"So, that's the training area," said Darlene. "What do you think?"
"It's incredible. I want a membership."
"You can use it any time you want. We'll issue you a key before you leave today. In fact, if you're nice to me, I'll let you be my partner."
The idea enthused him. "Trust me, I'll be a saint." His attention was drawn toward Tommie's screams from the store room. "Uh...is everything okay back there?"
"Oh, uh, yes, of course." She took Jim by the arm and pulled him along behind her. "Let's, um, check out the studio area. I think there's a match scheduled."
Jim and Darlene arrived in the AmaFlix main arena as the first crowds were arriving. Four hundred seats had been arranged around a wrestling ring, with a wide corridor leading to the opponents dressing rooms. Prismatic lighting was stationed above, illuminating the room in wide circles of color. Two cameramen stood ready outside the ring, and a third was poised on the ring apron. A crane-operated camera was anchored above, swivelling and swooping to check its maneuverability. The arena was a quarter full, with spectators pouring in through a side entrance.
"Hurry! Let's find a seat." Darlene pulled him down an aisle, and found them a pair of seats three rows from the ring.
"Who's fighting?"
"This is a martial arts match. The AmaFlix entrant is Maya Torres." She indicated a pony-tailed brunette of obvious hispanic descent, wearing a black thong and matching lycra half-tank. A bandana hung from her forehead, and black bands encircled her upper arms and thighs. All the amazons Jim had seen thus far had been flawlessly proportioned, but Maya's build was unique, being exceptionally well-defined; he also noticed that her legs were the longest and sleekest of any he'd yet encountered.
"She's much stronger than she looks," said Darlene. "And what she lacks in power, she more than compensates for in tendon strength. And she is an unsurpassed martial artist. I've even learned a few things from her."
"You don't say. Who's that behind her?"
Beside Maya was an oriental woman, clad in a black gui top and thong. She was shorter than and built similarly to Torres.
"That's Akira, our martial arts coach. She and Maya have been training together intensively."
"Does Akira fight?"
"Of course. You're the only employee we have -- except the cleaning staff -- that doesn't."
"It's likely to stay that way."
"We'll see. Maya is fighting the all-city Shoto-Kan champion, John Jackson." Across the ring stood a tall, thickly-muscled black man, bouncing from foot to foot. He wore a white tank top and loose pants decorated with American flag striping and stars; his hair was cut military short. "That's his sensei, Frank Kove." Kove stood about five-eleven, and wore a black jacket bearing "Port Ellis Shoto-Kan Academy" across the back.
"Jesus Christ, he's big!" Jim's eyes bulged incredulously. "She -- she's not gonna fight him, is she?"
Giggling, Darlene put her arm around him and snuggled close. "Just watch."
It took a few minutes for the remaining seats to fill, forcing a throng of onlookers to stand against the walls. The colored lights shut off, and the crowd noise subsided. "Ladies and gentlemen," began a woman's voice over the P.A. system. "The following is a freestyle martial arts match, with a time limit of sixty minutes. The contest will last until one opponent either concedes or cannot continue.
"In the blue corner, representing the Port Ellis Shoto-Kan Association, at six feet two inches and two hundred sixty pounds...he is the Port Ellis all-city champion. Please welcome...John Jackson!" Jackson threw a series of rapid-fire punches, which he followed with a snap-kick. He ended his display with a double-biceps pose, and Jim guessed that his arms had to be at least twenty-two inches around.
A group of about ten men were shouting and whooping from the front row of Jim and Darlene's section. One jumped up briefly, and Jim noticed that he -- and his friends -- wore the Shoto-Kan jackets of Kove's dojo.
"Knock 'er tits off, Jax!" Jackson turned and pointed to one of his friends, smirking, and gave him a thumbs-up.
"Keep that Budweiser iced!" he said. "See ya in about thirty seconds!" His friends laughed and clapped, and he turned back toward the ring.
"And in the red corner," continued the announcer, "At five feet eleven inches and weighing one hundred fifty-eight pounds...AmaFlix is proud to present...Maya Torres!"
The crowd (except for Jackson's friends) cheered wildly; Maya stood motionless, the bright overhead lights making her oiled body gleam, her exposed cleavage rising and falling as she maintained her deep, slow breathing.
It took some seconds for the noise to subside. Akira stepped to ring center, and motioned for both fighters to approach her. As she explained the rules, Jackson glared down Maya, his nostrils flaring with each exhale, an expression of barely-contained rage on his face. Either he's one hell of an actor, Jim thought, or he's been spontaneously kicking the shit out of people since he rolled out of the womb. Maya stared back, her face deadpan.
Akira finished her explanation, and the combatants returned to their corners. A few moments later, the bell sounded, and they stepped out of their corners, toward one another. Without warning Jackson charged, his fists and feet moving in lethal synch as he rained attacks upon Maya. To Jim's amazement, maya stood calmly in place and, with complete economy of motion, deflected every intended blow. Jim noticed that once she'd discovered his rhythm, she began halting his attacks at mid-arm or higher, disrupting his pattern.
Surprised and shaken, Jackson stepped back--
--and the tiger struck.
In a blur of motion almost too quick to follow, Maya landed two fists to Jackson's face, snapping his head back, then caught him flush with a spinning backfist. The big man was lifted off his feet; he twisted, then hit the canvas like a side of beef.
Darlene jumped to her feet, screaming with the rest of the crowd, as Jackson struggled to a crouch. Maya chose not to press the attack, and stood by, watching. The big man rose to his feet, a dark bruise high on his cheek, and Akira was there to check his status.
"Now do you understand?" asked Darlene, reseating herself. She re-embraced him and said, "Jackson is the one who's in trouble up there."
"Yeah." Jim licked his lips. "Yeah, I guess he is."
Jackson regained his bearings, and turned to his Shoto-Kan friends. They shouted encouragement to him, and he nodded. Pointing at Maya, he said, "I gave her a shot! Now I'm gonna take her ass out!" His sensei clapped and motioned for him to return to the fight.
He stepped back toward Maya, who stood sideways to him, her feet parallel with her shoulders, her body relaxed. Jackson took a few tentative swipes at her, which she knocked aside with circular blocks. He exploded toward her suddenly with a scissors kick, the heel of his right foot seeking her jaw; she seemed to vanish back, just beyond him, and took his leg by the ankle. She pushed it back toward him and swept his remaining leg, sending him to his back. The heel of Maya's hand slammed into the inside of his knee, and Jackson's features twisted in agony. He rolled away from her, holding his leg, as intense pain flooded his body.
"Maya hit a nerve ganglia," said Darlene. "It numbs the whole lower leg."
Jim nodded. "Looks like it hurts, too."
"Like you wouldn't believe."
Jackson hobbled back to his feet, a mixture of pain and rage on his face. Jim noticed a slight smile on Maya's face. Uh oh, he thought, as Maya took slow steps toward her target. I would not want to be John Jackson right now.
As the match progressed, Jim knew he'd been right. Maya was utterly dominant, striking, flipping, and kicking the big man she faced with surgical precision. His entire body was covered in welts and bruises. She would occasionally clamp him into a debilitating hold, her fingers finding a pressure point and bearing down, triggering more screams of agony. It was clear to everyone that she was purposely drawing the contest out, bringing it as close to the time limit as possible. Jim had a vague realization that if Jackson had shown more respect to her, his plight would have been less extreme. Maya, he knew, was giving him a lesson in humility, one that he was unlikely to forget.
As the time limit neared, she allowed Jackson some time to recover; she'd trapped him in the corner and driven several fists and knees into his ribs and chest, and he held the ropes in a death grip, the only thing keeping him on his feet. The big man mustered what energy he had remaining, and attempted a kamikaze charge at Maya. Twisting, her arms extended, her body coiled, she hammered the side of his head with a spinning crescent kick. Jackson was lifted over the ropes, and he thudded before his Shoto-Kan friends like a side of beef.
Akira jumped out of the ring and landed beside him. She rolled him to his back and pushed up his eyelid, checking him closely.
"Jesus! Do you think he's--"
Darlene shook her head. "Of course not. He's just unconscious. See, she's pulling out the smelling salts now." Akira had produced a small capsule, and was wafting it under Jackson's nose; he flinched and drew away, shaking his head and blinking. Satisfied that he was unhurt, she climbed back into the ring, and walked to Maya. The crowd erupted in cheers as she took the woman's arm and raised it in victory.
"In a time of fifty-four minutes, your winner is...Maya Torres!" Maya smiled broadly and waved, the first real emotion Jim had noticed her express. Jim noticed that with her pony tail and high cheeks, she had a girl-next-doorish beauty that seemed at odds with her deadliness. He was as thrilled by it as he was by Darlene's intimidating good looks.
"Oh, dear," said Darlene, and pointed toward the front row. The others in the Shoto-Kan society were climbing onto the ring apron, led by the sensei. They stepped into the ring, forming a semicircle, shouting at Maya and Akira.
"Stupid bitch! You messed with the wrong dojo!" yelled one.
"Yeah! Now we're gonna--"
"NO!" They wheeled to see Jackson standing outside, clutching his body. "No! Just back off!"
They moved aside as he struggled through the ropes and walked toward Maya, who stood facing him, hands on her hips. He shuffled to her, then stopped, standing unsteadily, his breathing labored. His eyes dropped, and he lowered his head.
"I...did not show you proper respect," he said, swallowing. "I was an arrogant fool. You are...a master." Eyes still downcast, he placed his fist in his palm, and bowed.
Maya smiled, and returned the gesture. She lifted his chin with a finger, looking into his eyes, and said, "Your art is crude and undisciplined. I would train you, if you desire it."
His face brightened, and then he looked away once more. "I...I am unworthy."
"Perhaps. But I still offer you the choice."
Jackson glanced back at Frank Kove, who stood watching in disbelief. "C'mon, Jax!" Frank held out his hands. "You just need some more practice! She got lucky, that's all!"
He returned his attention to Maya, and nodded. "I would learn, if you would teach me." He bowed again.
"I don't believe this!" Kove shook his finger at Maya, and then at Akira. "We'll be back, you hear? And the next time the story's gonna be completely different!" He spit at Jackson's feet. "We don't need losers like you around anyway."
The Shoto-Kan group filed out, and the remaining crowd began to leave as well. "Come on," said Maya, taking his hand. "You need to be examined. I don't want my only grasshopper to drop dead from internal bleeding."
He chuckled, then winced in pain. "Do me a favor," he said. "Don't tell any jokes for awhile, okay?"
"Those Shoto-Kan guys looked pissed," said Jim as he and Darlene returned to the training area. "Do you think they'll cause any trouble?"
She shrugged. "Who cares? As long as we've got a camera around, let 'em try. The grudge matches sell best."
