Tiaras and Tricorns: Angelina Tarrant vs Madeleine Citronelle (Apex Qualifier)

[Malkavia]

Breath slid out or Madeleine as Angelina slid into her mouth. It would have been so easy to bite, but instead her muscle went slack. She was reminded of her bedroom, in the hazy, eye-drooped hours just between waking and dreaming, when she would fantasize about her matches and touch herself. The smell on her fingers, under the sheets, was what she tasted now, which acted like a Pavlovian bell and made her drool. Her eyelids drooped, and before she knew what she was doing, she suckled at the finger.

Shame hit like an icy water balloon. At first it hit like a sudden shock that made her flinch while her jaw went slack. As Angelina pulled her finger free, a strand of saliva connected lips to finger tips, and the feeling sank down her face, somehow hot and prickly and wet and cold all at once.

As for the spanking, it was Madeleine’s first. She had always assumed spanking was a flirtatious gesture, something that stung and humiliated but without much physical bite. She was wrong. The impact struck across her buttocks, projecting deep into her bones hips. There was the sting she expected but also a bone-deep ache that made her kick and cry out. CRACK. Worse, the shockwave passed between her legs, and the pain took on a hungry edge she struggled too keep out of the o her mouth had become.

Was the knee on her head pain or pleasure? She hissed in breath. Clenched. Forced focus. She kept talking, if in a forced whisper. ”You think you're junk?”

CRACK. Oh—fuck… Her knees buckled together on the mat, comical, like a cartoon man protecting his groin. When a muscle in her thigh spasmed, contracting in a sudden way that made her knee buck wildly, her lips were parted in an expression of clear, naked pleasure.

[Monsy]

Girl didn’t seem like one who bites. At least, that’s what she banked on. There was always a recess in there, thinking, how an ass-stick of a blonde could devolve into animal tactics. Get off her shores and fly a black flag. But with everything coming before, she only wondered, longed for, then watched Madeleine’s face as it licked, flicked. Her thieving heart went thumpity-thump spotting their details, feeling them and hearing the smallest sounds of their treasured mouth.

Then came punishment fun. Swing of the arm, flick of the wrist and slap of the palm. Walloped on the cheek. It hissed like ice cubes onto molten metal. They cried like it hurt too, and Angelina lapped that shit up, sparkling in her cat-hue. Just again, one more time, she learned something new. It seemed like she found a limit of sorts or perhaps a different chapter in their body. All tensed up, ready to hide. Or maybe Madeleine was holding herself together, presenting herself to the audience. She watched it with curiosity, licking her teeth, unable to see Madeleine’s face until she leaned. “You’re the appraisah, baby.”

Angelina paused to undo two belts around one stocking, then used them to whip Madeleine on her tailbone. She shoved with her hand to flatten them, then straddled Madeleine’s back, deadweight. Whatever that meant for her size. The ends went over her palms. She snaked one belt under Madeleine’s neck, where the collarbone met the windpipe and that little soft spot on the throat with no protection. It was fixed on Madeleine’s nape, looped by the second belt and tightened both simultaneously. Collar and leash. “Now bark.”

Angelina yanked the leash back with one hand, then reached over, using her index and middle to wrench back the tip of Madeleine’s nose into pig nostrils. Back. And back. Until the bridge went red.

[Malkavia]

Madeleine's right knee began to ache. She realized, as her hair fell around her face in strands, that she had been favoring her right side, leaning into it. For grappling, this was poor posture, decentering her weight in a way that made her unstable and more easily manipulated. The reason for the lean, however, was obvious: Angelina was sitting at her left, and Madeleine's instinct was to put space between her and her opponent. In a flash, she could see herself and her sticky panties, her buckled knees and trembling lips, tears in her eyes as she pulled away from her bully like a dog straining at its leash. All while Angelina pumped her like she took it unleaded. The Countess bit down, hard, on her tongue.

"Make her squirt!"

She picked the phrase out from a bramblebush of cheers and boos, catcalls and stomps. Her fingertips pushed into the mat, curling up at the knuckles. She erased the rightward lean, centered herself, still beneath in a tactically disadvantageous position, but. Her brain was working. No matter what Angelina did with her fingers, this was just turtle position in wrestling. Her points of transition were her hips, hands, and feet, and the most likely gambit was to aim for arm control by—

"Make. HER. SQUIRT!"

