L.A.W. - League of Anime Wrestling

Imai hissed out an unintelligible curse as she pounced past his guard. She avoided his legs entirely, and ended up straddling his stomach. Imai's bruised forearms snapped this way and that, with Naomi hammering until he stopped hiding his face.

Fuck. A D'arce. Naomi's chest united with his own, as her arms wrapped around his neck and one of his arms. The right, at a gnarly angle of application. He sat there on his butt, sweaty and miserable due to the wasp in his lap. She had skipped the process of crawling her legs to get on top entirely, and left him with only the "crunching" twist of the choke. This put heavy pressure on both his arteries and windpipe as his own arm was helping along the process. Imai pushed his single arm down to wrestle with her hips.

He was desperate to create some space by pushing up with his hand and thrusting his own waist into Naomi's. An ironic reversal of fortunes due to Imai being on the top the last time he had a notable fighter beneath him. This must have been how the black-haired man felt with Imai hugging his waist with his thighs. One could suppose this was karma. Or just bad positioning. He tried to crawl backwards using his feet, eager to use the cage wall as a support for his back by leaning against it. No way to wiggle out...and Naomi did not forgive easily for that earlier kick.

This was turning into a mixed reception. He was able to frustrate Naomi but she had been pushing his nethers over the edge for almost the whole match....

Naomi’s arms bulged as she applied pressure to Imai’s neck. Her body squishing his beneath. She growled into his ear, her hot breath blowing puffs against his skin through her seething and gritting teeth. She pushed down harder, wanting to squeeze his neck so he’d be like putty once more just like earlier in the match. Oh he was gonna pay, that’s for sure. She hadn’t noticed the smell of iron mixing in with the scent of salt that was no doubt forming between them.

“Ready to give up?!” Naomi growled deeply against Imai’s ear. Her annoyance showing in her features at Imai’s bucking his hips to shake her off. That only made her angrier and start to physically show it for all to see as she started raising and slamming her hips down on Imai’s. Crushing his erection between him and her and most likely his family jewels. But no one really commented about that as they watched Naomi’s behind bounce up and down and jiggle like gelatin in the air.

Naomi's long arms grinded him down well enough. That did not satisfy her. It was not enough. Her hips began to twist and buck downward, contesting with Imai trying to make space. With the choke locked in, Imai only watched sleepily as she rode him like a proper cowgirl. The force of the crotch hits made him hawk and hack up coughs. The aroma of salt, iron, and fragrances made him head spin, much like the chokehold.

Imai's worldview dimmed, as the crowd drowned out and his attention only concerned Naomi and himself. Imai stopped trying to push, and instead concentrated his efforts on punching her in the liver instead. Weighty, shallow hits that a deeper sense screamed at him to pay attention to. Her hold unraveled immediately, making him get into a reckless scramble onto his feet. However, something was...wrong.

In the flatscreens above, displaying the fight, he only saw himself held in the lower position.

That could not be.

He could not be DONE. The fantasy dissolved into particles as Imai only saw a warm darkness within his vision. Within the real world, beyond Imai's fantasy, Naomi would see that he had slackened due to having taken too long to evacuate from the submission.

His pretty boy disposition had turned into a partly amusing expression of being, for lack of a better term, "fucked out". The blonde's face was red, sweaty, and lightly drooling onto the mat. This odd outcome left Naomi to hopefully cool off, lest she damage Imai to the point where no apology or hug could soothe, while Imai was left to dream...of a high-octane revenge.