"Oh."
Darlene checked a wall clock. "Hey, it's lunchtime. C'mon, I'll whip us up something in the breakroom. Do you like lasagna?"
He nodded. "Nothing's finer."
She smiled, and slid her arm around his waist. "Trust me, Jim," she said, her lips brushing his ear, her breath warm. "Compared to some things, it doesn't even rate."
Goddamit, he thought, as heat began to build once more below his belt, here she goes again.
Darlene's lasagna wasn't sex, but it was close; Jim savored every bite of the rich, savory dish, and genuinely regretted the moment he realized that another bite would pop him like a balloon. With a contented groan he slumped back in his chair and rested his hands on his gut.
"I've gotta be careful around you," he said. "You're feeding me this delicious chow and I can't control myself. If I don't watch it, I'll lose my girlish figure."
She giggled. "According to something I read about the Dominion virus, you don't have to worry about that. The body now produces lipoproteins to metabolize excess fat. In fact, thanks to that, you now have to eat a little more."
"Y'know, I wonder about that. I mean, breast tissue is fat, right? Why did so many women suddenly find themselves to be fit and muscular -- and suddenly have, well...."
"Big, firm tits?"
He nodded. "I was trying to be subtle."
Darlene shrugged, and took their plates. "As memory serves, breast tissue now isn't really fat, not in the traditional sense. It's more like...spongy muscle or something, I don't know. It looks the same and feels the same, but doesn't metabolize." After a quick rinse, she dumped the dishes into the washer and started it up. "It's funny you should bring that up, because some girls had a surprise waiting for them after the virus hit."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, the girls that had breast augmentation surgery, their bodies...well...rejected the implants. Don't ask me how, but the new breast tissue forced the sacs out."
"Ouch! That had to hurt!"
"No, it didn't."
Jim raised an eyebrow. "You mean...."
"Yeah, I had implants. And after the effect, I noticed these clear plastic bags lying on my bed. It took me awhile to figure out what they were. It was like the tissues parted for them, then sealed back up seamlessly. I've still got them if you want to see."
"Nah, that's okay. What tipped you off that they'd come from you?"
"Well, the fact that I was suddenly a D-cup convinced me. I only bought the C's. And y'know, that kinda bugs me, 'cause those things cost me three grand. If I'd known this virus was gonna hit, I'd've waited and saved the money."
"I'm sure they were fun while they lasted."
"Oh, yeah. Nothing turns a guy's head like a pair of big, healthy breasts. I've always had my looks, but when I added the cleavage...pow! Instant social life."
Jim leaned forward, and rest his arms on the table. "So what happened? I mean, I haven't seen you with a guy for months. You mostly stay by yourself."
She smirked. "Been watching?"
His face flushed. "Well...not intentionally, but--"
"Relax. No, you're right. Since the virus, things've changed. I got taller and stronger, and it scared my old boyfriends off. The guys I started meeting were weird little pervs who wanted me to dominate them all the time." She held up a finger. "I know, it seems contradictory -- I mean, I've become kinda dominant, but...these guys were wormy. I was attracted to guys with a little self-confidence." She winked. "Present company included."
His cheeks flushed. "I'm flattered."
"While we're on the topic...." She peeled her sweatshirt up and off, revealing a sheer, low-cut pink athletic tank. "I noticed that you couldn't take your eyes off Tommie's knockers." She stood up, and pulled her arms back, puffing her chest out. "How do I rate?"
Jim rolled his eyes, and threw his hands in the air. "Jesus, Darlene, you're trying to kill me, aren't you? I watch my sodium and meditate to avoid strokes, and here you are trying to give me one."
She gave him a profile view. "Just answer the question."
"Darlene, they're perfect. Your...bosom is no larger and no smaller than it should be for a woman with your proportions." He molded his hands in the air, along the countours of her body. "There isn't a pore out of place on you. Artists immortalize women like you. Men die, nations war over women like you. You are without a doubt the most intimidatingly beautiful woman I have ever known. I'm honored that you've chosen to associate with me in any capacity."
Her smile told him that he'd chosen all the right words. "Thank you."
"I just call 'em like I see 'em. So to speak."
She pulled him up, and gave him a peck on the nose. "Tell you what," she said, as she led them through the break room door and back into the training area. "I've gotta work out, and you need to order up the new office equipment. Why don't you get started, and we'll meet up later."
"Sounds good."
Jim's attention was drawn back to the butterfly machine, where a glistening -- and topless -- Tommie sat, squeezing out rep after rep. Steve stood before her, acting as her spotter, obviously enthralled as she drew her arms back, her breasts separating and jutting out.
"Well," said Jim, jerking a thumb back toward the blonde, "That's the first time I think I've ever seen that."
Darlene shrugged. "Happens all the time." She sat on the end of a weight bench, and started shrugging out of her sweats. "Pull this over my shoes, willya?" He tugged away her sweats, revealing her pelvic thong and strong, sleek legs. "So," she said, standing, "Do your kind remarks still stand?" She pirouetted in place, and he took the chance to absorb the total package, from her exquisite face to her full, firm chest, across her wide, striated shoulders, down her etched abdomen, over her round, powerful haunch, and along her strong, smooth legs.
He shrugged, and said, "Perfect. All previous drooling applies."
Darlene walked to him, and turned, backing against him. She slid her rear against his crotch, then said, "See ya, Jim," and started toward the weights.
"Dammit," he muttered, making his way toward the office door, his body complaining that he should go mate with Darlene at once. "I wish someone would just shoot me."
"Okay," said Tommie, releasing the padded arms and standing. "That's all for now. C'mon." She took Steve's hand, and pulled him along behind her, toward the wet rooms. She led him to the jacuzzi, and, giggling, wrestled him to the floor beside it. His shorts and her thong were quickly discarded, and she dumped him unceremoniously in. A moment later she splashed in after him and pinned his arms to his sides in a crushing embrace. She pushed him to sit, and, her legs spreading widely to either side, she shoved him back inside her. Tommie squealed and gyrated with reckless abandon, alternately trapping his face in her cleavage and crushing a breast to his mouth. A few minutes passed when Sunny entered, her thick blonde hair rustling, her cleanshaven body completely uncovered. She dropped a towel beside the jacuzzi, and lowered into the bubbling waters.
"So this is the guy you beat up," she said. She sat beside them, Tommie almost oblivious to her. "Oh, well, might as well make it a three-for-all." She took Tommie's ponytail and jerked her head roughly back, to plant a crushing kiss on her lips. From there she moved to sit behind Steve, and pushed them both toward the center of the hot tub.
The steaming, bubbling waters caressed them as they made a sandwich of him, enclosing his head with their breasts, taking turns riding him. When Steve had once again been depleted, they left him to sit to one side and recuperate, while they stroked and caressed one another, moving with an easy knowledge of one another's bodies.
They finished, and cuddled against Steve, who had lowered the water temperature to cool them down. "Tell you what," said Sunny, "You got to work him over, now it's my turn. I'll get Patricia to make Steve my next match."
"You might have to wait. I think Elaine's got him next."
"Oh. Too bad," she said. "Well, I'll just take on whatever's left."
"Hey," he said, as they made hickeys on his neck, "Don't I get some kind of say about who I fight?"
Tommie and Sunny looked at one another, then shook their heads. "No."
"Oh." He leaned back, and absorbed the pleasure. "Just checking."
"Okay, Darlene," said Patricia, as the redhead lay poised on the bench. "Don't think about the weight. Don't think about the pain. Clear your mind. This is easy. Easy." Patricia stood over her, hands under the bar, with thick stacks of steel plates balanced to either side. "One... two... three... now."
With a cry that echoed through the room, Darlene pushed the bar from the supports. Positioning it over her chest, she slowly lowered it to her; then, with another scream, she forced the massive weight up, and up, higher and higher, until her elbows locked. She dropped it back and Patricia guided it to the rests.
"Yes!" Darlene leaped off the bench, breathing hard, her sinews shining with sweat and pumped from the exertion. "Eight hundred pounds! Yes!"
They exchanged a high-five. "We're tied again," said Patricia, and they hugged. "Damn, I can't seem to shake you off."
"Not in this lifetime, honey."
Patricia let Darlene recuperate for a moment, then asked, "So, what's the story with Jim?"
The redhead shrugged, and leaned across the bar. "I'm hot for him. He's smart, he's funny, he's good-looking...and he's not one of the usual 'hurt me' freaks we run across. I'm gonna throw his white-bread ass down and pop his cherry."
Patricia smirked. "A virgin? Do you think so?"
"Hell, yes, he's a virgin. He's so uptight he could be a poster boy for the caffeine lobby. I've been flirting like crazy with him, and he always turns this adorable shade of red."
"When're you gonna do it?"
"I've been holding off to make it special -- and to torture him a little. But I can't wait much longer. Don't be surprised if you see me raping him on a desk in the office."
"Just lock up when you leave." Patricia looked down, then said, "Think he'll ever want to fight?"
Darlene shook her head. "Nah. He's too easily embarassed, and he's definitely not into bruises. But...that doesn't mean he's never gonna wrestle."
She giggled. "Save some for me, okay? I'll give you first dibs, but after that...."
"No problem. I figure I'll make him move in with me, but I'll share him."
"Does he have any idea what he's in for? I mean, the other girls have been looking at him, too. He won't get a lot of work done."
"He'll be community property, just like all the other guys around here. He'll just be coming home with me -- unless somebody makes a special request."
"I might just do that."
"Anytime. Like I said, I'll share."
"I wonder how he'd feel, if he knew we were in here discussing his sexual destiny."
Darlene shrugged. "He'd probably pass out. But that's what I like about him."
Patricia checked her watch. "Oboy, I've gotta split. I need to set up a match schedule for the new girls." She leaned forward, and they kissed. Parting, she said, "I want a blow-by-blow."
"So will he." They giggled. "You'll get it, down to the smallest detail. I'll tell you everything he likes. He'll think you're a mind-reader."
"Okay. Seeya."
Patricia sauntered off, and Darlene hooked a CD-walkman to the waist of her thong. Securing the headphones, she jogged over to the track, and began her laps, her feet moving in unstoppable rhythm as Soundgarden's Superunknown blared into her ears at maximum volume, the pounding riffs and explosive bass driving her body. She lost herself in the mix of sound and action, moving at what would be for most runners a sprint, conquering mile after mile, sweat pouring off her and coating her hair, her skin, drenching her.
By the time the CD finished, she'd been running for over seventy minutes; her hand-held lap counter informed her that she'd gone twenty miles. She was lightly winded, but felt even better now than before she'd started. Her weight workout had been gruelling, lasting over three hours, and now that her aerobic work was done, the facility was empty. She began a relaxing stretch, working every major joint and muscle group she'd exerted. By the time she'd finished, she was still saturated with sweat.