A space of perhaps a centimeter opened between Madeleine's lips. Her face prickled. The chant was building steam, it seemed. Developing a rhythm. Cold rage set behind Madeleine's eyes, and images passed through her imagination—like a flash from a camera, she could see the scene in detail where she grabbed a so-called "pirate" from the crowd and slammed their face into the cement, then stepped on their head and stomped. The blood, in particular, gleamed ruby in her mind's camera.

CRACK!

”AANH—” Madeleine had missed Angelina's windup, hadn't seen the belt coming until it slapped her tailbone. Her buttocks felt like it was simmering, and her insides clenched as another, more intense wave passed through her. Moisture, mostly sweat, slithered down a thigh already clammy from perspiration. Then, Angelina slipped the leather around her throat.

”nnng...Nnnnfff...” Her teeth were clenched, but the sound — somewhere between a moan and a whine — passed through her nose. Her eyes squeezed shut as she tried to ignore the heat and pressure building between her legs.

Squirt squirt squirt.

No.

Angelina took her snout and used her face to point a line at the camera, and there was no wrist control, no shift of the hips to roll into a superior position. Her eyes lidded open. She could at least manage that, to look her humiliation in the eye.

“Now bark.”

There was a twitch—an involuntary urge to obey. Her throat seized. It was the collar, the feeling of leather clasped around her neck. The moment it had touched her skin, every sensation became more sensitive, and she somehow felt more aware of every eye. It itched where it tugged on skin, but she couldn't scratch, and the tension that created made her pant.

Madeleine breathed. She stared deep into the camera's black pupil and went tense.

"Make! Her! Squirt!"
"Don't do it!"
"MAKE! HER! SQUIRT!"
"Stay strong Madeleine!"

Stomping on the fan's head wouldn't kill him, of course — she could never be a murderer. But it would break his teeth. She would savor the jagged edges of snapped teeth and the dark holes in his smile, lifelong scars to scare off his soon to be ex-girlfriend.

She raised her chin and shook her head in an attempt at shaking off the pig-grip on her snout. ”...Kiss my boot.”

[Monsy]

What kind of sick fuckeroo dunkeroo crowd would cheer against Madeleine Citronelle? Why, this one, of course. It looked great, felt great, smelled better and tasted like gold. Make. HER. SQUIRT. Fuck man. What a nagging obligation. The chanting was an anthem. Now, for a crowdlubbar like ol' Madsy, what did she think of that? Whole universe turned on her -- AND she gave them a stuffy. Was she wrong to find it hilarious?

MAKE. HER. SQUIRT!

But it’s that exact fuckin’ thing that got these eyes to sparkle. It’s what they get for sweet talk, kissing up her sweet spots and having her cast in the role of a puddle. In her own Apex Qualifier no less. Two and fuckin’ O so far. Yeah. Yeah--NAH. She ain’t lettin’ off now. In fact, after that reply, Angelina only had one conclusion: Not far enough.

The pig nose was made by two small fingerpads. That shake and lift took out her wedge and her fingertips slippin' until they were grabbin’ cheek. She used that to slide it off, wrap that hand in the belt, then finger-hook the collar at Madeleine’s nape until the first knuckles dug into the skin.

“Wrong answah, Madsy.”

Make. Her. SQUIRT!

Angelina saluted the crowd with two gloved fingers.

AYE-fuckin’-AYE.

Then she reached back, fingers splaying face down on Madeleine’s back, reaching around the hems of her skirt and pulling it up, then resting across the waistline, flat, pressing down and aligning with the spine and tailbone. They coursed down, gently, like touching fragile silk, eventually reaching Madeleine’s anus. “You don’t control shit here.”

“When I say bark like a whore.” Her thumb treated the outer rim. Clockwise, two rotations, then counter. Three rotations. Her middle spread across her perineum and sketched over the bottom of the majora. Best of two worlds. To test, suggest and make her wonder. Would this be her first time?

“You squeal..”

Because Angelina’s thumb now plunged into Madeleine’s back door, up to the last knuckle, then fish-hooked towards the belly. Hopefully, she was ready for that.

[Malkavia]

Kiss my boot.

