Fetish Pro Wrestling Ch. 02

Nicole rolled over, palming the canvas and drawing in her knees. She scrambled, planting her fishnet-covered knees in the middle of Ellie's mammaries before leaning down to pluck Ellie's bronzed thighs off the canvas and slip them under her arms. My lips pull into a confused slant – the video's almost over, but a suplex isn't usually a finisher, even with the unique lactation build-up. The ref slid in, starting the count, and the cameraman slid into the ring, finding an angle behind Nicole's right shoulder as her fingers parted Ellie's golden bush, and her tongue parted the thick bronzed lips.

A moment later, the ref clapped two, and Nic recoiled – a golden stream shot from Ellie's splayed lips and splashed against Nic's lips and chin, pattering down on her pale chest, Ellie's bronzed thighs, and the old faded canvas. Thick thigh muscles tightened around Nicole's soaked ribs as Ellie's stream died to a dribble. The ref clapped three as her hands pushed on Nicole's cheeks, rolling the lighter, paler wrestler forward. She pulled herself up to kneel astride Nicole's breasts, reversing the pin! Ellie was on top now, with Nic's thinner thighs tucked under the blonde's arms. She scooted backward, kneeling over Nicole's shocked face, a few final dribbles dropping into Nicole's open mouth. The ref held up three fingers and called a three-count, then immediately dropped back to his knees to clap the canvas for the new pin!

I'm transfixed, wondering if Nic was going to kick out – a little more than a minute of video remained. A surprise reverse like that wouldn't normally be a big deal for her, but she was soaked in Ellie's hot pee. The blonde's tongue drove between Nic's thin, pale lips and bored in her entrance, her thin thighs tensing at that always-welcome invasion. Nicole's head rose, tongue lapping at the golden drops collected on Ellie's bush and mounded lips before slipping in her pee-soaked slit, trying to distract the determined blonde.

The ref clapped two, and I caught a twinge in Nic's lower belly. A golden stream splashed against Ellie's chin and ran down her collarbones, branching into little creeks and streams flowing over her mountains. The steaming, streaming pee dripped back onto Nicole's folded belly, pooling in her bellybutton before overflowing and running down the little creases of muscle, over her sides, and soaking into the canvas. Moments before, Nic's jaw was working, feverishly devouring; now, her head bammed against the canvas, her mouth a glistening O of amazement as her own "pee-out" attempt failed – no, backfired – as she lay in a puddle of pee, coated in Ellie's and her own boiling warmth. Her boots flailed and waved behind Ellie's head, desperate – but too distracted – to kick out as the blonde kept devouring her.

"THREE!" clapped the ref, and Nic shuddered, her muscles shuddering as she rewarded Ellie with a different kind of squirt. The blonde kept lapping away at Nicole's insides, the raven-haired wrestler short-circuited by swimming in her opponent's and her own pee. The ref clapped four, and Ellie dragged her tongue from Nic's soaked lips, dancing it over her pale taint, inching toward her shivering star. She stiffened her tongue, jabbing it deep inside Nicole's asshole, her blonde hair bobbing and swaying as her face rose and fell – her cheeks clapping against Nic's as she tongue-fucked her opponent's dark depths.

The ref waited, taking his time raising his hand for that last count – our counts are normally several seconds each – but I'm sure an entire glacier melted before the ref's hand reached its apex this time. As it did, so did Nicole, and another small squirt splashed against Ellie's collarbones and ran down her breasts, mixing with a little milk still leaking from the bronze-blonde's left nipple. The ref's hand finally clapped down, and he called for the "bell".

The video over, Nic's face turns toward mine, wearing one of the biggest, brightest smiles I'd ever seen in the two years we've worked together. "So! Let's try again: Hi Ness! Let's talk Ellie, what do you think?"

I blink, still in awe. We do kinky things all the time in FPW, but – normally brand-new people aren't that incredible. After a few moments to digest what just happened, I give her a hushed "Holy shit."

"Right?" She's still grinning, those arched eyebrows climb her forehead as if saying "Aaaannnnd?"

I quirk my lips, pull them in, chew for a moment. I have to ask her – have to. "It's amazing that she asked to plan spots with you, but - how much of that was you?"

"The breast abuse and lactation spot was completely her. She wanted me to pin her and pee on her face for the five-count. I suggested the pee-out and reversal, and she said exactly what I hoped she would: she wanted me to try to pee-out, and she'd keep eating me through it. The dribbling in my mouth wasn't planned, that was her, improvising."

