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"I -- I -- I'm fine," she gasped. Her hips rocked, breasts swaying as Nicole devoured and pumped.
"Come on Chantal," a woman's voice piped from the crowd.
Nic spun her tongue like a tornado, whipping saliva and juices into a metallic froth. Chantal's moccasin slapped the thin rubber with a whap! Nic's hands choked Chantal's cock, squeezed it in a white-knuckle grip. The moccasin clapped the rubber again, whap! Her palm coasted over the still-shimmering head. Whap! The crowd, catching on, started clapping along. Pump. Whap! Pump. Whap! Pump-whap!
The crowd clapped in time with the accelerating slaps -- and pumps, reaching a fever pitch. A few war whoops echoed through the studio, a wave of cheers flowing in.
Nic's tongue flurried deep in Chantal's asshole, the blunt bell battering her walls. Perspiration sheened on the shemale as Nic's hands aimed her cock, the leaking head leaving a string of soaked material on Nic's palm. The audience thundered. Chantal's moccasin whap!ped, then scraped the rubber. Muscles tensed. A husky "Oohhhhhhhh," poured from Chantal's lips. The shemale shook, shot a jet of sticky hot cum across her own swaying breasts, painting the olive skin with stark white streaks. The thundering claps and war whoops crashed into a collective sigh of disappointment.
Nic's palms played over Chantal's cock, her tongue continuing to bore in her murk. Chantal's muscles trembled, fighting to stay on her fours as Ivy knelt next to the sweating shemale. "Do you want to give up?"
"N...no." Raven hair bounced as she shook her head.
"Chantal Santee refusing to submit after a devastating orgasm." John's voice swelled with pride, "No matter what else happens here tonight, Chantal Santee's earned her 'Native Warrioress' title."
"It's not over yet, John -- she didn't give up! There's at least a little hope that she'll make a comeback."
"Whoa, Nessi," John laughs, "she's a shemale, which means biologically she's closer to me than you. I know I wouldn't have anything left for a 'cumback' after two big orgasms like that, that close together. Not everyone can just lay there and cum five times in a row like you."
The speakers rustle as Nessi huffs into her headset, crossing her arms over her small breasts. "At least she's not 'one-and-done'."
The comfy gloves release Chantal's cock -- it pulses, a drop of aftermath falls as a shiver shakes her. Nicole's tongue slips from her asshole with a pop!, and wet, gloved palms push on her hip. She rolls on her back, ribs heaving, mounded, cum-streaked breasts rolling -- Nicole's pale form smears goo across their chests. An arm hooks her left leg, fingers crooking in her saliva-slicked asshole. Her hair drifts a bit as Ivy's hand slaps the thin rubber mats. "ONE!"
"Is Chantal a 'two-and-through'," John wonders, as Nicole holds her thigh crooked high in the air, fingernails scritching at her sensitive gland. Her cock sags, tip touching Nicole's side, drooling a drop on her porcelain skin. A little thread of goo connects Nic's side and her tip, until it drags against her own belly. "TWO!!" The crowd's hushed.
"Kick out, Chantal, you can do this," Vanessa commands, her voice low and somber. Nic's fingernails tease a moment longer, then her fingertips massage, kneading the little gland. Chantal's cock stirs, tip rising from her belly, swaying. "THREE!!"
"Even if you're done," the overhead mic picks up the quiet menace in Nicole's voice. Her fingers jab at Chantal's prostate, sending an eye-rolling gasp of pleasure jolting through her. "I'm not," she continues, letting Ivy slap "FOUR!!" before yanking her fingers from Chantal's asshole, releasing her leg and rolling off of her. A new wave of boos crashes down on Nicole as she pushes back up to her boots.
"Four count," questions Ivy, getting to her sneakers. "Nicole, what the fuck you think you're doing?"
"I just said 'I'm not done'." Emerald eyes glare down into Ivy's brown ones. "What are you going to do? Disqualify me?" A sneer curled her lips as she shoved the ebony Senior Official aside, leaving Ivy to check on the devastated shemale. She rounded the corner, eyes alighting on the discarded mic, and bent to pick it up. "I know," she turned to address the crowd, hand on her hip "that someone in this studio brought a toy tonight, in hopes that someone would ask for one. A strap-on, a feeldoe, fuck, even a bullet -- you wanted someone to ask, well: I'm asking." Thumbing the mic off, she strode back to the commentary booth, setting it down.
It only took a moment for the crowd to decide. A chorus of "FUCK you! 'FUCK you! FUCK you!" rained on Nicole instead of toys. A shrug lifted Nic's shoulders, and she turned back toward Chantal, still flat on her back with Ivy kneeling next to her. Shooing Ivy out of the way, Nic grabbed two fistfuls of hair, peeling the Native Warrioress from the rubber mats and dragging her to the apron. Shoving on Chantal's hip, she rolled the battered shemale back into the ring, and slid in after her.