"Um, Darlene?" Jim had entered without her noticing; he walked over to her, wringing his hands. "I think I've taken care of the office for now. Did I...catch you at a bad time?"
Darlene was in a side-splits position on the floor, testing the limits of her incredible flexibility. She leaned down on her powerful arms, her elbows locked, looking at him. She didn't answer.
He looked at her, a little confused. She had a strange look on her face, one he hadn't yet seen. She was gazing at him, her mouth open slightly, her breath coming in shudders, her body shiny and drenched. "Okay, I...guess you need a shower or something--"
Darlene hopped to her feet like a cat, and walked to him. She stood before him, her pulse racing, her body priming itself for him. She knew it was time.
She clutched his collar and dragged him stumbling behind her, toward the ring. With a quick swing she rolled him onto the apron and under the bottom rope. A moment later she was crawling in behind him as he struggled to rise.
"Um, Darlene," he started, as she approached him with murderous deliberation, "D-did I say or do something--"
"Shut up." She grabbed him by the tie and pulled him against her, her sweat soaking through his shirt. She unknotted it, and pushed him down, to lie beneath her, holding it in her hand. "Silk," she said, and began sliding it over her body, across her delicately-chiseled muscles, over her abdomen, under her half-top, to pass across an aching nipple. He watched, numb, as she slid it under her thong, where she moved it deeply under her.
Lodging it there, she knelt over him, and peeled away her half-tank. She rubbed it over his face -- the musk of her sweat exciting him -- until dropping it to one side and lowering her body across his. She slid over him, hot and dripping, saturating his expensive shirt and pants. She coiled her legs around his waist, and, embracing his head, cradled his face in her breasts, her inner thighs contracting rhythmically in tune with her growing pleasure.
After some time of this, she raised up, and began sliding her lower body over him, higher and higher, until she knelt over his face. Smiling, she lowered against him, rubbing her pelvis -- and his tie -- across his face, along his nose. She came immediately, and began pressing down cyclically against him, triggering quick, multiple climaxes.
Raising up ever so slightly, she reached into her thong and withdrew his tie. "Now every time you wear it, you'll think of me," she said, and pitched it to one side. She touched her pelvis to his nose playfully, then sat back to trap his head against her pelvis and legs, in a tight schoolboy pin. "Jim," she said, sliding her fingers through his hair. "I like you. I... really like you. There isn't a man on this planet that I desire more. And from this moment forward, I've got you. You're going to be my friend. You're going to be my lover. You're going to live with me, work with me, be with me from now on. Your life will never, ever be the same."
"Darlene," he said, "You -- you need to know that--"
"Hush." She slid back, to lie across him, and embraced his neck. "I know." Lowering toward him, she said, "You came from a puritanical family. Part of you still thinks that sex is evil, that it's wrong to feel the way you feel right now. You'd probably never even kissed a girl until last night on my porch." She brushed her lips against his, and said, "That was only the beginning. Here's your first real kiss." She smothered him with her lips, her tongue thrashing inside his mouth, her pelvis and thighs sliding against him in synch with the waves of sensation pulsing over her body.
He was trembling when she parted. "I'll bet you think this is as good as it gets," she said, and gently nibbled his chin. "Don't. This is just the tip of the iceberg. After tonight, you'll be transformed. You'll finally have someone to share yourself with. You'll know how to touch and please a woman. You'll know the sweet pleasure that lies between her thighs. You'll have a precious thing, the happiest experience of your life." She closed in for another kiss, and said, "And you're going to have it with me."
The AmaFlix Story
Book 1
by Al Harder and Mike Shoemaker
Chapter Eight:
Even Crushers get the Blues
Patricia strolled into the AmaFlix offices at 8:15 the next morning, whistling a Journey song she'd heard on her Corvette's stereo.
"Send Her My Love?" asked Annie, looking up from her screen.
"Yep." Patricia unclipped three beepers from the fringe of her pelvic thong, and slid to sit on Annie's desk. the lacquered wood was cool against her bare skin. "Hey, I had an idea last night. I'm gonna start paying the guys a percentage."
"The men?" Annie raised an eyebrow. "Even when they lose?"
"That's the point, Annie. They never win. Giving 'em a few percent is only fair. I mean, I make money hand over fist here, and they're a big reason for our success. I won't even notice the loss, and it'll keep turnover way down."
"Will we be giving all the men points?"
"No, only the ones who are on payroll. We'll have it included in all the new contracts, effective immediately. And we'll pay 'em for the videos they're currently in."
"Right. I'll call legal and have them add the clause. Three percent, right?"
"Make it four. I might go to five if I'm feeling really generous." She slid off the desk, and started toward her office. "I'm going to drop a couple of things off in my office, then I'm going to give the guys the good news. Tell 'em to assemble in the training area on the P.A."
"Sure thing."
Ten minutes later, Patricia strolled into the training room. Waiting were most of Amaflix's male fighters, among them Steve, Bob, Pedro, Andrew, and Jax. They walked over to her and lined up.
"Hey, guys. How's everybody?" Most of them rubbed their bruises and sore joints and grumbled. "Great. Well, I've got terrific news. First, I've decided that you're going to get a percentage of video sales from your matches, effective immediately. This includes videos you've already made." They looked at one another and nodded, pleased with the arrangement.
Pedro raised his hand. "Is this retroactive?" he asked, smiling hopefully.
She shook her head. "Nice try." He murmured something, and she went on. "And now for more good news. I'm slated to fight in a couple of hours, and I need an opponent! We all know whose videos sell best! You'll get great royalties!" She rubbed her hands together. "So, who's gonna volunteer?"
They studied their shoes, and noticed the overhead lights for the first time.
She crossed her arms, tapping her foot. "Don't everybody speak at once."
Everyone in line took a step back.
Everyone except Andrew.
"Great!" She grabbed the shocked martial artist by the arm. "C'mon, let's go do the paperwork."
"H-hey! Wait! I didn't--"
"Sure you did." His protests faded as she drew him further away, then disappeared as the office door closed with an ominous thud.
Behind them, the survivors sighed with relief.
Patricia dragged the struggling Andrew behind her, and into her office from the training room access door. "Of course you want to fight me! It's not that bad--"
The door to her office popped open, and Annie stuck her head in. "'Scuze me, Patricia, but there's a...Crusher to see you."
Patricia raised an eyebrow. "Come again?"
Annie motioned to someone behind her, and in walked a huge masked man, dressed in a black tank top and black jeans. "That's Crusher Cane, babe. And I want a piece of you."
Patricia studied him for a moment, assessing the big man. Finally, she asked, "Is today soon enough?"
"Yeah. However you wanna do it."
She nodded to Annie. "Have the contracts drawn up, and see to it that Mr. Cane is well provided for." The secretary nodded, and motioned for the big man to follow her.
"Sorry, Andy," she said, and patted him on the shoulder. "Looks like we're postponed."
"Uh, yeah. Darn. I was...really looking forward to it."
Ah well. Get back to training, hm?"
He nodded, a little too eagerly. "Okay. Seeya."
Once he'd left, she leaned her head out of her office. "Oh, and Annie, set up two more contracts. I'll be fighting Andy tomorrow."
"We're getting points?" Seated on a wrestling mat, his legs spread at a 90 degree angle, Steve reached over and held his toe, pulling his hamstring. Most of the men were clustered on the mats, stretching and warming up, while several girls had taken weight stations and were pumping away. He noticed Tommie and Sunny partnering for some volvo-sized squats. "Man, that's great. At this rate, I'll never have to program again. I mean, these things are sold internationally. That's got to mean that each cassette -- even the low sellers -- move thousands of units. At fifty to sixty dollars per, at four percent...that's...." He paused to work some of the math in his head.
"That's a whole lotta enchiladas, eh, Pedro?" asked Andrew, tightening the laces on his cross-trainer.
Pedro stood up. "You makin' fun 'a me, ese'?"
He was moving toward Andrew when Bob stopped him. "Whoa, Pedro, just calm down, alright? He was kidding. Just kidding."
"Yeah, man. I didn't mean anything. Chill out, okay?"
"Kidding, my ass." He pointed at Andrew, and said, "You ain't so bad, gringo. Careful what you say or I'll--"
"Pedro." The man looked to his right -- and turned pale. Darlene stood there, leaning against a steel post of the wrestling ring, glaring. "That's enough. In fact, that's too much." She walked across the mat, to stand eye-to-eye with him. "You've been acting like some kind of ill-tempered child lately, and I'll have no more of it. I've warned you before, but you don't listen too well.
"I think you're still pissed because I murdered you in the ring the other day, and you're taking it out on everybody else. I can tell that you're not going to change until someone teaches you some manners." She thumped him in the chest with her forefinger. "So we'll have another match -- say, tomorrow. And we'll find out then if the first one was just a fluke."
"I can't wait, chica." He turned and strode away.
"Neither can I," she muttered, watching him walk across the room. With anger in her eyes, she left.
"Hoo-boy," said Andrew, scratching the back of his head. "Anybody know Chavez' next-of-kin?"
Darlene stormed into the office, where Joane sat behind a desk, talking softly on the phone. She slowly scanned the room, searching for Jim, until she spotted him, lying under a desk, fumbling with some computer cabling. The new equipment had arrived, and, despite his Darlene-induced soreness and fatigue, he'd eagerly started setting the machines up in the office. She walked to where he lay and stood over him, smiling slightly as he fought to unravel the knotted cords. He finally noticed her sleek legs, and pushed himself out.
"Hi," he said, looking up at her; she wore her usual pelvic thong and sheer half-top, and from his vantage she reminded him vaguely of a Valkyrie or some similarly mythic figure. Pleasant thoughts of the previous evening re-played in his mind, of his vigorous ravishment in the wrestling ring, of the mach eleven ride home and resumption of the ravishment in both their condos, and -- just as importantly -- of the intimacy and pillow talk that had followed, with them holding one another, conversing about nothing -- and everything.
"Hey, lover," she said, and pulled him to stand. As she led him through the office, he let the thrill of the word "lover" rush over him. He never realized how much it would mean.
She opened the door to a small storage closet, ushered him in, then entered herself. She turned the lock, then backed him against the wall and embraced him.
"You're being kind of quiet," he said, noticing her pout. He stroked her cheek, and said, "What's up?"
"It's Pedro," she said.
"What? That guy you flattened in that video I saw?"
She nodded. "Yeah. He took the loss personally. He's been acting like a real cocksucker ever since, and...I got so mad that I challenged him to another fight."
"So what's the problem? Kick his ass and see if he's got what it takes to cope."
