Thread: Blood, Sweat And Tears (Ragnarok and AlluringEnigma)

It was a scorching summer night, and much of the small city had long since gone to sleep most active were a handful of bars, a pair of strip clubs... and a warehouse, down by the waterfront, surrounded on all sides by deserted, dark structures. This particular warehouse, long since abandoned by any legitimate enterprise, had long since been occupied by a decidedly unofficial venture... albeit one that was perhaps the worse-kept secret in the state. Nobody was sure where these kinds of fights had begun, or necessarily even whose idea it had been urban legend said it was a pair of rivals who, determined to demonstrate how each was a superior fighter to the other, invited onlookers to witness a battle they intended to have to settle the matter, each wanting to publicly shame the other. So confident had each been in their victory, the terms of defeat they'd agreed on had been lewd, over-the-top... and ultimately, the winner had taken full and total use of the loser. On the other hand, another popular theory was that it was just based off a fairly popular wrestlingporn hybrid series on the internet called Ultimate Surrender. Whatever the case, pockets of these fighting Leagues began to spring up, occupying what buildings they could find, as they kept themselves funded by allowing bets to be placed on each match, as well as charging admission prices. Wherever these Leagues appeared, women filtered towards them, some out of curiosity, some seeking a challenge, and others plainly seeking a chance to fuck, with the fighting itself seen more as a price of admission. The skill and experience of these combatants ranged from hardened fighters, to soft young women who were either far too confident, or very much hoping to be the 'loser' of whatever match they joined often, fights ended up being rather one-sided, as whenever an experienced fighter encounter a submissive or amateur opponent, things ended quickly. The best matches, though, were whenever two fighters clashed... then the sparks truly flew. The warehouse had no air conditioning, and few amenities to speak of the sole use for electricity were bright flood lights that shone towards the center of the cavernous chamber. In that center was a fighting ring largely build out of wood and canvas, with just enough padding to spare a fighter serious injury during a fall, it was shaped in an Octagon- clearly seeking to emulate a certain popular fighting organization- and walled off with chain link fencing attached to padded posts on every corner. A mishmash of scavenged bleachers and benches surrounded the fighting ring, and tonight they were even fuller than usual, with the crowd in a very fine mood indeed. The most recent battle had come to a very decisive end, and even as laughter and catcalls filled the room, the loser was being impaled vigorously on the thick strap-on of the winner, fucked in the center of the ring. Both were bruised, weary, and covered in sweat, but the victor gave every ounce of strength she had in pounding her opponent, drawing guttural cries from the thrashing, bucking loser as her head was viciously pulled back by her long, black hair, forcing her spine to arch and presenting her buxom chest to half of the audience. The cheers only swelled when that loser began to squeal and squirm all the harder, swept up in a thunderous release that left her arousal dripping all over the arena floor. But this match was only the second-last one, and the main event was still to come... the League's reigning champion, with a winning streak that was both undefeated, and unprecedented. The crowds were fuller in large part because of that, eager to see how she fared tonight... That champion, Aida, sat waiting in her small, private locker room, which had admittedly been converted from an old washroom in the warehouse's upstairs office space. An old rack of school lockers was squeezed against the far wall, which were themselves covered in browning ceramic tiles, and though the building had running water, trying to drink the yellowing liquid from the rusted tap would have been a poor choice indeed. Aids slumped forward in her seat as she stared across the small room, eyeing herself in the dirty mirror. She was certainly a lovely young woman, just about twenty-two now, but with seasoning in the ring that belied such a young age... her dirty blonde hair was tied back in a ponytail, and underneath her black sports-bra and shorts, her body was lithe and toned, her firm breasts partially restricted by her confining top, and her lean belly revealing trained abdominal muscles. She was a little over five foot eight, and if it wasn't for the look in her eyes, or the serious set of her jaw, she might have been mistaken for a young, ditsy teenager. She'd been sitting there for a little over twenty minutes now, not saying a word, but the moment she heard the crowd begin to cheer through the paper thin walls in a way that all but guaranteed someone was being fucked, she felt the Fear begin. It always began that way, the clenching, numbing Fear that stuck to her throat and made her body shudder it was a Fear that many would have tried to fight, but that she embraced like an old lover. It wasn't fear of pain, or injury. Pain was something she had long since learned to deal with, as she had begun training to fight at the tender age of thirteen. Rather, it was fear of loss the loss of pride, and especially of control, should she be felled in this match. Because although she had remained undefeated in every League fight she'd undertaken over the past two and a half