"She doesn't have anything left, Nicole, just put her away already," John complained.
Nessi leveled a baleful blue-eyed stare at him. "Don't listen to him, Chantal. Come on. Get back in the match, girl. You've got this!"
Nicole had Chantal back up on her moccasins already, and shoved her against the ropes, the colorful cables biting her olive skin, before sending her stumble-running across the ring, breasts and cock bouncing wildly. The shemale caught the far ropes on her back, moccasins rumbling the boards as they did their best not to trip over each other. In front of her was Nicole, purple-raven hair hanging around her head as she bent over, setting up a back-body-drop too early.
Putting on the brakes, Chantal's fingers wrapped in Nicole's hair, dragging her forward a step, and right into Chantal's rising thigh! A loud SMACK! echoed, the crowd surging to their feet, as her thigh crashed into Nicole's breasts -- as soon as her moccasin touched the canvas, it shot back up, another loud SMACK! rocking Nicole's swaying mounds. The crowd roared, and Chantal stepped back in front of Nicole, framing her raven hair between olive thighs, her still-leaking tip leaving a glistening trail across the back of Nic's neck.
"I don't believe it! Chantal's still in this!"
"I do believe it! GO GIRL!!"
Chantal clapped her hands over Nicole's hips. Muscles trembling with effort, she lifts, releasing Nicole's head, and spinning the pale punk up to sit on her shoulders. Waves of screaming, stamping excitement washed over them. Nicole's black lips parted in astonished disbelief. Pale arms waved and pinwheeled, trying to fight -- her stomach drops as the lights flip into view and her still-aching back meets the ring boards, almost caving them in. Air rushes from her lips, drowned out by the cannon-shot KABOOM! thundering through the studio.
"Wow, an amazingly powerful powerbomb puts Nicole flat on her back," Nessi enthuses.
Learning from Nicole's mistakes, Chantal doesn't waste time: her hands slide up to the backs of Nicole's fishnetted thighs, cupping them, shoving them over, the toes of Nicole's boots almost scraping the canvas above her head. Her dark hair tickles Nicole's cheeks, hazel eyes meeting Nicole's hazy green ones. "Let's see how you like it," she sticks her tongue out, stiffening it, and jabs it at Nicole's ridged ring.
Ivy slides in, clapping the canvas, "ONE!!" The audience roars along this time, as Chantal's tongue burrows deep in Nicole's asshole, curling and swirling through her dark coppery depths. Nicole's arms lay flat against the canvas, straight out to her sides. Her lips work, trying to refill her lungs, but she's folded in half like a towel on a rack.
"This might be it," John leans forward in his seat, excited. "How many times did I say it wasn't over for Chantal?"
"This would be the first, John."
The Native swirls her tongue deep in Nicole's asshole, curls it against her front wall, and drags it out, slurping juices as it retreats behind her lips. She waits a second, then jabs it back in, her lips suckling on Nic's pink pucker as her tongue scoops again. Jab. Retreat. Jab. Scoop. Jab-jab-jab -- and Nicole's hips rock against her lips. "TWO!!"
Nicole blinks up at the silhouette of Chantal's head, trying -- and failing -- to ignore the tongue literally punching her asshole. The fire between her legs is still lit, the tongue digging in her darkness fans it to roaring life, bringing her juices to a rolling boil. "THREE!!" the crowd drowns Ivy out.
Chantal's jaw works, muscles burning, as she slams her tongue home in Nicole. She stiffens it like a horn, using it to "gore" her opponent's trembling asshole. Nicole isn't panting, but the squirm of her hips and that tremble in her pink pucker signal that she's about to boil over. "FOUR!!"
Hips rolling, her asshole quivers as Chantal's tongue delivers a vicious fucking, and the boiling, rolling juices inside her threaten to geyser. Nic's eyes roll back, her lips moving in silence -- someone who can read lips would read "oh fuck" on constant repeat. Chantal thrusts her tongue in Nic one last time, holding it deep in her black depths, curling the tip against Nic's wall. Pale fingers curl, black nails raking the canvas.
This next part happens in about a quarter-second: Ivy's dark hand claps the canvas exactly as Nic wrenches, a stream of juices arcing through the air -- her thigh muscles stand out, rocketing her legs straight up and shoving Chantal's arms off her thighs. The clear liquid arcs through the air, "FIVE!!" before splashing where Nic's belly and ribs meet, as her legs bam-bam to the canvas on either side of Chantal. Ivy hesitates -- she and Chantal look at each other, both unsure whether the count came first or the kick-out. The crowd's quiet, holding their breath.