"I'm going to. It's just that...most of the guys here don't take it that way when they lose. They just try harder the next time. It...makes me feel bad that he's not like that."
"What, you're feeling guilty?" Jim laughed, and kissed her forehead. "It's not like he didn't know what he was getting into. This isn't the kind of job where you can afford to mourn every loss. Maybe he had lofty expectations, and they didn't pan out. If that's the case, maybe he should do something else. You'll be doing him a favor by showing him where he stands."
She smiled. "Y'know, you're right. This is his problem, not mine."
"Exactly. So just do what comes naturally, and let him worry about what comes next."
"Thanks." She kissed him, her leg curling around him, then peeled off her top. "Let me reward you for your wisdom."
"Just call me Solomon," he said as she unbuttoned his shirt.
Bob looked pensively at his newest contract, tapping the paper with his pen. After his match with Elaine, he was hesitant to jump feet-first into more confrontations without some prior knowledge of his opponent. Part of him was a little afraid that prior knowledge wouldn't make a difference.
"Sunny Olsen?" He looked at Annie. "Have I seen her?"
"Probably." She dropped her file and blew on her nails. "She's about--"
An arm fell across his shoulder. "Six-two," said the woman beside him. "Long blonde hair." She swung her honey-gold tresses over a shoulder. Batting her eyes at him, she said, "Care to guess the rest?"
"Um...emerald green eyes?"
"Bingo."
He held out a hand. "Sunny Olsen, I presume."
They exchanged a handshake. "Nice to meetcha, Bob."
He was a little weak in his legs. Elaine had been nine inches shorter than he -- and had owned him. He wondered how he would fare against someone his own height. Sunny wore a red pelvic thong and a tight grey half-tank reading "Hard Bod Cafe"; her long, powerful physique both aroused and frightened him.
"So, um," he asked, a little hoarse. "You...requested this match?"
"Oh, yeah. I wanted to see you you're coming along since Elaine beat you up."
"She seems to think I'm doing well. In fact, she told me I might accidentally maim my next opponent--"
Sunny laughed, and slapped him on the back, staggering him. "That's funny, Bob." With a wink, she said, "I hope you've got that sense of humor after we wrestle. See ya at three."
As she sauntered away, Bob scribbled his name on the contract and dropped the pen. His face was ashen. "All she needs is a scythe," he said.
"Steve! There you are!"
Steve tossed his duffle into his locker, and pushed the door closed. "You been looking for me?"
"Yeah! Where've you been?"
"I just got here. I had to get my license renewed. What's up?"
"What do you mean 'What's up'? We were supposed me meet for wrestling practice half-an-hour ago!"
"Hey, I'm sorry. I left word in the office--"
"I didn't check in the office."
"Oh." He wrung his hands together. "Well, I, uh, couldn't get to you directly. I just assumed--"
She took a step toward him. Her eyes smoldered with intensity. "Never assume anything, Steve."
"Hey, aren't you taking this just a little personally? I mean, I did try to warn you--"
She grabbed the collar of his tank top and jerked him along behind her, through the doors to the training area; ignoring the curious glances of the onlookers, Elaine continued through, passed through the door to the vacant studio four, then closed and locked it behind them. Wordlessly, she hauled him down the center aisle, then rolled him into the ring.
"Hey, Elaine, just chill," he said, backing away. "You look pretty steamed--"
She charged, and locked up with him, collar and elbow. His back met the ropes, which bowed from the strain. Holding him thus for a moment, she took his arm and hurled him across the ring. He rebounded toward her, and he flew into her embrace. He grunted as she pulled him off the mat and held him, her hand locked over her wrist, immobilizing and constricting his body.
"Bear hug, Steve," she said, cinching the hold even tighter. He was able to breathe, but only because she was allowing him to. "You're helpless. You can't move, you can't fight back. If you let a stronger fighter cinch this in, you're history."
She suddenly opened her arms, and dumped him on his back. Almost too quickly for him to follow, she dropped beside him and coiled her legs around his midsection. "Same for the leg scissors," she said, and gave him a quick jolt with her steely thighs. "Most of us are champion squatters. If you find yourself like this, you might as well throw in the towel."
After a few minutes of borderline agony, she unlocked him and fell atop him. Her legs coiled around his abdomen, and she trapped his face in the valley between her breasts. "You're stuck again, Steve," she said, as he thrashed around beneath her. "If we'd been going best of five, this would've been number three. Which means I win."
Steve gasped as she released her legs, spreading them widely to either side of him. She kept his face trapped; he wondered what new skull-splitting torment Elaine had in store for him next.
She raised up, to sit astride his stomach, and took the center of his tank top. It ripped away cleanly, and she pitched it behind her. "I win," she said, running her hands over his body.
Elaine peeled away her half-top; Steve was not so overcome with her torments to ignore the perfection of her physique, from her wide, strong shoulders, to her full, raised breasts, down to the striations of her abdominal cage.
"Um," he said, as she massaged him, "Do I dare touch you? Or is this more torture?"
She shrugged. "I'da know. Try it and see."
Hesitantly, Steve reached out and took her breasts, molding the soft, firm flesh between his fingers, passing his fingertips over her nipples. She moaned and arched her back, pressing them into his palms, shifting her lower body over him rhythmically.
She threw herself across him and crushed her lips to his, cradling his face and moaning. He embraced her, returning the kiss with equal passion, finally actualizing his desire for her.
They made wild love, abandoning all inhibitions as they rolled around the ring. Elaine spent most of the session astride him, kissing him, then pulling his lips to her breasts.
Once finished, Elaine lay across him, nuzzling and kissing him tenderly, both of them slick with sweat. Though utterly spent, they lay joined together, relishing in the afterglow.
"Hey," he said, stroking her cheek. "Were you really pissed at me?"
"Only because you made me have to wait longer to take you," she said.
"Look, if I'd known we were gonna be doing this, I'd've driven with an expired license. Trust me, I've been as eager to do this with you as you've been to do this with me. More, probably."
"I doubt that. Ever since that first day you came, when I got to pin you and squeeze you, I've been thinking about this. I wanted you. And I take what I want."
"I'm glad you were selfish."
She giggled. "I was selfish with Bob, too. Do you mind?"
"Mind? Are you kidding? If there's any one thing I've learned about the wild, wonderful women of AmaFlix -- and those like them -- it's that monogamy is a physical impossibility. You might keep one guy around as a constant of sorts, but if you take an interest in someone, you're gonna do what it takes to get into his -- or her -- pants." He brushed a kiss against her. "I like it this way."
"That's good," she said, nibbling his chin, "Because that's the way it is. And it's going to stay that way."
"Fine with me. Just do me a favor. Don't expect me to sleep with guys, okay? The virus may have made women bisexual, but the thought of another man's hairy ass kinda nauseates me."
"Two guys together?" She shivered. "What a waste."
Elizabeth Michaels climbed easily into the AmaFlix ring. She was dressed, as she usually was for these special matches, in a white tuxedo jacket, black hot pants and stockings, and red pumps with four inch heels. She looked directly into the hand held camera and began her announcement.
"Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to another Patricia Daniels special match. The rules for this match are simple: No weapons allowed, no time limit. The fight will continue until one of the fighters quits or is knocked out for a count of sixty seconds. Today's match is really special, since Patricia has been challenged by an outside competitor. Patricia's opponent will be the two time WWA Southeastern Regional Champion. Standing six feet two inches tall and weighing two hundred and fifty-five pounds, from parts unknown, Crusher Cane!"
A figure dressed entirely in black emerged from the men's locker room and made his way to the ring. From his leather mask, to the fingerless gloves covering his huge hands, all the way down to his boots, Cane was a vision in ebony. A black wrestling singlet stretched over his barrel chest, leaving his massively muscled arms bare. Black pads protected his knees and elbows, and he snarled at the throng of AmaFlix members who surrounded the ring.
Cane climbed into the ring and looked around with a sneer on his mouth. It was obvious he expected to win this bout with Patricia, win it easily. His arms and legs bulged as he tested the elasticity of the ring ropes.
Elizabeth resumed her spiel. "Now introducing the undisputed AmaFlix champion. She is six feet one half inch tall and weighs two hundred and one pounds. Ladies and gentlemen, Patricia Daniels!" The door to the ladies locker room opened and Patricia strolled out. She was covered from the shoulders down in a navy blue silk robe. She strode confidently to the ring, her honey blonde hair teased just so and a self-assured smile on her face. Her blue eyes reflected amusement at the thought of anyone, whether it was Crusher Cane or King Kong, challenging her.
Cane watched her approach the ring with undisguised contempt in his eyes. "No woman's a match for me, babe," he thought, "but I don't mind picking up ten grand proving it. I'll enjoy humbling you."
Patricia entered the ring gracefully and turned her back on the seething mass of ebony clad muscle in the opposite corner. She removed her robe slowly, drawing out the moment before Cane would see her. Her trademark silver bikini shone under the harsh ring lights as she made a slow, full turn, giving everyone -- the crowd, the cameras, and Cane -- a good look at her powerful body. Her deeply tanned skin fairly glowed with health and vitality.
Her sleek, powerful muscles rippled as she carefully hung her robe on the corner post. Patricia's body seemed carved by a master from living oak as she turned around, arms akimbo, to face Cane. Dense sinew packed her abdomen, and her thong bikini bottoms left the impression that her legs were a mile long. Her breadth of shoulder rivaled that of Cane, though she gave up over fifty pounds to the masked grappler.
If Cane was impressed by Patricia's physique he didn't show it. Patricia smiled at the ebony clad man before her and said, "If you're ready, Mr. Cane, we might as well begin." The masked man nodded his readiness, and Patricia said, "Ring the bell please, Elizabeth."
At the sound of the bell Cane began to circle slowly to his right. He seemed determined to feel out the powerful blonde. Although he'd scouted this woman by watching excerpts of several taped matches, he preferred to play it cool until he'd tested her strength and ability.
For her part, Patricia seemed amused as she matched Cane's circling. It was an unusual start to her matches -- ordinarily her opponents were driven by a combination of greed, lust, and overconfidence to close with her quickly and put her down. The distance between them shrank slowly as the two grapplers -- one in shining silver and one in darkest black -- approached each other cautiously. Crouched slightly, arms extended, Patricia and Crusher finaly came to grips.
They locked up for an instant in a collar and elbow hold. Cane slipped under Patricia's arm and drive a hard knee lift up into her iron-banded belly. She absorbed the impact easily, but Cane's quickness surprised her as he picked up her foot and dumped her unceremoniously on her face. Patricia spun around so she was sitting down and drove her free foot into Crusher's chest, knocking him back and breaking the hold. Patricia rolled backward and sprang easily to her feet.