I nod, my ponytail swishing along my back, my lips relaxing a moment before pulling into a bright smile. "She's perfect! Yes to all of the things with her." I turn back to my storyboard, opening the Roster file. My stylus flows a moment: KINKY ELLIE – I pause, a small frown on my lips, and tap the stylus against the point of my chin a few times. That's a terrible ring-name, though. Maybe if she was going to job, but why would we do that to her? She's got a ton of natural talent. She loves pee-play and lactation and who knows what else. She looks like a lifeguard but that's SO incredibly overplayed. I love her wavy blonde mane - wait. Wavy blonde mane. Pee-play, golden showers. I swipe to erase "KINKY ELLIE".

"Nic, what's her name?"

"Real name? Gabriella Solstice. She prefers 'Ellie', though."

I make a small script note about her real name, and finish the rest in looping script. "Well, now she can get used to 'The Golden Lioness'." A few abbreviations about kinks accompany the name before I tap and drag it right into the middle of the roster to save it. I glance back over my shoulder, "I'm excited! Let's see what Jess says after their practice session today, but if she's ready, let's give her a good debut this weekend."

Nicole's grinning, "This is gonna be fucking amazing fucking."

"And I don't even have to hold your beer."

Nic spins again, palms pushing on the desk, legs unfolding as she lands on her feet and heads for the door. "Let's do epic things." She turns the corner and heads down the hall, probably to check in on Ellie and Jess.

I dive into being creative, and using my creativity to "direct" how others use theirs. A lot of that involves story-stuff: working with wrestlers on their characters – and story-lines – and trying to make it all fit together in a way that makes sense to them and the crowd.

It's showtime, almost anyway, the doors are opening. Backstage is bustling as much as it can with the limited staff we have – everyone is cross-trained to do someone else's job - that's just how it has to be. Upstairs is the Production Control Room, run by Kat33 (don't ask, yes it's still pronounced like "Katie") "Kat" Clawson. It's her "lair" – a wall of one-way glass gives her a commanding view of the studio floor, its opposite wall is a bank of monitors fed by a flock of stationary "hard" cams, an overhead cable cam, and the two cameramen at ringside. Normally there's a cameraman backstage, too, for promos and interviews, but they're out sick.

Walking into "Control" is an experience. Dim blue lighting lends an "underwater" feel, like being in an indoor aquarium. Three workstations sit a few feet apart from each other, at the points of an imaginary triangle, allowing the techs to glance out the window, or at the monitors, without turning too far. At the center of the "triangle" is a dais with a rotating workstation table and chair, occupied by Kat: an almost-translucent-pale girl with floofy, mid-back-length electric-blue hair that's barely contained by a hairband – with blue cat-ears. Her lips move, murmuring into the low-profile headset mic at the corner of her lips, and round glasses mirror the monitor she's focused on; her fingers dance on her keyboard with quiet taps. Behind her, burgundy hair swishes as Annabelle leans over, her tattooed hand beckoning me to join her.

The clop of my boot heels seems like a booming echo as I walk past Kat, who's still engrossed in – whatever she's doing – and slip in behind Annabelle's workstation. My dark hair swishes around her tattooed left shoulder as I lean in to look; if you want to describe Annabelle in one word: tattoos. It's probably easier to describe what's not tattooed on Annabelle Dawson: ass, back, belly, face, cock, and balls. Yep, that's it. Everywhere else has some kind of tattoo: roses on the back of her left hand and front of her left thigh, a kind of "crown" symbol on the back of her right wrist, a trio of mountain peaks on her left breast, and "XI" on the front of each shoulder. I'm not sure what any of them signify. Annabelle doesn't talk much about her tattoos, or, well, really anything.

Her fingers tug her headset down around her neck, touching the mic mute button. "You're going to love this," she stage-whispers – Kat's hatred of distraction and noise when she's busy is legend. A grin graces her face as she opens a browser window on the monitor nearest me, logging in to the promotion's PornTub account. "Aidria posted this this morning," Annabelle hovers the mouse over "FPW – Scottish Maiden vs Vixen" and a thumbnail of what has to be my back, upside-down, with Jess' red locks framing my spread cheeks.

A gasp hitches in my throat as my eyes catch on how many views: 1,209,533.

"Right?! Isn't that incredible?!" Annabelle bounces in her seat, trying to keep her voice down.