Ness and John pore over her iPad, putting the feed up on the big screen and rewinding to just before the final count. Ivy and Chantal kneel, and Nic lays flat on her back, chest heaving as she gulps air. Ness taps and swipes to start a frame-by-frame replay. Frame: Nic's belly tenses. Frame: The first drops of squirt spurt from her slit, Nic's thighs tense against Chantal's hands. Frame: the stream of juices is frozen mid-ascent, her legs shoving Chantal's arms. Frame: Ivy's hand hits the canvas, the stream's at its apex. Frame: Chantal's arms are in the air, Nic's thighs are free, the stream's frozen in mid-descent. Frame: Nic's shoulder is up and her legs are straight, starting to fall, the stream's frozen an inch from Nic's skin. Frame: the stream splashes at the bottom of Nic's ribs -- the droplets catching the light, suspended like little glowing orbs.
The final frame stays on the big screen. John's hushed, almost disappointed. "Literally one frame -- one frame -- too late."
Ness rings the bell, "Even one frame counts, John," there's a hint of smug in her voice. "Your WINNER, by PINFALL, and moving on to the CHAMPIONSHIP FATAL FOUR-WAY -- Chantal SANTEE!!" The crowd roars to their feet, war drums thrumming the speakers as Ivy takes Chantal's hand, holding it up high. The tall Native shemale stands, throwing her arms up, basking in the cheers and war whoops.
Nicole rolls on her side, her right hand rubbing her achy back. Ivy kneels next to her, touching her shoulder -- and gets her hand slapped away. Nic rolls, slipping under the bottom rope. Both hands rub at her back, boots clap-clap-clapping on the rubber mats as she storms back up the aisle, headed backstage.
The big screen switches to the backstage view -- Caitlyn Minx is holding a hand mic, smoothing her dark blue dress around her thighs. "Ready, Jamielyn?" The camera nods -- and the curtain behind Caitlyn explodes. Nicole storms through, eyes wide as the bright camera light greets her. "What the fuck," she asks. In the studio, the drums fade away and Chantal turns, watching the developments on the screen.
"Hi Nicole," Caitlyn beams her trademark Minx smile -- in the bright light, Nicole's pale skin, black eyeshadow and lipstick contrast Caitlyn's light tan, golden-glittery eyeshadow, and pale pink lipstick. "What a match you put on -- near-fall after near-fall, and having to review the footage for a decision at the end! How do you feel about that?"
Nicole's hands slide from her back, cupping her hips instead; her eyes are like green lasers trying to burn Caitlyn into a small pile of ash. "I was a little busy cumming, Caitlyn. I feel like I kicked out, but the camera doesn't lie..."
Even with Nic trying to burn holes in her, Cait presses on: "Earlier in the match, you had Chantal. That was a guaranteed five-count, and you broke it," she begins. Nicole's brows furrow, meeting above her nose. The green-laser glare is withering -- Caitlyn deflects it with a gleaming smile. "Looking back, what do you think about that decision?"
Nicole sighs, her forearms crossing in the sticky smear of cum and juices under her breasts. "It lost me the fucking match. I don't know what else you want me to say. Unlike some people," that laser-glare turns up to a million watts of Minx-melting malevolence, "I like taking risks in the ring. Sometimes they give you a fucking epic win, sometimes they end up with someone tongue-punching your asshole. You should try it sometime. Doesn't it get boring having your asshole tongue-, cock-, or fist-punched every time you get in the ring?" The corner of her lip curls into a +2 Smirk of Viciousness.
Caitlyn's smile deflates, "No! I mean yes! I -- it -- it's not always my asshole! I mean, I don't always lose, and it's not always by anal."
The smirk stays put, Nic's hands cupping the crests of her hips again. "Sorry, did I say 'always'? I forgot your one or two wins -- ever -- and the couple times Fiona and Mila fucked your pussy for a pin or submission."
"I've had more than two wins," Caitlyn's cheeks flushed. "And people have eaten my pussy too!"
Nic casts a meaningful glance at the camera. "Besides your sister?" The smirk levels up to +3.
The camera shifts a little, Jamielyn's soprano squeaking, "Hey!"
"Leave Jamielyn out of this," Caitlyn protested, stamping her sneaker on the concrete floor to draw Nicole's attention, "or I'll show you I can win matches!"
"Oh I am so fucking in for that," the +3 smirk clones itself to the other side, becoming a +6 Grin of Shit-Eating. "But! Let's not leave Jamielyn out of it." Nic's green gaze pierces the younger temporary-camerawoman Minx. "Let's make it an Elimination Triple Threat Match -- you vs me vs her. Tomorrow night's main event. Last one standing gets the second slot at the Championship Fatal Four-Way."