"Well, you're just full of surprises, aren't you big boy?" she laughed. "You got me that time. Let's try again, shall we?"
This time Cane was less cautious about his approach. The two grapplers came together again, Patricia once more going for the collar and elbow hold. Cane slipped behind her, again startling her with his speed. Slipping his arms under hers, he came up with a full nelson. Twining his fingers together behind her head, Cane began to apply pressure to her arms and neck. "Gotcha now, babe," he gloated. "You ain't so tough. Whatcha gonna do now, huh?"
Patricia didn't bother to answer the question. She concentrated on forcing her arms down, trying to pull Crusher's fingers apart. Her neck muscles corded with the strain, her titanic shoulders and arms bulging with the effort, Patricia felt Cane's grip loosen. The big man was shocked by Patricia's sheer brute strength.
Cane's hold was broken with a suddenness that startled him. Before he could back away, Patricia had reached down between her legs and grabbed his right ankle. Lifting up suddenly, she dumped the big man on his back. Spinning around, she twined his captive leg around one of her own, putting painful stress on his knee and ankle. She increased the pressure of the step-over toehold and was gratified to hear a groan emerge from the mouth hidden beneath the leather mask. "What's the matter, Crusher? Does it hurt?" she asked in mock sympathy.
Cane brought his left leg up and planted the foot between Patricia's breasts, shoving hard. It took him several seconds to force her back far enough that she had to release his captive foot. Cane rolled away from her and scrambled quickly to his feet in a corner. Patricia shook her arms out and smiled cockily at him. "Didn't think I was this strong, didja?" she asked.
Cane shook his leg, testing the right knee and finding he could stand on it without difficulty. He sneered back at Patricia, "Didn't think I was this quick, didja?" he mocked her.
The man and woman clenched for a third time. Patricia tried to apply her own full nelson, but Cane countered the hold and slipped behind her again. He clamped his arms around her in a bear hug, and his brawny arms bulged as he tried to crush Patricia into submission. "This's why they call me Crusher, sweetheart," he growled.
Patricia grabbed Cane's wrists and squeezed, trying to force his hands apart. Titanic muscles strained against each other as Crusher struggled to maintain the bear hug and Patricia fought to break it. Slowly Patricia's raw power triumphed again, and she pulled his arms apart and spun away from them. Patricia and Crusher faced each other, breathing hard.
They came together once more. Cane decided to forego traditional wrestling holds and start brawling. He always felt more comfortable when he was battering someone, and with no rules to break he could do whatever he wanted without worrying about some damn ref sticking his nose in. He slipped an arm free and clubbed Patricia across the jaw, snapping her head to one side. Following up on this success, he tripped her to the mat and knelt astride her broad chest, raining punches down on her face.
Patricia was caught off guard by Crusher's brutal attack. She took two solid shots to the jaw before she decided she'd had enough. She caught his next punch in one big hand, then captured his other fist similarly. Her sinewy forearms came alive as she struggled to hold him off. With a quick heave she forced his body to the side and got out from underneath. Releasing his hands, she got up and stepped back. "Okay, buster, now you're in trouble," she said menacingly.
Cane scrambled upright and flexed his hands. He was astonished at the power of her grip -- for a couple of seconds there it had felt like she was going to crush his fists. Patricia made a "come on" motion with both hands, and Crusher needed no further invitation. Growling in frustration and rage he charged, ready to hit, kick, choke, or do whatever it took to put the well-muscled woman down.
Patricia met his attack with one of her own. The two behemoths stood in the ring trading punches, kicks, and kneelifts, neither gaining an advantage. Patricia absorbed Crusher's most damaging blows without flinching, her rock hard body seemingly impervious to pain. Crusher tried to overwhelm Patricia with his weight advantage, but she stood toe to toe with him, giving as good as she got.
Eventually Crusher realized that she was beating him down. Her blows were still being delivered with ferocious power, while his were losing steam. One especially hard knee doubled him up, and Patricia was quick to take advantage. She brought her knee up again, this time into Cane's jaw, and he crashed to the mat.
Cane knew he couldn't stay down too long or the blonde bombshell would hammer him into the mat. He clambered hastily to his feet, only to be met by a brutal clothesline. Patricia had bounced off the ropes and rushed at him, catching him perfectly under the chin with her massive arm just as he made it all the way erect. Cane crashed to the mat like a sack of potatoes. Patricia swiftly took advantage, kicking the prostrate man hard in the side several times.
Cane rolled away far enough that he was able to regain his feet. He stood there with unsteady legs. Patricia hammered him with brutal punches, driving him back into a corner. A side kick to his belly doubled him up, then a vicious uppercut sent his head snapping back into the corner padding. Patricia stood aside and watched as Crusher toppled to the mat like a building collapsing.
Patricia pounced on him quickly. Hauling the dazed man back to his feet, she draped him across her broad shoulders, then extended her arms. Crusher surveyed the mat from high in the air and knew he was in trouble. "Down you come, baby," said Patricia as she hurled him to the canvas. He crashed down from at least eight feet up, shaking the entire room with the impact. The BOOM of his back hitting the mat seemed to echo for hours.
Patricia took a few seconds to check herself for damage. Sweat poured down her magnificent body and she settled her breathing. No real harm done, she thought, just some bruises. She watched as Cane writhed in agony. Walking over to him, Patricia pulled him up again. Crusher surprised her by trying to secure a headlock in an attempt to buy himself some time to recover. She wrapped her mighty arms around him and suplexed him back to the floor.
Getting up quickly, Patricia started to haul him upright once more. Crusher tried to punch her in the belly, but there was very little behind it. Still, Patricia was amazed he could even make the attempt. She put one arm between his legs and the other over his shoulder, lifted, turned him over and body slammed him hard to the canvas. Picking him up again, she repeated the process. After the third body slam he tried to roll away, to escape Patricia's relentless attack.
But Patricia wasn't through with him. She positioned herself behind him and snaked her long, powerful legs around his waist. Locking his arms behind him, she began to crush his midsection between her steely thighs. The pain brought Cane out of his daze and he frantically thrashed around, trying to dislodge her deadly hold. Patricia controlled him easily now. It had been a long, difficult fight, but she knew she had gotten the upper hand at last.
A vicious jolt from Patricia's thighs elicited a groan from the big man. "How's it feel, hot stuff?" she taunted. "Does it hurt a little, hmm?" Patricia relaxed and tightened her vise grip, almost punching him with her thighs. Crusher felt as if she was cutting him in half. Her muscular thighs were locked just below his ribs and above his hips, so there was no bone to withstand the enormous pressure Patricia brought to bear. Cane's breathing got more difficult, and he knew that he was losing consciousness.
Patricia took the opportunity to show off. "Hi boys," she said to the closeup camera that was always focused on her. "Well, here we are again. This guy thought he'd beat me, but I've got him tied up like all the rest who dare to challenge me." She licked her lips, knowing that it would make the men who bought the tape cream their jeans when they saw it. "I think I'll take my time finishing this one off. No mercy," she whispered.
Patricia studied the masked skull before with curiosity. "I wonder what you look like under there, lover," she murmured. "What say we find out?"
Releasing his arms, she slowly began loosening the lacing holding the mask tightly to Cane's head. He tried to keep her hands away, jerking his head around and waving his arms. "No, please," Cane begged, his voice muffled. "Don't take my mask. I made it myself -- I haven't been seen without it for fifteen years."
"Tsk, tsk," Patricia clucked. "You certainly are making a big fuss about this. Let's see if I can't calm you down a little." She unlocked her legs from his waist, but before he could escape she had trapped his head between her well-muscled thighs. "There now," she whispered throatily. "That should settle things down a bit."
"Please, no," sobbed the big man, "I give, just don't do this to me."
"Aww, but Crusher, I want to see your handsome face." Patricia's husky voice dropped to a whisper. "I just love to see a guy's face after I've beaten him. And I have beaten you, haven't I Crusher?"
"Yes," he sobbed. "You're too strong for me. They tried to tell me, but I couldn't believe you were so strong. Please, leave me my mask. It's all I have left."
"But Crusher," Patricia pouted, still slowly untying the lacing, "I've really re-e-e-e-ally been looking forward to seeing what you look like. You don't want to disappoint me, do you?" Patricia punctuated her query with an almost gentle squeeze on Crusher's trapped head. "If you disappoint me, I might have to get rough with you, and I don't think you really want that," she said with a smile.
Patricia's fingers solved the knot holding the laces in place, and she began removing the leather thong from the eyelets sewn into the mask. Each time she did, Crusher sobbed in humiliation. Patricia let out a pleased little squeal with each set of eyelets she freed. "Oooh, Crusher, I just can't wait," she breathed sexily. She freed the thong from the last eyelet and hung it on her bikini top right between her breasts. It dangled there, accenting the silver of her costume.
Patricia released the head scissors and slithered on top of the beaten wrestler. Kneeling astride his chest, she prepared to reveal Crusher Cane's face for the first time ever. He tried to hold the leather covering to his face with his hands, but Patricia pulled almost gently on his wrists, forcing his arms down to the mat. Shifting her position, she placed her knees over his arms, pinning them to the canvas.
"Now, Crusher, let's see what you've been hiding for so long." Patricia took the mask between the thumb and forefinger of her right hand and slowly, teasingly pulled if off Cane's face.
Patricia looked down at the face that Crusher had hidden under a mask for fifteen years. Cane kepth his eyes closed, as if he could avoid being seen that way. "Why, Crusher," said Patricia, "you're much better looking than I thought. C'mon, now, open your eyes."
The big man had black hair that was plastered to his skull from the compression of the mask; his nose had been broken sometime in the past and healed crookedly, but Patricia considered this somewhat of a turn-on. Slowly, Cane opened his eyes and looked into the face of his conqueror. He muttered, "I can't believe you took my mask -- I sewed it myself, you know. Please, give it back."
Patricia threaded the thong she'd removed from Cane's mask through the eyeholes of the mask and tied it in a neat bow, so that the mask dangled from between her breasts. "I don't think so, Crusher, I like your looks," she replied. She got deliberately to her feet and paraded around the ring, her magnificent body pumped up from the recent battle. Crusher covered his face in his hands, still smarting from the humiliation of not only his defeat, but his unmasking.
After a circuit of the ring Patricia stood above her defeated foe. Fearfully, Cane peered up at the woman who had vanquished him. Patricia rubbed her trophy against her washboard stomach, murmuring, "Oohh, I just love the feel of fine leather." She dropped back down so she was kneeling astride him again, then flipped him onto his belly. Locking her sinewy arm under Cane's chin, Patricia applied the sleeper she liked to use to punctuate her victories.