years, she never let herself forget exactly what she would be subjected to if she were to fall. She needed that Fear. It was the only thing that had kept her on top. As always when she prepared, her mind went back to her first League fight in its earliest days, when she had arrived a brash, cocky fighter looking to establish her dominance over all comers she had been so confident that her hot-headed anger and gumption was her true strength, and that she could muscle through any opposition in this cadre of combatants. When she'd entered the ring, she had bounced, posed, waved her fists and hyped up the cluster of onlookers with a savage grin. Except her first opponent, a striking Amazonian specimen of a woman named Margaret, had proven older and far more more experienced, and within minutes Aida had been in serious trouble. As the match had gone on, she had battered Aida with as many taunts and quips as she did punches or knees, bruising the young woman's pride just as surely as her body. With every moment the fighter had drawn greater and greater frustration from Aida, and it was then she'd felt the true bite of what her anger could wrought she grew sloppy, undisciplined, and had left herself open to a kick that had very nearly broken her jaw. And at that moment, Aida had felt in her very bones that she'd been conquered her knees had grown weak and rubbery and she had slumped onto her hands, mouth slack with pain and eyes unfocused, only faintly aware of the mocking fighter who closed in to land a finishing blow. Feeling her defeat so close at hand- and knowing the humiliation that she would be subjected to in its wake- the fear had risen to a shattering crescendo, pushing her past her pain and into a state of pure, driven instinct. Even as Margaret had sought to straddle her back and finish the fight with a hammering blow from above, Aida had pushed back as if a beast possessed, snarling with such fury she'd taken her opponent utterly off her guard. Margaret had had enough presence of mind to swing again, but Aida had taken the subsequent shot to the ribs and chest without flinching, without even feeling the way her bones shook under each blow, and just like that, she'd slipped within her foe's range. Clinching her in a bear hug, screaming, Aida had driven her larger opponent to the ground, straddled her, and then pummeled her desperately that most of her blows went glanced off or missed entirely didn't matter, her eyes too wild, too filled with tears, to see properly. She landed more than enough, and when the moderators finally pulled her away, the fight was over. Fear had pushed Aida to that victory... but also no small amount of luck. Anger had betrayed her, put her in a position of weakness and distraction that she most certainly could not afford. Her wins since then had come because, first and foremost, she had set aside her anger, and focused on her objective... letting her Fear force her to fight harder than she could ever have thought possible. The few times she had faced other fighters, rather than submissives or amateurs, she had won as much because of her that endurance as anything else because no matter how much of a beating she took, she would not stay down. Lips curling into a sour scowl at her own reflection, she climbed to her feet and approached her own reflection, fists up, hands trembling slightly... a quick jab thrown at the air, and then another, each one greeted by a hitched gasp in the back of her throat. Her heart was beating frantically now, and the woman found it harder and harder to stand still, throwing more shadow punches, teeth clenching as she began to grunt with every empty swing. She had no idea how much longer it would be before her turn arose, though, and after only a minute or two the punches slowed, and then stopped, the blonde's breath coming in soft gasps as she rested her hands on her hips, stretching a little to limber up. She needed to get a hold of herself. It was too early to start forcing herself down this particular road. But speaking of distractions... as she went through her stretches, her mind wandered again, to that first match... or, more specifically, the spoils that had come immediately afterwards. Despite herself, one of Aida's hand drifted along her thigh, very briefly, at the memory of what she had done to her first conquered foe. After all the taunts and insults she had been subjected to, Aida had been more than eager to return them to her defeated foe in kind. Margaret had still been a little dazed, bruised and with a bloody nostril to show for her sudden loss, but otherwise fully conscious. She had even tried to match Aida's smug stare with a prideful glare, mouth tightly pressed. It was a stubborn pride, at that Margaret had remained quietly defiant even as she'd been paraded around the ring like a mutt, tugged along by the hair as if dragged on a leash. She had remained sullenly silent when she was forced to disrobe and present herself to anyone who had watched the match, displaying her smooth, shaved slit and puckered anus when they had reached every corner of the octagon. She had gritted her teeth, letting not a sound escape while she had been subjected to a riding crop in plain view of everyone, even when crimson welts were raised across her buttocks in criss-cross, forming a line of red 'X's across her generously full ass. And when the period of public domination had ended, and Aida had dragged her off to the locker room for the far more lengthy private session, Margaret had kept her lips tightly pressed and hands clasped against her sides, refusing to acknowledge her violation at the