the surface. Awareness crawled back into his limbs. He was awake. Barely. Quietly. But awake.

[DSX93]

And waiting for him, deliberately placed to be the first thing his eyes saw when they opened, was her bare foot. Toes planted on the oily mat, heel lifted from the mat. Apple-flavored oil dripping from the powerful leg that had been set forward at an angle and bent at the knee. That sight, she believed, would be all he needed to remember where he was and what he was in the middle of. And most importantly, what was expected of him now.

Dalia

(Imagine a stance like this)

with a conqueror's poise, with a hand on her hip, and hazel eyes bearing down at him. Still assessing his condition, but the Mistress was very much present.

"Still with us?"

[GoingBananas]

The world returned to Tomás not all at once, but in fragments—first the cold slickness of the mat against his skin, then the muffled thrum of the crowd somewhere beyond the fog in his mind. But the first thing that crystallized fully into focus, vivid and unmissable, was the sight directly before him: Dalia’s bare foot, glistening with oil, toes pressed firmly into the canvas while her heel hovered elegantly above it. The subtle sheen of apple-scented oil clung to her powerful leg, tracing the line of muscle from ankle to thigh, the posture deliberate, dominant. His heart gave a slow, heavy thud as recognition clicked into place, a visceral reminder of where he was—and of what had been done to him.

Slowly, blinking against the heavy haze of unconsciousness, he'd acknowledge Dalia looming above him, hand perched on her hip with effortless command, her hazel eyes cutting down at him with a mixture of scrutiny and expectation. She didn’t need to say anything to make her will known; it was woven into every fiber of her bearing. Still, her voice followed, low and poised: a simple question, but one that left no doubt about the imbalance between them. Tomás swallowed thickly, feeling the throb in his skull, the imprint of her thighs still haunting his neck and jaw.

He wanted to move, to rise, to reclaim some semblance of pride—but for a breathless moment, he remained there, locked in the tableau she had crafted. There was no shame in the struggle that had led him here—no regret in how hard he had fought. But as he inhaled the sweet, oil-tinged air, Tomás understood the truth she had already written into the mat: resistance had been inevitable; defeat, inevitable too. Yet even now, in the aftermath, the fire within him refused to extinguish. His hand pressed into the canvas, slow and stubborn, before his head lowered down, looking to give the first thing he woke up to a kiss.

[DSX93]

Dalia had waited patiently. Although she appeared prepared, and even anticipatory of continuing on, she was ready to call this thing if she needed to. Even in the ring, she took her responsibilities as a Mistress seriously. Outside of it, knockout play was something she did sparingly. She charged more for it, spaced it out, and if a client were to force the issue, she'd give them a harsh indulgence and send them out the door when they came to. She wasn't in the business of causing brain damage to her subjects.

The inside was a different story. She'll do what she has to, but on the other hand, scenarios like these made a match feel much more like a session. Only more chaotic, with fewer limits to observe.

As for her question? Tomas's reaction to what was waiting in front of him was confirmation enough. Watching it sink in, finally -- that discarding of pride in favor of one of the pregnant moments of acceptance was one of the sweetest parts of domination.

Recognize the situation you're in. What you're facing. What you stand to gain if you were to cast your ego aside and stop rocking the boat. Stop fighting, and indulge.

It wasn't exactly what Tomas did. There something behind those eyes that told her that she would have to break him again. But for now, he was capable of recognizing when he's been defeated, and following through with what he must. One corner of her lips turned upwards into a smirk. Pleased. But also challenging. This would not be enough.

She pulled her glistening foot back. One step. Two. Three. Four. Back into an empty corner, her hazel gaze never leaving his. Once her body had filled it, her back leaning comfortably against the turnbuckle, she held one foot in front of her, giving her toes a beckoning wiggle. The physical would only do so much to please the Mistress of the Oil. It would not be completely satisfactory without the mental. Without his obedience.

[GoingBananas]

His breath came in shallow waves, each one more deliberate than the last. Consciousness had fully returned, but something else lingered in the oil-slicked air — a heaviness, subtle and undeniable, wrapping itself around Tomás like a second skin. That familiar edge of pride had dulled, not extinguished, but tempered by something keener now. Not just the sting of defeat — though it echoed in the throb behind his temple and the residual pressure in his throat — but a growing understanding of where he was and what it demanded of him.

And who it demanded it for.

The first thing that had greeted his eyes was her foot. That calculated display: poised, oiled, deliberate. A message written in flesh and glinting droplets of apple-slick shine. He hadn’t needed words. Dalia’s entire stance had spoken in a language older than speech — a dialect of control, and expectation, and restraint only offered so long as obedience was earned. Tomás didn’t shy away from it. He saw her. Her stance, her patience, her pleasure in witnessing the moment where his fire banked down — not extinguished, but tempered. And the smallest nod passed between them. Not a bow. Not yet. But something less jagged than defiance.

She stepped back, fluid, regal. And he knew what she was doing. Not just waiting — inviting. A challenge cloaked in soft suggestion. Her foot lifted, beckoning, and her place in the corner was not just a location, but a throne carved in stillness, daring him to approach.

To his credit, Tomás tried. The first step was a disaster — oil squelched beneath his foot, and his center of gravity betrayed him, slipping sideways into a graceless catch with his hand against the mat. The slap echoed. His fingers slid briefly, and the sting of frustration flashed across his features. Not rage — not anymore — but the bitter self-awareness of a man who hated the look of weakness more than the sensation of it. Tomás didn’t glance toward her. He didn’t need to. He could feel her eyes, sharp and patient, watching like a lioness who enjoyed the stumbles as much as the strides.

Gritting his teeth, Tomás rose to one knee, then braced his palms flat against the mat. His movements became slower, more considered. Rather than fight the surface, he'd try adapting to it — like a swimmer accepting the current. He crawled forward, the slippery drag of oil forcing him into humility whether or not he wanted it. No fire would blaze here, not without fuel. But he could still move. Still make his way to her. And he would.

Step by slow, dragged step, he advanced — not because he’d submitted, not fully. But because he understood what was required of him in this moment. What the rules were here. He wasn’t beaten because he was on his hands and knees. Not yet. He was beaten when he stopped trying to rise.

And as he drew closer to the corner, each breath filling his chest heavier than the last, he made no attempt to speak. She would see his answer in the effort alone.