A deep frown curled on Madeleine's face. Her eyes focused, picking out a point just beyond the ropes. A woman wearing a baseball cap handled a camera slightly larger than her head, a black plastic box with the logo SONY gleaming silver on its side near the lens. Breathe in, two three... Madeleine held her glare on the lens. She did not blink. Her face was red and heat radiated from her skin, which had become soft from her sweat, but her blood ran cold. Madsy. When the Countess heard the moniker, her lips parted in a snarl, and her head dipped as she tugged against the collar, throwing her face into shade.

The space between her legs glistened. Soaked. As Angelina's hand crept towards the heat and need Madeleine felt in her groin, her fists clutched tight. White-knuckled. Angelina's weight on her back gave her strength. She felt it like a coal in her gut, sickening, greasy, but hot enough to burn a hole through her, and she grabbed onto it and squeezed. She felt like she was cresting a hill, and when this scarred, lost little animal got to her groin, Madeleine was going to buck.

Then, she froze. Her anus puckered at the touch. "Hah!--” Her eyes fluttered, and the viewers on the other end of that camera would see a flash of panic across her face. Her breathing accelerated, as Angelina's thumb caressed her, twice right, three times left, and a violent tremor went through her thighs. "G-God...”

Plip.

"Ng ng nng...!” Her breath squeaked as Angelina forced herself inside the Countess. "Fuck...” Madeleine's voice was tiny. She bit her upper lip and her eyes rolled upward and she leaned, hard against the collar as her mouth dropped open. Her tummy convulsed, squeezing tight, then went loose, trembled, and caught, and her breath mewled and gasped in the irregularities that clenching forced through her diaphragm. This was nothing like her bedroom masturbation, where she could control the pace and land her orgasm like an airplane. She was surprised at the nub of painful pressure at her sphincter, fascinated and horrified at the sensation of being stuffed. Her hands pressed flat against the mat. "FUCK--F-FUCK...” Her mouth trembled, gaping open on the mat. She could feel the cameras peel her skin.

"Nnng--nng...Gyk...” Horror of horrors. The Countess felt it building. Growing hot. Growing hard. Growing fast, deep inside her trembling pussy. This had to stop.

"B-b...” It hurt coming up. Her toes curled until they cracked. "Byark...baaaaark...”

[Monsy]

Snarls were hot. Another league than a whine. From the space of being on the bottom, looked down on, the sense of anger burned into loathing grips on her neck. A snarl was a dial to rile her up to the moon. But being on top, hearing it, controlling it, feeling the wet, the squirm, struggle and catching the glimpses of their face, seeing them contort, clench, resist -- and then, break.

Oop. Magic spot.
The crowd roused a small celebration when they heard that crack. Seeing that composure slip, watching her face change. The Sony girl got it all. And those watching from the back got to witness the slightly-spread legs, entered and manipulated on the pirate’s thumb. In all other directions, they got the silhouette. The profile of the pirate riding Madeleine’s back like a horse, treating her like a dog and fingering her ass like a slut. Tight.

Her tongue stuck out for the Sony girl, head tilted and dolled up. Her face, hair and collar were sweaty -- but it beat the one gasping. And it would be worth a million to the pirate in about ten years. Then, she heard it… Slow, then long. The market cap of today multiplied by ten.

Holy-Fuckin-Ice-Cream.

--Is what she wanted to say.
But she ended up squeaking from delight. She couldn’t stow her grin, or say anything witty. Her cheeks ended up hurting. She stiffened up, looked proper, puffing her chest out and began huffing quickly out her nose, then loosened her grip on the collar until it slipped.

“Thaaaaat’s it. Good-fuckin’-dog, Madsy.”

Angelina slowed her fingering hand to a calm pattern and ruffled Madeleine’s blonde hair. She demounted, placed her knee across their shoulder blades, then reached across the back, touching every swath of their compact muscle, wrapping around Madeleine’s small waist, then underneath, slipping between canvas and belly and spreading her dainty hand over their naval. “Up, Up-Up-Up.”

A little tummy lift and a guide tried to make Madeleine lift her hips off the canvas, with a small help from her anal penetration, fish hooking and tugging up. The crowd would be treated to her butt wagging in the air, legs spread, where the sight of soaked sex shined for their loser eyes. The pirate laid her head down on Madeleine’s hip, cheek onto lower cheek, then had her hand slip down from the tummy to their sex. Fingerpads of her middle and ring spread the majora, then betwixt, onto the clitoral hood where she rubbed it around in a circle, steadily getting faster.

