L.A.W. - League of Anime Wrestling

All of the sudden, Beatrice found herself wishing she’d opted for a skimpier outfit.

She should’ve looked harder on Amazon, but finding BDSM themed outfits that were suitable for the ring was a shockingly difficult endeavor. Most of the outfits were either too heavy, too cumbersome, too expensive, or some combination of all there, and she’d eventually have to settle on buying several, cheaper items and just putting them together in a vaguely coherent look.

It worked well enough in practice, but as she laid on top of Nefretiri, she couldn't help but think of the skin contact she was missing, what it would be like to have her bare stomach against the Egyptian’s. To feel their legs minging and thighs touching.

Just the thought was starting to drive her wild and tempt her to do things, foolish things that would likely ruin whatever this good thing they had going was. She couldn't risk that. She needed focus. Steely, iron focus.

Locking in as best as she could, she considered the next move as she reached down, grabbed Nef by the head, and picked her up - even though it was more like Nef was helping herself up and she was just trying to look like it was a strain. The next move was hers, but it couldn't just be any move. She needed a move that would keep her close, that her partner could easily catch, that wasn’t too flashy but wasn’t boring, like…like…

Ah, yeah, that would do.

As soon as they were standing, Beatrice wrapped her arm around Nefretiri in a hug, pulling them close, mashing them together. For a hot moment, they slid into each other like a well-worn glove, eye to eye, hips pressing, the bigger woman’s chest sliding against her neck. Time seemed to freeze, cliche as it was. It was the best way Beatrice could describe it.

Then she rapidly pushed Nefretiri away as she stepped back and kept a hold of the bigger woman’s wrist. Beatrice stretched, moving as far away as she could while they were linked, then abruptly yanked herself in as she swung her free arm around, attempting to nail Nefretiri with a Ripcord Lariat!

…or rather, making it look like she was attempting to it. It was a flashy move, but she was doing it slow enough, with enough wind up, with a loose enough grip that Nefretiri would have no trouble pulling her into her waiting arms.

Those big, strong waiting arms.

Nefretiri found it difficult to sell.

Just, in general.

It wasn't that she's a poor actress, or that she couldn't commit to a bit. Her gimmick is an unbelievably elaborate one, after all, and she works it, the crowd, and her opponent to the bone. But pretending to be hurt? Pretending to suffer? Pretending to be weakened? It chafed. It felt frictional. Rubbing against something innate inside of her like sandpaper, grating beneath the skin. She'd never really tried to do it before, even as a ploy or misdirection for an opponent - her conceit wouldn't allow it. And the prospect of trying now was a concerningly uncomfortable one, even though she genuinely did want Beatrix to have her moment.

That is why she wanted her to really hit her. She could take it. All she had to do was be less guarded when receiving the hit.

Now, however, that the pin has been broken, she's suddenly unsure how to act. Instincts are clawing in her mind, wanting to take over and exert that cold defiance. And the moment she stops thinking about it, that's what manifests.

Beatrix takes her by the head, and Nefretiri willingly follows along as tugged. This makes it significantly easier on them both, really! And suddenly, the two are upright, and surprising to the Egyptian, Beatrix opts to lock bodies with her. The two meld together front-to-front, and that's where the illusion has a chance to fail. Nefretiri's head is canted to look the four inches down at Beatrix, which somehow seemed so much more dramatic and emphasized when pressed into one another. Lips rest slightly parted to accommodate heavier breaths, pain still pulsing dully from her midsection. Her gaze is narrowed on the other girl's blues, piercing purples unflinchingly locked on.

The feel of her body against her lasts only a few seconds. It feels like it takes longer, her arms resting more loosely around Beatrix's figure and overlapping her arms. She had felt her body tight against hers similar to this twice before, each time a little more... informative... than the last. Now, she's feeling her on the blonde's terms, upright, standing of her own volition. Everything comes across as a little tighter somehow than when she'd laid upon her for the pin after the Obelisk.

Suddenly, it breaks. Nefretiri is shoved back, which effectively takes her by surprise. Low-key, she'd forgotten what the plan was for a moment there. But the push crashes her awareness to the forefront again, a couple steps taken on her heels with an annoyed grimace. Her arm is taken, Beatrix prepares the ripcord! Bodies whip in again to meet, and-- Nefretiri comes in a little lower, faster than would've been intended! Were there really intention behind it, at least! Stepping into the attack would visibly nullify the swing, her free arm lashing low around the waist, and the captured arm snapping away from her grasp to join it. Both forearms cross against the girl's lower back, and with a surge of motion, the Egyptian lifts to her full height again with Beatrix supported a couple inches off the mat in an embrace!

The goal is simple. Just raise Beatrix enough off her feet that the two are evenly matched against one another, with no need to tilt her head to look her in the eye. And the moment they're in position, it's instantly reminiscent of the first beat of their match, with one exception: Beatrix's arms aren't restrained. But this, too, is on purpose. She can flail, emote, and suffer well with those arms! And more importantly, those arms can rest on or around her as the hold continues. As an embrace. But that's just for Nefretiri's benefit. No need to share that.

The pressure of the hold is tight, a squeeze but not crushing. She's not trying to make it crushing just yet. The first step is to let the audience see them locked together again, hips against hips, thighs brushing thighs, toned stomach against toned stomach, breasts pressed tight to one another, and very nearly face-to-face. She wants the audience to soak in the cruel glare she's giving Beatrix, the look that communicates cleanly how annoyed she is that the girl would dare attempt to pin her down. That she would dare fight back against the natural order.

The girl's arms visibly flex, emphasized with a shifting of her weight and balance into a slightly wider stance. For Beatrix, the increase in pressure is minimal. But she's likely savvy enough to know that this is meant to be the start of a crushing squeeze, pulling her spine inwards and crushing her skinny stomach hard into Nefretiri's abdominals.

"Let it ride," she growls to her. "This is it. Just don't pass out."

The arms visibly ease a little on the pressure, emulating giving Beatrix a chance to catch a strained breath for a couple seconds. And then the pressure 'ramps up' again.

"I don't want that idiot ending the match early..."