"'Night, Crusher baby," she whispered. "Pleasant dreams."
When she knew he was out she slowly stood fully erect. Elizabeth entered the ring and proclaimed Patricia the victor yet again. Patricia started to duck between the ropes but stopped and went back to the prone form of Crusher Cane. She looked at him thoughtfully for a moment, then quickly bent and heaved him up over her shoulder. Carrying his limp body, the mask dangling from her bikini, Patricia exited the ring and headed for her office.
When Crusher Cane came to, he was laying on a black leather couch. Looking around, he saw he was in a well appointed office, tastefully decorated, with some expensive looking artwork on the wall. Jazz was playing softly in the background. He frowned -- something felt weird.
Then he remembered! He reached up and cautiously felt his face the face he'd always kept covered except when he was certain he was alone. The black leather mask was gone -- taken from him by force in the ring. Then he realized something else -- he was naked.
Patricia loomed into view. She'd removed her silver bikini, and the mask she'd removed from Crusher's face was hung by its laces around her neck, so that it dangled just below her jutting breasts. Crusher swallowed hard as he took in Patricia's body, now totally revealed in all its taut, sinewy glory. She smiled when she saw his reaction. "Welcome back to the living, Crusher," she murmured. "I really don't know why you wanted to hide your face in this for so long," she added, touching the mask. "You're really good looking. You're not a pretty boy -- I hate pretty boys -- something about them makes me want to mess up their faces." Patricia tilted her head slightly, examining him. "I dunno exactly how to describe it, but I like it."
Crusher made a grab for the mask. "Gimme that! It's mine!"
"Uh uh -- not any more, it's not," the tall blonde replied, grabbing his hand. "I took it fair and square. However, I might be persuaded to let you wear it again, just not exactly the same as before."
In a quick maneuver, Patricia swung one leg over Cane and knelt on the couch straddling his body. Crusher made another grab for the mask but found both his wrists captive in her firm grip. Her mouth descended on his, and she kissed him roughly. At first Crusher was shocked -- damn it, he was supposed to be the aggressor in sex, right? He tried to turn away, to avoid the woman's seeking tongue, but Patricia was relentless. Slowly the big man began to relax. His body began to respond to Patricia's efforts almost on its own, and he returned her kiss.
Patricia released Cane's wrists and slid her fingers down the big man's arms to his chest. She let her fingernails scrape the skin ever so gently, sending spasms of desire through Crusher's body. He tried to grab her and pull her closer, but she shifted her legs slightly to hold his arms firmly to his sides. "This's my party, lover," Patricia murmured. "We do what I say."
Cane was by now completly hard, and Patricia slid backward a bit, feeling his erection against her ass. "Why Crusher," she teased, "I do believe all this is turning you on." Crusher continued to squirm under her, getting her even hotter. "I do believe in safe sex, though," she said. "I told you before I might let you wear this mask again," she added.
Patricia turned quickly, taking Crusher by surprise. In one quick motion she pulled the lace holding the mask from around her neck and was doing something down there between his legs. "What the hell! What're you doing?" he spluttered. When she was done, she showed him her handiwork. His mask was wrapped around him in a manner Crusher had never envisioned. The lacing held it securely in place as Patricia re-seated herself on him and ravaged him with another kiss.
"Now you're dressed for fun and games," she whispered.
Cane again felt his body responding. Patricia slid down slightly and stiffened when Crusher's member, covered in supple leather, entered her. "Mmmmm, that's just right," she said as began to move with a wild, savage rhythm that Crusher responded to with greater and greater passion. Patricia moaned as his gyrations matched hers, and he took one of her breasts in his mouth and licked the nipple. She twined her fingers in his hair, holding his face hard against her chest, shuddering in delight as waves of pleasure engulfed her. "That's it, that's it THAT'S IT!" The pair were lost in ecstacy for several minutes as orgasm after orgasm racked their bodies.
When it was over Patricia gently nibbled Crusher's ear and whispered, "That's the best part. The fighting's the foreplay, but this is what it's all about." Crusher lay back, exhausted but no longer quite as sore as he'd been in the ring. Patricia removed the mask from him again and hung it back around her neck. "Well, you're definitely a keeper. Whatta ya think? Wanna stick around for a while?"
"You gonna give me back the mask?" he demanded.
"You really wanna wear it like this?" she smirked, holding up the very much worse for wear object in question. "If you win it from me, I'll give it back." She laughed and added, "And if you don't win it from me, I'll still let you wear it from time to time."
"What, you think I can't beat you?" he blustered. "I'll be ready for ya next time, then look out!"
"Yeah, Crusher, I know." She bent down and kissed him hard again. "And pigs can fly," she whispered.
The AmaFlix Story
Book 1
by Al Harder and Mike Shoemaker
Chapter Nine:
The Mancrusher Cometh
Patricia strolled from her office, humming, re-dressed in her bikini.
Annie turned in her chair and said, "Great Match! Where's the mask?"
"Um...I'll tell you later. Has Andrew signed the contract yet?"
"Yeah, but he wasn't too thrilled about it. He saw your bout with Crusher."
Patricia giggled. "Speaking of whom...I've got a hunch. Add him to the payroll."
Annie's mouth opened. "You don't think--"
"Yeah, I do. I can be pretty persuasive."
"Only you...." said Annie, as she pulled the necessary paperwork.
"That includes royalties for the video sales. That should add incentive."
"Sure thing."
Patricia took a step toward the training area, when a voice asked, "Ms. Daniels?"
She turned, to see an exquisitely beautiful, dark-featured woman, her thick, shiny hair pulled back and bound into a bun. She wore black sweats and white cross-trainers. An athletic bag hung from a shoulder.
"Yes?"
"Hello, I'm Samantha. Samantha Steele." They shook hands. "I was really impressed with your match."
"Thank you. What can I do for you?"
"Look, um...could you use another fighter? It's always been a dream of mine to work here. You're my idol."
Patricia smiled, and looked her over: the woman stood at her height, and she could see through her baggy clothes that she had a strong build, but couldn't discern much more.
"C'mon, she said, motioning toward the training room. "We'll see what you've got."
"Alan. Rick." Patricia hopped up to the ring apron. Two men were inside, discussing the finer points of headlock application. They turned to face her. "We've got a new girl who wants to audition. I'll need someone to face her for a few minutes." She looked them over, recalling their vitals from file: Alan was built for endurance and speed, with a lean, 160 pound frame. At six feet one, Rick was taller, and thirty pounds heavier. He sported strong shoulders and legs. Elaine had trained both of them, and she knew them to be skilled wrestlers.
"Rick," she said. "Why don't you stay--"
"That's okay," said Samantha, stepping up to the apron. Slipping through the ropes, she said, "They'll do."
"Both? That's a little unusual. You might want to wait until you've got some experience--"
"Oh, I've got experience," she said as she undid her bun, allowing her hair to flow down to her shoulders. She started shrugging out of her sweats.
"What kind--" Patricia stopped herself as Samantha exposed her body, dressed only in an interlaced posing bikini, colored black; it strained to contain her full, raised breasts. Her powerful, carefully sculpted sinews rippled as she moved and stretched, pulling her arms overhead, and dropping slowly to the mat in a splits position. Patricia felt as if she were looking into a mirror.
"I've been doing mostly back-alley stuff," she said as she pulled off her cross-trainers, and shoved them into her bag. "I tried to do as much wrestling as possible, but the guys always got rough. They could never accept the fact that a woman was beating them." Still seated, she took a pair of tall boots from her bag, and slipped them on. They were glossy black, rose to her lower thighs, and hugged the curves of her legs like a second skin. Samantha stood and placed her hands on her hips; Patricia thought she resembled a cruel angel, a vision of exotic beauty encased in dominatrix black. "I wound up at a place called Arena for awhile. It was an underground outfit that featured every kind of fighting imaginable."
"How did you do?"
She smiled; Patricia thought she looked somehow dangerous. "I won."
Samantha turned to the men, and gestured. "Come on," she said, moving toward them. "Let's go."
Alan and Rick were slow to act. They looked at each other, as if to say, both of us? Is she crazy? They moved to flank her, staying at her sides as she circled.
As if by mutual signal, they charged, seizing her arms and twisting, applying shoulder locks. With a laugh she flexed and pulled; the men flew together, the slap of their bodies colliding echoing through the room. They collapsed like marionettes with their strings cut. Samantha pouted and smiled, teasing up her hair, reeking of confidence as the men struggled to rise.
She waited in a corner for them to regain their footing, then ran out and clotheslined them simultaneously. They spun and fell, Alan rolling to his stomach, Rick landing on his back. Patricia crossed her arms, nodding, impressed with Samantha's sheer strength and the precision of her execution. Samantha hauled Alan to his feet, and braced him under his crotch and chest. She pushed him overhead with ease, staring out at the gathering crowd of onlookers. "Time for the chopper," she said, and simutaneously spun him and stepped out from under him. He careened face-first into the mat. Moments later, Rick suffered the same fate.
The remainder of the match was similarly brutal, Samantha administering slams, pile drivers, suplexes, all manner of power moves to the reeling duo. She ended the match by lying both men head-to-head, and then, pushing Alan one length down, she locked both men's skulls between her rippling thighs. They gasped out their submissions, and Patricia called for an end to the contest.
Samantha bowed to the applause of the assembled women, her magnificent body glistening with sweat, and blew smoke from an imaginary finger-pistol. The men in attendance clapped politely, none too pleased with the notion of having to face her in a match. She helped revive Alan and Rick, and, once they'd been declared bruised but otherwise healthy, gave each an affectionate hug.
"Thanks, guys," said Patricia, and patted them on the back. "Go soak it off in the whirlpool."
"Sure," said Rick, massaging his scalp. "Soak it off. Right."
"Julia," said Patricia; the big blonde was waiting outside the ring. "Make sure Rick and Alan get some therapy. The works."
"Ze vorks?" Her eyes lit up, and her arms slid around Rick's waist. He yelped as she hoisted him over a shoulder. "Ja, ze vorks. I vill be very thorough."
Cherisse took Alan and slung him up as well. "Let me help. I've had my eye on this one for awhile anyway."
As they hauled the distressed men off, Patricia turned to Samantha. "What can I say? You're in." They shook hands again.
"Thank you," she said. "How soon can I be fighting?"
"Well, the rings are booked up today, but I think studio two will be open tomorrow for a couple of hours. Is that too soon?"
"Oh, absolutely not. It'll give me time to get to know the place."
"Great. I'll give you a personal tour." Shaking hands once more, she said, "Welcome to AmaFlix."
Phase one complete, Samantha thought as they slid down from the ring. She looked around the room, at the expensive equipment and ultramodern decoration, and thought, it's gonna be nice when this is all mine.