Kat spins in her chair to face us, cocking her head to the left and giving an inquisitive rolling meow like a cat: "Prrrrow? Go ahead, I'm done." She speaks with a fast cadence and a pitch too high to be natural – I'm pretty sure Kat is trying to transform herself into a living anime character. The white Hello Kitty shirt with a looming cartoony Cthulhu, tentacles poised in a parody of hentai, blue pleated miniskirt, and knee-high stockings disappearing into blue Converses helps that image – a lot.

Annabelle's animated: "Have you seen how many hits Nessi's match with Jess got?!"

Kat shakes her head, blue hair swishing at her mid-back, and hops out of her chair to come over. A blue cat-tail sways from under the hem of her skirt as she walks. Yes, it's a butt-plug; no, according to her, it never comes out, except in the bathroom or "if something else needs the real estate". She leans over Annabelle's right shoulder, her eyes turning into hazel pinpricks in seas of white, mouth agape in exaggerated shock. "Holy-shit-Ness-I-can't-believe-it-that's-amazing-incredible-and-crazy," jumbles out of her. "GO YOU! GO JESS! GO US," she blares.

Busy Kat hates noise, idle Kat doesn't mind it, excited Kat makes it – lots of it. Annabelle and I both wince, wishing for the 63^rd time that Kat came with a remote – with volume control. Around her neck, Annabelle's headset blasts: "Kat! Watch your VOLUME-" Kat grimaces, yanking her headset down around her neck. The Jersey-tinged soprano continues, "-when you have your headset on. Some of us want to still hear when we're 20, k?" The voice pauses a moment, then: "What's going on up there, anyway?"

Annabelle slips her headset back on, unmuting it. "I was showing Nessi and Kat how many hits 'Ness vs Jess' got today."

"How many?"

"One million, two-hundred-nine thousand, nine-hundred seventy-four now." Silence. I leaned toward Kat's headset. Annabelle's voice, in stereo: "Jamielyn?"

The headset speaker rustled, muted whoops and cheers drifting from it. A smile tugged at the corners of my lips as Kat slipped the headset back on, behind her cat-ear headband, and bounced – yes, bounced, like a kitten chasing string – back to her workstation.

"That's amazing – and now it's time to go do it again." I give Annabelle's shoulders a brief squeeze, and my boots clop-clop-clop as I leave Kat's "lair". I spare a quick glance out the window – fans file in and find seats, even on a Thursday – even on a Wednesday, we're selling out the house.

Back downstairs, I idle outside "gorilla" a moment. Caitlyn Minx, the Stage Manager-slash-Backstage Interviewer, and her younger sister-slash-assistant-slash-girlfriend, "run the show" from here and make sure everything and everyone is in-place where and when they're supposed to be. The two Minxes, yes, that's really their last name, are huddled over their iPads, comparing notes and murmuring into their headsets, checking with stagehands to make sure everything's ready.

Cait's a hair shorter than Jamielyn, despite being ten years older than her little sis. Raven hair frames her face, the other half flowing down her back to the middle of her shoulder blades – a navy blue dress hangs from her shoulders and hugs her subdued curves. She could almost be a double for Nicole, but with softer features, warm hazel eyes, and the ability to tan. Jamielyn's a little taller and thicker than her sister, with a thin layer of babyfat adorning her cheeks – both sets – and belly. Chestnut hair brushes the very tops of her shoulders, teasing the t-shirt she's wearing. Short jean shorts shift as Jamielyn turns, a silent scream parting her lips as she rushes over, throwing her arms around my shoulders and squeeeeeezing. Caitlyn beams a smile like a lighthouse – that smile is a Minx trademark, along with the Minx Moan – before joining Jamielyn and making the hug a "double-team move".

Moments pass before they release me and I can breathe again. "I'm happy to see you two, too."

"I just can't believe that. That's such amazingly good news," Jamielyn pipes.

"I totally agree. Let's keep doing amazing."

Caitlyn's hand rests on my arm, "Ness? Jamie's ready – I'm going to have her run things tonight. I'll be here if she needs help, but she'll be in charge."

My smile isn't visible from space like theirs is, but I smile my warmest, squeezing Jamielyn's shoulder before slipping through the curtain. The studio floor echoes with fans talking, buying merch, snacks, and beer, and finding seats. Tonight's my night on the desk, joining our one commentator, John Johnson. Like I said – we're a small promotion. When you're not wrestling, you're doing something else.

