An Undeniable Demand - (Killer King-K.R.R)
Posted: Sat Dec 26, 2020 8:29 am
Even as a child, she hated to lose. From sports to test marks, and especially fights when she got older. Furthermore, she reserved special animosity for larger opponents. Those who were basking in muscle, tall and potent in stature, looking down at her as she was weak. How else could it be interpreted? It was an unforgivable gesture, one she set out to rectify in each bout she could. Following her match with Killer King, that prejudice bore an anger-filled slugfest. A beast whom, if they collided, her head would smack into his chest. His limbs could swallow hers, appear like twigs as he was more than double her weight. In every essence, he was the opponent she strived to beat.
Yet that didn’t happen. Even when she mustered the aid of a chair, knocked the beast back with her fists, and tried to keep him down, she was the recipient of much worse. A torture rack, crotch blows, dry humping. Even when planted by the first piledriver, she persisted. But what she loathed most was the muscle buster - the move that ultimately put her away, betrayed by her own body that was the epitome of her petty resistance. Everything was a haze afterward, a blur that tripled itself after the parting piledriver, the second one where her compact frame slammed onto a chair, spiking her head with all her weight folded up in a neat pile of splayed out lifeless limbs. Sweaty, barely conscious, twitching, yet still sentient enough to feel the weight of Killer’s boot press against her breasts. She choked, whimpering in every breath as a dry wheeze croaked. All the while, she scratched at the mat, desperately vying to hide the crippling shame that burned brighter than her hair.
Defeat. Defeat. Defeat... She couldn’t stand what he said. And ever since she limped her way backstage, recovering an ounce of dignity by walking tall, she raged. Her agent, who mostly consulted with Karla on possible match-ups, became the bearer of it all. Shouting, frequent, incessant, shouting. But it was a little while before she came back to the ring; recovery was mandatory, as a rumour floated about Karla suffering a concussion. And even on this day, the soreness persisted.
“Let the tabloids run their headlines; I’m going where it really matters! Out there!” She shouted to her agent, as they were locked in an argument for some time now.
“But you’re still recovering! Your body can’t take all this punishment; you need to slow down.”
“I won’t let this matter go unresolved any longer. Not one day more!”
Vehement words growled as Karla left her locker room with the door slamming shut. Before long, she had found herself on LAW’s rampway to the crowd’s displeasure, except for the onlookers who were dazzled by her appearance. She donned a white coat, lavished in ivory-white fur that fluttered with every motion of her hips. Its sleeves were long and draped over her hands, and the tail draped to the back of her knees, then opened up at the front to reveal her in-ring attire, a black bodysuit that hugged every inch of her skin. And to finish the look, she wore red shades, garnished her lips in dark-red lipstick and styled her scarlet hair up in a ponytail to wrangle that rich volume. Behind her was an assistant who scurried out after she was about halfway down the ramp. He was finely dressed in a sharp tuxedo; black hair slicked back with pomade and large stature.
They met at ringside, where he marched up the steps and offered his hand to assist her up the steps. Coming to the ring apron, she clapped her hands twice, gesturing to her dear servant to sit on the middle rope, allowing Karla to slip in between. Then the servant took off towards the staff, speed walking to grab her a mic before joining Karla in the ring, who waited impatiently with a universally stern glare. Met with this disapproval, the man kneeled, dipped his head and held up the mic which she took. Her music finally dying away, left with only the crowd’s echo to sully her ears, garnering an eye roll as she brandished a sneer. “Look at what being a Reinhardt gets you.”
Speaking to the audience while gesturing to her kneeling assistant. She walked towards him, outstretching her hand before his face, which he took and slowly kissed the back of her gloved hand. “See? This is what respect looks like. Kissing the lady’s hands, kneeling before those who are better than you, begging to lick their boots.”
The assistant peered up, and after a brief pause, he started to lower his head towards her feet. But before that, she turned around on heel, snappily striding towards the ropes that faced the rampway.
“And it’s that respect that’s been missing. From the crowd and especially the roster of LAW. But nothing surpasses the taboo act that one hundchen who..” She paused, raising a finger, “Sheepishly got in the ring with me, and had the guile, no, the audacity to steal my victory!” Her voice snapped into a shout, “Mine!”
Her volume reached its zenith, followed by deep breaths as her shoulders rose and dipped, before turning around with a glower, dismissing the assistant with a snappy hand swipe. He clambered out of the ring in a hurry, scurrying up the ramp. And after she had calmed down, she raised the mic to her lips once more.
“But... we Reinhardts are forgiving, even to those who gravely wronged us. That is why I wanted to extend the olive branch to none other than Killer King. The man who thinks he can get away with stealing my victory, like some talentless animal leaking steroid-juice as sweat! I’m offering him the chance to rectify his mistake tonight! That is why I’m demanding a rematch, and I won’t leave until I get it!”