“Don’t stop barkin’ -- or I’ll edge you until ya cry.” Her thumb in their butt exchanged for two fingers, index and middle -- inserted to the halfway knuckle, then retreated, plunged again. Pump, Pump.

In, out. Around, and around.

[Malkavia]

When Angelina raised Madeleine's hips, it made blood pour into her head. Her heart pumped in her neck hard enough to ache. The carotid was a red line, pulsing in tempo with the blur in her vision and a spike of pain in her chest. Her moans, too, heaved with the rhythm Angelina forced on her. In, out, and the force squished her cheek into the filthy mat.

Bark! bark! bark—! The breathy yelps followed right on time with the drumbeat. Quick, sharp staccatos that shook her body and competed with her breathing. She felt each spasm like a knife at first, but it quickly became foggy. Her mind drifted. It started to seem like someone else barking, someone over there in the mist. Angelina's body draped over her side was a light shimmer of sweat that made her skin crawl because it felt so lovely.

Pretty soon the boundaries on things got loopy. She could taste her sex as much as she could smell it. She clenched her eyes shut and heaved in the dark, trembled so hard it became unclear where her face ended and the mat began. It became hard to keep the rhythm.

"B-b...nnngyrrrBARK. BARK. BAAAAAAarrnngk..." Was it a sob or a bark? It was off-tempo, was what it was, because everything, the whole golden world, was going to pieces. Her jaw was twitching, her hands clenching, her breath hitching. She couldn't keep up with the way her ass and pussy were being fucked. She heaved her hips to meet them, but she hit at the wrong time, like a spoiled kid grasping for candy before the fee was paid. By now her bark-bark-bark had completely dissolved and she was just heaving wet noise and hot tears into the loopy pressure of the mat.

"HAAAH...HAAAAAAAAH..."

The noise was full and throaty, until something clicked in her throat and the noise abruptly stopped. Her body shook. The inside walls of her pussy clenched violently around the invading fingers. She was too impotent to squirt, but a burst of fluid swam down her thigh and pooled at her knees, as something golden in her brain went zzzt, turned black, and crumbled. She went tight and hard and clenched as marble. Her eyes fluttered open, then went dull as she slumped. Limp.

[Monsy]

Madeleine struck a wonderful riff. Doggish, pathetic, but compelling at the same time. Hip movement, barking, dissolving, panting. Collapsing. A real Hollywood performance, with a trajectory of a skipping rock. Angelina held the pose as Madeleine struck her broken notes, bucked, skipped and sunk. Her fingers froze inside their cunt and she had this giddy, accomplished and proud smile, watching their orgasm flow from thigh to knee. And so they melted.

An entire treasure chest was busted open. The first thing she did was pull out, slow, coursing a hand down their wet inner thigh to the knee. A touch on their back. Lower spine, caressed, with fingertips spreading like a blooming flower in a spiral of her fingers flexing and wrist turning towards their head. It pressed flat, went up onto the hair, wiggled underneath and continued between the shoulderblades, nape, pressing down along the way. They would lay flat. Angelina took her time then, looking up, pondering, appearing bored. She sucked her fingers down to the last knuckle, spreading, getting the crease in-between, then pulling them out with a pop.

“Aah.” The Marauder sounded, sultry and with a splash of giddiness to spike the pitch.

She leaned, getting a peek at their face with small help from her knuckles, nudging underneath their jawline to make their head tilt. “Hmmm…” Angelina pondered some more, this time, genuinely. They looked ready for a massage of some kind. Ease out all that tension and jitters, make them forget that EVERYONE saw them bust, and their O-face was now written into their permanent memory. Hell, LAW Twitter will get a kick out of it too, in a tweet like Welcome to sexfighting, Madeleine Citronelle #FirstOrgasm #Hot

Yeah. A massage seemed about right…. PFFF--

“Oy, dog!” Angelina revved up a hand and spanked them on their tush.
“Wake-UP!” She used their back as a guardrail to stand up. Then, again, she yelled. “I said wake up Mad Madsy!”