The camera nods. Caitlyn offers her hand. "We're in."
Nic shakes it, the grin vanishing. She steps right in front of Caitlyn -- her pierced nipples and juice & cum-streaked belly brush the older Minx' dress. Her lips part, barbell flicking Caitlyn's nose. "When I win -- with anal pins or submissions -- you two get a new job title: 'janitor'. You get to clean the canvas after every show," the tip of her tongue taps Cait's lips, "with your tongues."
Caitlyn doesn't shrink. "When one of us wins, we're adopting you. You'll be part of our team -- and family. I can't wait to give you a Minx makeover! We'll do a whole new wardrobe and makeup. We'll have to work on how you talk and express yourself, too. Less sneering, more endearing," she beams, arms circling Nicole's shoulders in a warm hug. Nicole turns a pale, sickish green. "You'll make an amazing adopted sister. You'll see," Caitlyn bubbles. After a few moments, Caitlyn relents, and the pale punk retreats, boot heels clacking on the concrete.
In the studio, Chantal's already rolled out under the bottom rope and is walking up the aisle. She slips the curtain aside. "Hi Caitlyn!!" She wraps the smaller Minx up in a warm hug, Cait's lithe arms circling around the shemale's waist.
"I'm so happy for you, Chantal. What a huge win for you tonight! I can't even imagine what you must be feeling!"
"Happy, excited, tired, too. Nicole gave me a tough match, and like you said a minute ago: she had me." She grins at the camera, "Her ego had her, though, and thanks to my fans -- and Nessi -- who believed in me, I made my comeback and got a huge win over her."
"And now you've got a spot in the Fatal Four-Way for the FPW Championship," Caitlyn smiles.
"Hopefully I'll see you or Jamielyn in the ring there, too! Just don't take it personally when I bury my tomacock in you for the five-count." She puts her hands up, "I promise -- not the asshole," she laughs.
An exaggerated eye-roll replaces the Minx smile for a moment, "Only if you promise not to take it personally when Jamielyn or I put you in a Jersey Crab and eat you til you tap."
"Of course not! It's just a Championship," Chantal smiles.
Caitlyn wraps her up in another warm hug, "Congratulations again on your huge win and earning a shot at the belt."
"Thanks Caitlyn, now go join the 'I beat Nicole' club tomorrow night! I'll be cheering for you!" They part, and Chantal slips past the camera toward her dressing room.
Back in the studio, John picks up the banter with, "Looks like tomorrow night's main event is scheduled! But what about tonight's?"
Ness brightens and sits up. "Tonight's main event is between two long-time rivals, Fiona Blair and Abbi Summer. I'm pretty sure the only thing these two have in common is mutual hatred."
"That's not the only thing," John corrects.
"Really?" Nessi quirks an eyebrow, wondering where this is going.
There's a hint of smirk in his reply: "They've both beaten you."
"Ha-ha. Ha-ha. Ha."
"I'm just messing with you, Nessi. I've watched you wrestle here for the last two years, and you've learned and grown so much. I'm -- I'm proud of you, Vanessa."
"Awww thank you! So, so much! That means a ton!" A bright smile lights up her face.
He grins. Somewhere, Bruce Campbell is probably watching -- and jealous. "You've come so far, Ness. You're almost ready for a participation trophy." He can't hold it back any longer, gales of laughter echoing off the studio walls. Annabelle has to turn his mic down to keep from blowing the speakers, and the crowd rewards him with a collective "dad joke" groan.
Ness sighs, shaking her head. "Didn't see that coming," an eye-roll punctuates the comment. "I'm pretty sure people are tired of #DadJokes, so let's move on to the match!" The crowd cheers their approval, the staccato electric guitar strains of The Dropkick Murphys' "Warrior's Code" starting over the speakers, as Fiona Blair slips past the entrance curtain. Over-the-knee white tube socks and plaid sneakers are "it" for her ring attire as she steps out and lets loose a roaring battle cry.
Fiery orange hair whirls as the Scotch herm rolls her shoulders and her hips, whipping both heads in a circle. She throws her arms up, then lowers them straight to the sides, her tiny breasts rippling as she runs to ringside, high-fiving the whole way. A long, thick pale cock, her "claymore", sways at half-mast above her shaved slit.
"This match is a best two out of three falls match," John begins, the crowd unsure what to echo, so it sounds like "TWO-THREE FALLS!" "Introducing first, from Edinburgh, Scotland, half of the Scottish Warriors -- at 4'9" tall, 86lbs, 28A 22 32, 22 years old with a 9" cock, Fiona "Fireball" BLAIR!" Fi leaps onto the apron, then vaults over the top rope -- the tip of her bouncing claymore catches on it, sending it wagging as she lands on her plaid sneakers and goes to her corner.