Pedro Chavez had a chip on his shoulder. Darlene had totally trashed him in the ring three days before, and the more he thought about it the angrier he got.
After all, he'd been the state high school wrestling champ at a hundred and sixty pounds, and had gone on to do quite well in college, coming in second at the NCAA's. And now this red haired female had beaten him three falls in a row, making him give up once, knocking him out for the second fall and pinning him easily to take the third. "Women shouldn't even be in the ring, even against other women," Pedro thought as he watched Darlene doing reps on the bench press and seethed.
He'd almost come to blows with Andrew Roy yesterday. Andrew had made some kind of throw away remark and Pedro had decided to take offense. He had nothing against the karate expert, it was just that -- well -- dammit, he needed to re-assert his manhood SOMEHOW.
Darlene had observed the incident, and so now Pedro was readying himself for a match against her. He knew what he'd do differently, he decided. "I was too damn easy on the bitch the first time," he thought. "This time I'll really turn it on.
For Darlene's part, Pedro was really beginning to get on her nerves. She was usually extremely easy to get along with, but she had a redhead's temper, and when it flared, watch out! Darlene especially disliked guys who held grudges, and she intended to make certain there was no doubt in Pedro's mind who the superior wrestler -- indeed, person -- was.
Darlene finished her workout and set the four hundred pound weight back on the rack -- she'd taken it fairly easy for her pre-match workout, figuring she could make it up afterwards -- and went off to change into her wrestling togs, a sheer athletic half-tank, thong-backed pelvic leotard in white and kneepads. She laced up her knee high white boots, then cleared her mind of all distractions and concentrated on what she'd do in the ring.
Word had gotten around and there was a crowd of people around the ring and all the cameras were manned. Elaine, in her referee's shirt, started to climb up on the apron but Darlene called out, "No ref today, Elaine. Just him and me." She also saw Jim come out of the office, concern on his face. "Don't be worried for me," she thought. "You'd better be worried for him."
Pedro was already in the ring, sweat staining the waist of his gray athletic shorts as he waited angrily for Darlene to get in. As she approached the ring, Pedro snarled, "C'mon, chica, I don't have all day. After I beat you, you better go back to the kitchen an' do some cooking, comprende?" Darlene's temper, carefully held in check for so long, snapped.
Darlene sprang into the ring and leaped at the astonished man like a panther. A quick lift and slam sent Pedro crashing to the canvas. Before he could get up, Darlene had him draped across her shoulders. She threw herself backwards, slamming Pedro down and landing atop him, driving all the air from his lungs.
Yanking the stunned man back to his feet, she whipped him into the ropes and hit him with a dropkick as he came flying off. Not giving him any time to recover, Darlene climbed to the top rope and flew across the ring, flattening him like a pancake with her powerful body. She got back up and said, "The kitchen, huh? Maybe that's where you belong!" Then she went back to work.
Wrapping her powerful arms around Pedro, she crushed him until she felt his ribs bend under the pressure. Pedro moaned in pain from the devastating bear hug as Darlene poured on the pressure. "What're ya gonna do now, chico?" Darlene growled. Pedro pulled in vain at Darlene's taut biceps, trying to free himself. She crushed him against her chest even more fiercely, and Pedro began to see stars. "Not much, I guess," the redhead answered herself.
She threw him down in disgust and watched him struggle to his feet. "Here, let me help you," she said, and picked him up. This time she draped him across her shoulders back down, her sinewy arms pulling down on his chin and legs. The small of Pedro's back lay across Darlene's trapezius muscle, and it felt like she was breaking him in two. Darlene kept him in the torture rack only for a minute or so, but it was long enough to put Pedro in agony. When she was certain Pedro knew there was nothing he could do to escape, Darlene simply dropped him to the canvas.
That was how the match went. Darlene hit Pedro with every wrestling hold in the book, and a few she made up on the spot. He was flipped, slammed, twisted like a pretzel, squeezed, lifted, spun, and dropped as if he were the practice dummy Darlene often worked out with. Patricia raised an eyebrow and looked thoughtful as she watched Darlene turn Pedro every way but loose.
Darlene tortured Pedro for almost fifteen minutes, putting him in excruciating holds and pressuring him just short of breaking bones and dislocating joints. When she was finally done, Pedro was on his belly, crawling at her feet. Darlene's powerful body was covered in sweat, highlighting the muscles that lurked just beneath her skin. Contemptuously, Darlene flipped Pedro onto his back, then dropped to the mat at his side and locked her sleek, corded legs around his midsection. Pedro groaned in agony as Darlene tensed her steely thighs again. Her legs crushed his belly until he felt as if he were going to puke.
"Well, Pedro, here we are again. I've beaten the shit out of you and you haven't touched me." She applied enough pressure to make his breathing difficult, and soon he was almost out. She relented a bit and Pedro became aware that she was speaking to him.
"Now, Pedro, just before we began you were saying that I belonged someplace -- I don't remember the exact quote," Darlene said. She tensed her thighs, sending a jolt of pain through his beaten body. "Maybe you'd like to rephrase what you said, hmm?"
"Aaarrrgghh! Please, let me go. You're killing me."
"If you don't say what I want to hear, that's a very real possibility. Now, where do women belong?"
"Uhhhh, Madre de Dios, please no more!"
Darlene jolted him again, then let up a bit. "I'm waiting," she said.
"Ooohh -- women -- ahh -- women belong where ever they want to be. Ple-e-e-a-s-e, let me go."
Darlene released him, then rose to stand over him like a conquering warrior. "Well, that's better," she said, "even though I don't think you mean it. I was thinking of taking you into the back, but you still disgust me." She caught sight of Jim at the edge of the crowd. "But I know someone who doesn't." She exited the ring and stalked toward the computer expert, who beat a hasty retreat back to the office. Darlene wasn't far behind.
Pedro lay in the ring regaining some of his strength as the crowd broke up. He sat upright and scowled, then slapped the mat hard. "Damn! She did it again! That's it, I'm outta here!"
"That's not the answer," came a husky voice from behind him. He looked around and saw that Annie McDonald was in the ring, leaning against the ropes. She was dressed in a lycra thong bikini, the pants held up by suspenders. The gray of the fabric matched her eyes. On her feet were black wrestling boots. "The problem isn't Darlene, or AmaFlix, or the world," she went on. "It's your attitude. It needs adjusting."
"What do you know?" he yelled. "My Papa was ruler of our house. He was the boss, you understan'? My Mama had to do whatever he said. It's how I was brought up! And now, some damn virus comes along, and you expect me to change like that?"
Annie slowly approached him. "I know it's tougher for some men than others," she said. "Latin men have a real history of being macho. I wonder what's happening right now in Mexico and Central America," she mused, her brow wrinkling. "I bet it's real interesting down there. But Pedro," she added, drawing closer, "I can tell you're torn between admiring the women here and wanting to conquer them."
She was close to him now, and Pedro was hypnotized by the sleek muscles undulating beneath her velvety skin. Annie reached down and raised his chin, forcing him to meet her steady gaze. "I think you've got the potential to change, and I'd like to help adjust your attitude."
Pedro gulped, the slowly stood up. Annie's eyes were nearly level with his. He tried to bluster. "What, you wanna beat me too? You think you can? Just because Darlene did?"
Annie smiled slightly and said, "I told you, I want to help you adjust your attitude. And yes, I can beat you." Her eyes hardened a bit as she continued, "I may not be as strong as Darlene -- yet -- nor as skilled a wrestler -- yet -- but I'm still better -- and stronger -- than you are. No brag, just fact."
Pedro growled, "So you think you're better than me, just like all the other women here. Just like all the women I meet everywhere. I was a champion wrestler, for God's sake. I was somebody. Now I'm nobody. But I can still beat you!"
Annie's expression hardened further. "You're welcome to try, Pedro. I don't want to hurt you. But I do want to help you change. Maybe this is the only way I can get your attention."
Pedro had barely recovered enough from the beating administered by Darlene. He lumbered toward Annie. He grabbed at her leg and tried to dump her on her back. Annie wrapped her arm around Pedro's head and secured a front facelock. Clamping down hard, she forced Pedro back to his knees. She let go of his head and took a step back, saying, "You've got to understand, Pedro. Women know exactly what they want, and they're strong enough to take it. Men can either walk alongside, or they can get out of the way. If they don't want to do either, they may find themselves shoved aside and left behind."
Pedro growled incoherently as he got back to his feet. Annie sighed and motioned for him to come on. He charged at her, trying to drive a shoulder into her gut, but she easily sidestepped. He spun around and she caught him in a side headlock. A quick thrust of her hip and Pedro was down on the mat again, with Annie's weight on top of him. She clamped down and squeezed hard. Pedro's head was caught between her rock hard bicep and equally strong forearm. Pedro vainly tried to pull her arm away from his head. His face was numb where her arm ground into it.
"Do I have your attention now?" Darlene asked. Pedro mumbled something incoherent but obscene sounding, and she tensed her steely arms again, jolting him hard. "None of that, now," she admonished. "I want you to be civil." She loosened her grip enough so he could speak. "Now, this is just to show you that I mean business," she said. "You're going to listen whether you want to or not."
"Lemme go," Pedro muttered. "I'll kill you if you don't!"
"How are you going to do that," Annie asked, "if you can't even get out of this little old headlock? Now, like I was saying, women have a new attitude. We still need to have men, but we're going to have them on OUR terms, not theirs. I think you have the potential to be one of the men who will stand beside us, but only if you change the way you look at women."
She shifted position, and Pedro's face was now trapped between her arm and breast. He could feel the steely hardness of her muscles under the softness as she moved against him, and didn't find it entirely unpleasant. Annie continued her lecture: "For centuries men have held the reins of power -- politically and physically. Now, women have passed most men by, at least physically. That's a proven fact. A lot of men resent, even hate women now. Too bad for them," Annie added. "For the men who have the courage and the wisdom to celebrate the coming of the new dominion, things can be very nice indeed. Any of this getting through that thick skull of yours, Pedro?"
She loosened her arm a little more. "I still just don't understan' why women wanna prove themselves, compete with men," Pedro said.
"Think about this, Pedro," Annie replied. "The Hispanic people have been a minority in this country for a long time, for the most part kept away from political power. If there were some magic potion that would give people with Hispanic blood physical and political power to surpass the gringos, what would that mean?"
Pedro thought for a few seconds. "I kinda get what you're leading up to, Annie. But you can't expect me to throw away everything I grew up with, all my cultural heritage, just like that."
"Nobody expects that," Annie said. Her arm now was only loosely hooked around Pedro's head, but if he noticed he didn't try to get away. "But you can try to change, try to understand what we're going through. It's a big step for most of us, too, and not all women are adjusting as well as the women here at AmaFlix."