Her boot-wearing toes smashed into their side. Not just once, but three times. They were lazily drawn back soccer kicks, aimed at shuffling them over, annoying them, hurting them. She targeted the pelvic bone once. The other two were clear shots at the ribs. Once she did, her boot stepped directly on their tits, the toes pointed diagonal towards a shoulder. Her weight applied quickly, not like it was that much. She just needed their shoulders flat for the pinfall. "You're mine, now."

The referee dropped down to check — whilst Angelina made an L on her forehead, leaning over and looking down, watching their face.

[Malkavia]

Madeleine only ever masturbated when she was chin-deep in her crimson satin sheets, the favorite stuffed animal of the day tucked under one arm, ready to crest the hill, with her fingers between her legs, and slip off into dreamland. That's not to say she had never brought herself to climax at other times ― perhaps on a lazy Saturday afternoon during the part of her cycle where she was most restless ― but the result was always...depression. A kind of sluggishness she could never shake until she'd slept.

She had squeezed, pierced in painful ecstasy. Then it all sank like water down a tub whose drain had been pulled. Her body sagged. Her heart felt sluggish, and her skin had taken on weight. She was conscious of drooling, was angry that her face was sticky with drool, but felt too gray and empty to get up and wipe.

Then ― Oy, dog! Mad Madsy. A wet crack on her ass. Which was hanging in the air. If there was one thing to be said for finally bursting, it was that every ounce of desire had spilled out between her legs. The bitch's touch was like sandpaper.

Her boot heel slammed into her hips, then into her gut. Her eyes shot open. Her lips pressed together, and she hissed. She squirmed away from the source of the trauma, and Angelina had no issues getting Madeleine Citronelle to show her belly. Breathing fast, her mind clamped down on the pain ― much the way Angelina's boot pressed down on her tit.

(Had she really thought she was totally beyond arousal? Tsk. Sure, that little smack had been sandpaper, but the boot? Being placed underfoot? How does that feel in the nether regions, ssssssweet?)

ONE!

Madeleine's mind slithered around in her gut, and her eyes slithered open. She could see Angelina seeing her, and she knew every ache she let soften her eye, every cut she let curl her lip was another bit of fuel for this disgusting woman's glee.

TWO!

Sandpaper. Her touch is sandpaper. Madeleine's lips smoothed, and her brow unfurrowed, and she breathed. A cold sheen ran over her face. The task, strategically, in this instance was very simple: Lift the fucking shoulder. So she did, as calmly as pushing a button on a machine. She turned, and the ref's hand stopped halfway, and Madeleine's eyes settled, fixed, on Angelina's. Loopy at first, washing around in her head like they were floating in something. But ― with growing steadiness.

[Monsy]

Imagine.
After all that, from her own orgasm to this, there was simply a bell. The crowd could go silent. The Marauder would parade, kick, stomp and tease. Maybe the little dance and jump-spin when she had her greatest win. It felt so long ago, and she was due for another. Madeleine would fit that so well. Rich girl. The mountains and mountains of loot she saw, just sparkling at the hill crest, behind locked doors she’ll make them open, with its owner at the slope’s shoulder, tied, treated well, then stepped on.

Two.
Angelina’s foot slipped off. Now she stood over them, one leg stamped on each side of Madeleine. The notion of hitting them more seemed more like a chore. What kinda fight was THAT, Madsy? Where’s the scratching? Cursing? Just one mumble of sweet. Kiss the boot. Teeth. Even a leftover groan. Still, nothin’.

So she looked out, seeking something to tide this over into a fun finale. A survey of the front row.

Eureka. She snapped with her thumb and middle finger and pointed to that particular fan. Red skirt and blazer, white blouse and stylish flats. The very same. In their hands was a prize that she licked her teeth for. A brown furry little caped fella, with a white belly, golden cape and gregarious smile, likely with the owner’s name still on the tag. So she hoped. And that hope pulled her eyes on that woman as she bent over and tangled her fist with Madeleine’s lemon-blonde hair, then tugged along.

When she reached the ropes, Angelina let go, weaving between the middle and top rope with a jump and landing both feet at ringside. Her eye contact resumed on the fan and she placed her back over the apron’s padded ridge. She still looked at them. Then she reached back, grabbed Madeleine’s hair again, walked towards the fan and yanked Madeleine to the outside.

The referee started their ten count. “ONE!”