Then with one final strut towards the ring’s centre, she faced the rampway one more time, now gripping the mic with both hands, constricting it until white glared through her knuckles.
“Get out here, Killer King. Right now!”
Yet that didn’t happen. Even when she mustered the aid of a chair, knocked the beast back with her fists, and tried to keep him down, she was the recipient of much worse. A torture rack, crotch blows, dry humping. Even when planted by the first piledriver, she persisted. But what she loathed most was the muscle buster - the move that ultimately put her away, betrayed by her own body that was the epitome of her petty resistance. Everything was a haze afterward, a blur that tripled itself after the parting piledriver, the second one where her compact frame slammed onto a chair, spiking her head with all her weight folded up in a neat pile of splayed out lifeless limbs. Sweaty, barely conscious, twitching, yet still sentient enough to feel the weight of Killer’s boot press against her breasts. She choked, whimpering in every breath as a dry wheeze croaked. All the while, she scratched at the mat, desperately vying to hide the crippling shame that burned brighter than her hair.
Defeat. Defeat. Defeat... She couldn’t stand what he said. And ever since she limped her way backstage, recovering an ounce of dignity by walking tall, she raged. Her agent, who mostly consulted with Karla on possible match-ups, became the bearer of it all. Shouting, frequent, incessant, shouting. But it was a little while before she came back to the ring; recovery was mandatory, as a rumour floated about Karla suffering a concussion. And even on this day, the soreness persisted.
“Let the tabloids run their headlines; I’m going where it really matters! Out there!” She shouted to her agent, as they were locked in an argument for some time now.
“But you’re still recovering! Your body can’t take all this punishment; you need to slow down.”
“I won’t let this matter go unresolved any longer. Not one day more!”
Vehement words growled as Karla left her locker room with the door slamming shut. Before long, she had found herself on LAW’s rampway to the crowd’s displeasure, except for the onlookers who were dazzled by her appearance. She donned a white coat, lavished in ivory-white fur that fluttered with every motion of her hips. Its sleeves were long and draped over her hands, and the tail draped to the back of her knees, then opened up at the front to reveal her in-ring attire, a black bodysuit that hugged every inch of her skin. And to finish the look, she wore red shades, garnished her lips in dark-red lipstick and styled her scarlet hair up in a ponytail to wrangle that rich volume. Behind her was an assistant who scurried out after she was about halfway down the ramp. He was finely dressed in a sharp tuxedo; black hair slicked back with pomade and large stature.
They met at ringside, where he marched up the steps and offered his hand to assist her up the steps. Coming to the ring apron, she clapped her hands twice, gesturing to her dear servant to sit on the middle rope, allowing Karla to slip in between. Then the servant took off towards the staff, speed walking to grab her a mic before joining Karla in the ring, who waited impatiently with a universally stern glare. Met with this disapproval, the man kneeled, dipped his head and held up the mic which she took. Her music finally dying away, left with only the crowd’s echo to sully her ears, garnering an eye roll as she brandished a sneer. “Look at what being a Reinhardt gets you.”
Speaking to the audience while gesturing to her kneeling assistant. She walked towards him, outstretching her hand before his face, which he took and slowly kissed the back of her gloved hand. “See? This is what respect looks like. Kissing the lady’s hands, kneeling before those who are better than you, begging to lick their boots.”
The assistant peered up, and after a brief pause, he started to lower his head towards her feet. But before that, she turned around on heel, snappily striding towards the ropes that faced the rampway.
“And it’s that respect that’s been missing. From the crowd and especially the roster of LAW. But nothing surpasses the taboo act that one hundchen who..” She paused, raising a finger, “Sheepishly got in the ring with me, and had the guile, no, the audacity to steal my victory!” Her voice snapped into a shout, “Mine!”
Her volume reached its zenith, followed by deep breaths as her shoulders rose and dipped, before turning around with a glower, dismissing the assistant with a snappy hand swipe. He clambered out of the ring in a hurry, scurrying up the ramp. And after she had calmed down, she raised the mic to her lips once more.
“But... we Reinhardts are forgiving, even to those who gravely wronged us. That is why I wanted to extend the olive branch to none other than Killer King. The man who thinks he can get away with stealing my victory, like some talentless animal leaking steroid-juice as sweat! I’m offering him the chance to rectify his mistake tonight! That is why I’m demanding a rematch, and I won’t leave until I get it!”
Then with one final strut towards the ring’s centre, she faced the rampway one more time, now gripping the mic with both hands, constricting it until white glared through her knuckles.
“Get out here, Killer King. Right now!”