Pedro nodded thoughtfully. Annie gave him a peck on the nose. "Now, that's better. I want you to apologize to Darlene -- and no more talk about quitting!"
Pedro smiled. "Yeah, okay, I'll apologize, and I'll try to adjust. I don't know if I can, though."
"Tell you what. If you get frustrated, you can come to me and we'll talk a while, or something," she winked and smiled. "I think you'll enjoy the change if you give it half a chance. The rewards are pretty good." Annie stood up, then picked Pedro up and cradled him in her arms. Giving him a passionate kiss, she carried him off to the jacuzzi.
When they arrived, they found it already in use. Andrew Roy, the karate expert who was scheduled against Patricia later, was splashing around in a playful way with Sabrina Peters, the woman who'd beaten him silly a couple of days ago. Sabrina and Andrew rolled around like a pair of porpoises, grabbing and kissing and generally having a great romp. Annie shrugged, tossed Pedro in to join them and quickly followed.
Pedro wasn't sure exactly who did what to whom in the ensuing fifteen minutes, but he did find himself caressed, kissed, and generally ravaged by both females. Andrew grinned at him and said, "Sure beats workin' for a living, don't it?"
Pedro grinned back. "Betcher ass, amigo. An' I'm sorry for blowin' up yesterday."
"No hard feelings, Pedro. I don't hold grudges." The two were suddenly pulled apart as each woman decided there'd been enough talking. Pedro found himself nuzzling Sabrina's breast while she gyrated in pleasure, and he thought "This's a hell of a reward. Almost makes gettin' trashed worthwhile." Suddenly he found himself in Annie's arms again, and her sweet lips engulfed him as they clung together. Finally sated, the four pulled themselves out of the water laughing uncontrollably. Annie kissed Pedro again, murmuring, "Yes, I think you'll adjust with very little trouble."
Andrew was really nervous. He'd been bamboozled into a match with Patricia (she'd asked any volunteer to step forward, and all the other guys in line with him had stepped back -- the turkeys!) and the time was almost here. He'd seen several "Patricia Daniels Special" matches during the time he'd been working at AmaFlix, and Patricia never failed to smash her opponent into mush.
He looked for a bright side, and thought about the new percentage deal Patricia had offered the AmaFlix guys. "Yeah, maybe it'll pay my hospital bills," he thought.
Sabrina, the lovely woman who'd beaten him a couple of days ago and who'd ravished him less than an hour ago, stepped in front of him and placed both hands on his shoulders. Looking into his eyes, she said, "Andrew, clear your mind of everything except what you need to do. This is just another opponent. You must relax and concentrate, let your mind and body become one."
Her voice soothed him, and he smiled. Placing his right fist into his left hand, he bowed deeply to her. "Thank you for reminding me -- I sometimes forget that Karate is even more dependent on the mind than the body."
Sabrina bowed in return and smiled. "Do your best, Andy. No one can ask you to do more."
Andrew climbed into the ring and removed the jacket of his gi. He wore only loose fitting black pants. He loosened up with a few stretches -- sitting down, he spread his legs out wide and brought his upper body down and touched his forehead to the mat. He felt the kinks ease out of his legs and back. Sitting back up, he crossed his legs in the lotus position and closed his eyes, meditating on the task before him.
He heard the stir in the crowd that heralded Patricia's arrival and opened his eyes again. The tall blonde was slipping through the ropes, clad in her usual silk robe and white boots. Andrew knew that this match, unlike the one with Sabrina, would have no rounds, and there would be no moving to a neutral corner on a knockdown -- it would go until one of them submitted or was knocked out for a count of sixty, and a knockdown just meant you were more vulnerable. Not only that, he thought, but this is anything goes -- wrestling, brawling, whatever it took to win, he knew Patricia would do.
Patricia smiled sweetly at Andrew and let the robe slide to the floor, revealing the incredible body that was a combination of sex appeal and brutality. The silver bikini revealed more than it concealed as she turned in a circle, giving everyone (and especially the cameras) a good look. Patricia put both hands on her head and flexed her biceps, shaking back her honey blonde hair. When she had completed the circle and was facing Andrew once again, he placed his fist inside his hand and bowed. She returned the gesture gravely, then stood erect and smilingly asked, "Ready for some bruises, Andrew?" She motioned to Elizabeth to ring the bell.
Andrew stood in a T-stance, his weight well distributed, looking for an opening. He was giving away an inch and a half in height and over fifteen pounds to his adversary, not to mention the strength advantage Patricia enjoyed. Patricia moved in like a wrestler, crouched, arms outstretched. Andrew knew that if he let her close with him he wouldn't stand a chance. He snapped a front kick at her face which she easily blocked, then tried a backfist. Patricia ducked under his swinging arm and stepped in, trying a straight punch at his face. Andrew deflected her fist at the last second and spun, slamming at her ribs with his heel. Patricia blocked the kick with her forearm and tried to capture his leg, but Andrew recoiled quickly and was back on balance. He next tried a crescent kick at her head, but Patricia was ready and moved back just out of range as his foot passed, then stepped back in and tried to take his supporting leg out.
Andrew rolled over her sweeping leg and regained his feet. Patricia smiled and said, "Very agile indeed, Andy." She moved in relentlessly, trying to grapple with him. Andrew avoided her clutching hands and tried a punch to her face, but she blocked it again. Patricia spun around and caught him with a backfist to the cheek. Andrew tried to back away, but Patricia was unrelenting. A spin kick of got through his defenses and connected high on his chest, driving him back. Patricia stepped in and hit him in the chin with the heel of her hand. Andrew fell back into the ropes and bounced off. Using the ropes to add to his momentum, Andrew tried to take her legs out with a sweep kick, but Patricia jumped up and into a backflip, ending up on her feet again.
Patricia grabbed at him again but Andrew somehow avoided her grasp and caught her arm. A quick twist over his head and he thought he had her in trouble, but she wrenched her arm free easily and drove a kick into his leg. The impact dropped him to one knee, and Patricia jumped up and came down with an elbow drop right on the point of his shoulder.
Intense pain shot through Andrew's left arm and he knew she'd nailed a nerve center. The arm went numb in an instant. He ducked and rolled, buying some time and space, but Patricia moved in on him quickly, not allowing him to recover. He tried to hold her off by kicking to her belly. The attempt at offense surprised Patricia and the kick got through, but Andrew's foot just bounced off the sinewy shield of her abdominal muscles.
Patricia retaliated with a kick of her own, but Andrew surprised her by trapping her leg. Before he could pull her off balance, however, she jumped high into the air and pivoted on the foot Andrew held captive. Swinging her other leg around, she sent it smashing into the side of Andrew's head.
Stars filled Andrew's vision as the force of the blow sent him down hard to the canvas. He shook his head and was immediately sorry. Patricia was on her feet quickly and scooped him up before he could scramble upright again. Andrew was lifted, turned, and slammed to the mat with enough force to stun him further.
Patricia was quick to take advantage of his vulnerability. Going to the nearest corner, she climbed to the top rope. With a cry of "Bombs away!" she leaped high in the air, landing spreadeagled across his supine form. Her solid, muscular body drove any remaining air from his lungs. Grabbing him by his good arm, she hauled him back to his feet. Twisting the arm, she forced him to his knees again. With surgical precision, Patricia drove three devastating kicks into his ribs. When she released his arm, Andrew was doubled over, his forehead resting on the mat. Picking him up again, she stood behind him and wrapped her mighty arms around his waist. With a quick heave she lifted him high in the air, then drove his tailbone down onto her knee. The atomic drop sent intense pain racing up Andrew's spine into his head as his vertebrae compressed, and he felt as if his head might fly off his shoulders. He collapsed like a puppet whose strings were cut.
Patricia looked at Andrew, crumpled on the canvas, and smiled in satisfaction. She lifted him in her arms like a child and cooed, "Time to get up, Andy. Come on, now." His eyes flickered open and she smiled down at him, then lifted him over her head. Arms outstretched, she skipped around with Andrew's body high above, then she dropped him face down to the mat. Kneeling astride him, she caught his wrists in her big hands and pulled them across his throat, so that he was being choked by his own arms. Andrew kicked his feet and struggled in vain to throw her off. Relenting for a moment, Patricia asked, "You look pretty helpless to me. You wanna give it up, Andy?"
"N-n-n-not y-y-yet," the battered man stammered.
Patricia smiled at the camera and said, "I guess he needs some more convincing." She wrapped her well-muscled legs around his waist and rolled to her side, maintaining her grip on his arms. When she clamped down with her steely legs Andrew moaned in agony. Pulling on his arms again, Patricia could feel him getting weaker and weaker. She let up a bit, letting Andrew suck in some air. "I can keep this up all day, Andy, but it wouldn't do you any good. How about it -- wanna quit?"
"Ooooohhh -- yeah, okay, I give."
Patricia released his arms and wrapped him up in a sleeper hold. Her arms constricted the carotid artery, slowing the flow of blood to Andrew's brain. He quickly went limp in her iron grip.
Patricia stood up and waved to the camera, then picked up Andrew and slung him over her shoulder. As Julia started into the ring, Patricia said, "I'll take care of him, Julia. No need for your services." Julia laughed and waved as Patricia carried Andrew back to her office.
When Andrew came to he was lying prone on a soft surface. Strong, well practiced fingers were moving up and down his spine. A sudden snap and the pain from the atomic drop seemed to float away. The soothing fingers now probed at his damaged shoulder, and once again the pain was gone. Then strong hands turned him over.
Patricia knelt over him, her blonde hair shadowing her beautiful face. She was nude, her beautiful, deadly body now totally revealed to him. She smiled when she saw that his eyes were open, and her mouth descended hungrily on his. Her powerful hands were busy with his trousers, and with a loud rip she tore them off him.
Andrew knew the ritual -- Patricia had conquered him and was now taking what was hers. He smiled. Getting beat by Patricia DID have its rewards. Her firm breasts filled his hands and he stroked her erect nipples. Patricia moaned with pleasure and thrust her tongue deep into his mouth, demanding, marauding, asserting her dominance. Andrew surrendered himself to her again, in a much more pleasant fashion than just moments before...
She lay cradling him in one arm, their sweat slick bodies cooling slowly. She raised up on her elbow and gazed down into his face, her ice blue eyes smiling. "Mmmmm, that was nice," she said. "I'm glad you 'volunteered'."
He grinned back. "I'm gonna get the other guys for that little move. I can't say I enjoyed the first round, but the second was a blast."
One of her hands teased his earlobe. "What say we make it a three round match?" He reached up and caressed her taut shoulders, nodding. Her mouth came down on his again...