hands of this younger woman. But then, the walls had begun to weaken. A small moan when Aida had brushed a pair of nails across her soft mons. A shuddering gasp during a particularly sharp twist of her nipple. The sounds were initially brief, inconsistent, but even as Margaret had grown wetter and wetter, her arousal peaking, they had grown louder and more frequent, until the older woman was left shuddering in orgasmic throes around Aida's clever tongue, screams echoing across the lockers. And at that moment, when Margaret had lost her defiance, lost even the opposition to her submissive role, Aida had made the older woman service her. Over, and over, in every position and variation she could conceive, for nearly two hours. By the time Aida had finally grown too tired and too sensitive to be touched, she had absolutely coated her former opponent's face and chest in her slick juices, byproduct of a seemingly endless stream of rapturous climaxes. It was the best sex she had ever had, by far, rendered so much more potent by the thrill of victory, or perhaps simply the evasion of defeat. She had come back for another match, and another, and soon she had all but abandoned any other fighting ring cash prizes or prestige no longer interested her. Not even finding challenging opponents drove her. She fought for one thing, and one thing only the look on her whimpering, frightened foe's face when Aida was on top during, and especially after a match. With every fight, she grew more seasoned- both at fighting, and more importantly at playing to an foe's nerves, catching them off-balance and taunting them in much the same way Margaret had so eagerly tormented her. Aida's lips crooked upwards in a wicked grin at the thought. She had fought Margaret again a little more than two months later, and the meat of that match couldn't have been more different than that of her debut. Margaret's prior loss had clearly weighed heavily on the older woman's mind, as her taunts had been more infrequent, and far less confident... Aida had smelled that weakness, and had closed the distance quickly, overwhelming the woman with feinted strikes, and sharp knees to take out her core and strip the wind from her. Their rematch was over in less than half the time of their first bout, but Aida had spent plenty of time making sure Margaret's experience afterwards was no less humiliating... and no less invigorating. And like in the fight, the older woman had submitted far sooner than before, even seeming eager to service the young, bold fighter who had so clearly topped her. The memories were beginning to draw a flush across her skin, and with a shuddering breath Aida shifted off the bench and climbed to her feet, beginning to pace back and forth. Her skin was buzzing, aching to be touched, but she always liked to save every bit of vigor she had for the match ahead... to say nothing for the celebration afterwards. So she continued to pace, hands clenching and slackening at her sides, teeth gritted as she tried to breathe slow and evenly through her nose, to focus on the fight ahead. She knew almost nothing about her opponent- another newcomer, perhaps, though sometimes it would take three or four months for a newly arrived fighter to cycle around to a match against Aida- and she wasn't willing to take any chances. Newcomers to the League were often the most difficult, when the opponent was still high off their own victories and training, confident in every punch they threw... they would fight harder and suffer more simply because they were self-assured that they would outlast their opponent. Only when a fighter had been subjected to a few rounds of utter humiliation, reduced to a vapid tool of gratification for the eyes of an adoring audience, did they start to slacken Aida always saw the doubt in their eyes during a rematch, and she never failed to capitalize. It was almost time. Hearing the thunderous music reverberating through the walls from the fighting ring- a precursor to every match, to amp up the crowd- she slipped on her jacket and strode from the locker room, out into the hall. She knew the route to the ring by heart now, past the gutted offices, through the empty cubicles, through the dark hallway and down a creaking flight of stairs. With every step that heart began to pound harder, and harder, her nostrils flaring and eyes widening just a little as the Fear rose up the back of her throat. She might be beaten tonight. Humiliated. Fucked like a rutting bitch in heat. The streak of victories she had so aptly accumulated, that she so tightly clung to, could be stripped from her in a single moment, leaving her open and exposed... she forced herself to face each possibility the entire way there, to picture herself in every agonizing, degrading position she had subjected her conquered foes to. By the time she neared the big set of double doors that led to the warehouse's main chamber, her knees were trembling, the Fear tightening her chest more and more with every passing moment. But as she pushed open those doors, and the unfiltered roar of the crowd washed over her, she felt that fear vanish, as it always had. Her hands lifted high as she matched their adulation with a bellowing war cry, each step confident and assured as she marched towards the room's center, and the canvas-and-wire octagonal ring that had been built there. From this angle, she couldn't even see if her opponent had already arrived yet, but at this moment, it didn't matter. This was where Aida belonged. This was her ring. And whoever she was to face tonight, they would soon be made all too aware of just why that was.