Near the public entrance, a row of tables holds shirts, signs, foam fingers – the merch is meager – we're working on it. Two harried girls rush back and forth, swiping cards through Squares and stuffing cash in lock-boxes. They're near-opposites: a tall, lanky almost-blonde, whose beige blouse struggles to contain heavy, rounded breasts, her champagne-colored skirt giving way to sleek thighs. Her counterpart is a mousy brunette whose blue tube-top struggles to make it look like it contains anything, her cutoff shorts giving way to unremarkable thighs. The almost-blonde is Mila, our brand-new Sales & Marketing Director. If the mousy brunette looks like she could be Annabelle's sister, that's probably because she is.

John, the burly, lantern-jawed blonde bro is already seated at the commentary booth, fingers laced behind his head, staring up at the rafters and lights overhead. I skirt around to sit next to him, picking up the other headset, slipping it over my ears and pinching a fold of dress to clip it to. I thumb it on and mute my mic, my hands sliding down to smooth my dress, holding it against the backs of my thighs; the chair's probably – wait. "What's that?"

John's blue eyes track down to the seat, then back up to me. His hand's preoccupied "adjusting his headset mic", that is: hiding a smile. "I dunno, looks like a pillow? Was there when I got here, Ness." With his muscles and jaw-line – supposedly he was a "stunt jaw-double" for Bruce Campbell – he's the last person you'd expect to be a tenor.

Rolling my eyes, I snatch the pillow out of the seat, brandishing it overhead – and that's when the laughs start trickling in. He reaches for the headset control clipped to his belt, unmuting his mic, and switching it to the speakers around the studio and the audio feed. He puts his hands up, pleading, "I'm sorry, Ness. I knew that was a stretch," the trickle turns into a ripple coursing through the studio. "Please don't be sore," he continues, and now I'm struggling to keep a straight face. I do the only thing I can: my fingers dig into the pillow and it descends, whooshing through the air before landing on his head with a rustling BAP! through the speakers. The crowd is legitimately guffawing now. "I feel like an asshole," John continues. BAP!

Annabelle's in my ear: "Keep going, you two. I grabbed the start of the exchange for the stream, we're going live right now."

"Vanessa STOP," he pleads. I hold the pillow high, menacing him, my jaw set and lips drawn into a pale line – I'm trying not to laugh and the struggle is so, so very real. The laughter dies down: everyone wants to hear what he has to say.

I shake the pillow, hopefully drawing everyone's attention away from my free hand as it thumbs my mic on and flips to the speaker/feed channel. "Have any last words," I challenge.

"Nessi, I'm sorry." His tone's contrite, somber. An "awwww" sighs from the crowd. "I didn't realize," he pauses, scanning the crowd before looking back up at me, "that you'd still be so sensitive and easily-" a grin of the shit-eating variety graces his lips as he delivers the coup de disgrace: "-butt-hurt!"

The crowd is roaring gales of laughter. A few chuckles burble in my earpiece – Jamielyn is laughing. The feed goes quiet – Caitlyn has to have muted her. The pillow descends. BAP! BAP! BAP-BAP-BAP-BAP! BAP!! I turn, "storming off" a few paces, then whirl back to face him, flinging the pillow. It sails in a spinning arc, landing flat against his face with a WHAP! before its momentum carries it over his head and into the crowd. Fans pounce, and a tug-of-war ensues over it.

I turn back toward the ring, my cheeks flushed, boots slapping on the thin rubber mats around it – I start a slow circle of the ring to buy a little time and mental space. What we do is planned in a story-sense, but it's not choreographed, not really "scripted". It's like improv with a loose plot: we have a destination and milestones, but the path we take to get to them is made up on the spot. Being finished on the canvas last night was planned – being finished again outside the ring wasn't. Come on, Creative Director, create!

The house lights dim, and John presses on, "Hi everyone, and welcome to this Thursday night FPW 'Hour of Power'. I'm John Johnson, and 'with' me is 'Vixen' Vanessa Gray. For those of you just joining us, you missed a new FPW record: Vixen was verbally vanquished by yours truly before the show even started! Catch it on PornTub, #FPW and #VanquishedVixen"

I round the last corner, a saccharine smile on my lips. My fingers tug at the scrunchy holding my ponytail, slipping it over the end before fluffing my hair over my shoulders – a few wolf-whistles and catcalls echo through the studio. I take a moment, setting the scrunchy on the desk, and scoot behind the commentary desk again. Glancing in my chair, surprise! – there's another pillow. John looks up at me, a grin occupying most of his face, and pats the pillow. My fingers tug at the hem of my dress, pulling it backward as I sit, my bare cheeks and shaved slit resting on the cool satiny material. The crowd roars, and I unmute my mic, "Thanks John, I'm happy to be the butt of your jokes." Half the crowd groans, half give me a subdued laugh.