[Lord Tantalus]

...rowan...

[ThePurpleVixen]

I slowly sit back, my knee pressed into you as you go limp. I'm panting, glazed with sweat, glistening runnels cut into my skull paint, my knuckles sprung and swollen, blood-bruised under the fight tape from the force of those wild, undirected punches.

That was pure rage. Pure wounded animal fury.

If I had been focusing, been directing my hits? You'd be genuinely fucking done. You'd be on your way to see a neurologist. But my punches were such a flurry of raw hate that I battered your collarbone and shoulder and the fucking floor  as much as the more vulnerable parts of you.

Still seemed to do the god-damn job, though.

You look so beautiful laid out like that. So fucking heartbreakingly beautiful that it'd break all over again if there was anything left for you to fracture. Like you did when I was watching you breathe in Vegas that night. Like you did on that hillside in Iowa.

I hear Thomas murmur something, just under the edge of hearing, and my head snaps up to him, a wolf smelling blood.

I push up. The pain in my battered right knee is gigantic, pulsing in protest at every slight movement, making me hiss as my leg stiffens up, the quad tensing and calf drawing up to try to ease my weight off it. My knuckles throb with each beat of my speeding pulse. But I stand to my feet over you and stare at your precious Lord.

"This is what you made," I snarl at him, jabbing a finger at his face.

"DON'T YOU FUCKING DARE LOOK AWAY FOR ONE FUCKING SECOND."

I turn back to you, hobble in my step but hatred still burning in my heart. I look down at you. So fucking beautiful. Rowan fucking Chance. Unbreakable Rowan Chance.

This isn't Falls Count Anywhere. This is in the fucking ring. There's just nothing to stop us from beating the hell out of each other.

I could grab a chair right now.

I could go over to Gemma, kiss her fucking senseless, have her hand me her bright red chair and then come over here and pound you into a fractured heap of ruination with it. I could grab a power cable and choke you into a coma. I could give you a Stungun on the steel railing and break that pretty neck. I could do a lot of horrifying things right this fucking second, Rowan. I kinda want to do all of them.

I take a deep, slow breath, in through my nose and out through my glossy black lips. A prana breath, cleansing me of some of the haze of bloody rage. It's still there, smoldering like a fucking coal mine fire, but I know what to do. I bend down to get a handful of your dark sweat-glistening hair and a grip on your corset laces with my other hand, and I drag your limp form up.

Because what I'm gonna do, Rowan -

- is fucking BEAT you.

You're going to look up at me through whatever squint you can manage through your swollen bloodied eyes after the bell rings and you're gonna fucking KNOW that I won. You're gonna KNOW I'm better. So is Gemma, so is Red, so is FUCKING Thomas.

I'm gonna beat you with my own two god-damn hands.

I haul you up, seeing you start to stir as I press my face close to yours, my lips hot against your ear, breathing in the scent of your sweat and the hints of your shampoo - the same expensive blend you've been using for years, a darkly intoxicating floral scent I remember from a hundred hotel pillows.

"I'm gonna fucking RUIN you."

It's a snarled hot whisper of pure promise, my hand dropping from your corset to the back of your leather pants as I sling you hard into the ring apron, trying to blast the wind out of you against the stiff edge of it before I shove you back under the bottom rope, slithering in right after you.

LVK: And as Punky looks to get Rowan on her feet after that lunatic, furious assault, it looks like this ... I hesitate to call it a MATCH at this point, but this brutally personal battle ... is returning to the ring, mercifully.

RP: I'm confused, van Keel.

LVK: As usual.

RP: Shut yer cakehole. But how come Punky didn't just channel a couple of blonde Canadians and crunch that Chance chick's head between two chairs? She was down, it's perfectly legal - it'd be easy.

LVK: I think that's the problem, Rick; It'd be easy. Neither of these women seem willing to do anything the easy way.

[Rowan Chance]

My body tumbles into the ring. All that's moving of me is my chest, gently rising and falling. My breasts tight against the corset because you have to give the boys in the back row the same show you give the boys in the front row. But as you roll me over the canvas, blood dripping from my lips, my arms and legs almost lifeless, I finally fall flat on my back. My right arm flops over and lands heavy. My right dead at my side. My legs are bent at the knees, turned to the right. Tall domme boots up to my knees, my olive skin shining with sweat up to my little leather shorts. The kind that show off that tattoo of mine that you keep invoking.

My head lolls to the side, black hair covering my face. I don't move. I can't move. The only thing going through my head are memories.

* * *

Just a month after Vegas. Arriving in FTW with nothing but a travel bag, walking in through the big delivery doors. Still pretending, still putting on the show. You knew better, but you kept the secret. Even after Vegas, you kept the secret. I walked in with my hair in a ponytail, leather jacket and yoga pants on. Tall boots clicking on the concrete. It was raining?of course?and I flopped my hoodie down, a wet splash against my leather jacket.

I saw Red hanging out with Sadie, and I nodded. He was the one who got me the gig. Recommended me to the promoter. I had a rep, a good one, but Red's word goes a long way on the indie scene. He nodded back. "New mask," I said, a little smile on my face.

He nodded again but didn't say anything. Sadie looked at me sideways. "Who's that?" she asked.

Just out of range, I heard Red say, "An old friend. Sorta."

Yeah, that was about right.

And then, as I walked deeper into the building, I saw a flash of purple. Heard the laugh.

Well, fuck. I stopped dead in my tracks. My heart, too. Everything stopped. The whole goddamn world. I froze. Every inch of me. Every drop of blood. My mouth opened to say your name, but I shut it. Just fast enough to stop the reflexes.

Yeah. You were there. Of course you were. You were everywhere. Getting any bookings you could. You ran by, all laughter and madness. Had some woman I'd never seen before with you. And I didn't say anything. I just stopped and waited for you to go by. You'd find out soon enough I was on the roster. And then...

And then...

* * *

LVK: Rowan is lying motionless in the center of the ring while it looks like Punky is fetching some plunder from under it.
RP: This ain't goin' three falls, Van Keel. It's ending right here and right now.
LVK: The referee has to use her discretion here. Does she think Rowan can continue?
RP: Ref-schmef. It ain't over 'till one of these crazy bitches can't get up and it looks like that's Rowan.
LVK: Punky reaching under the ring...what has she...

[Vivianne]

Gawd Rowan, every punch Punky lands while you are down is like a stake being driven though my heart. She finally stops and from way up here I cannot even tell if you are still breathing, and I realize I have stopped my own breathing and must force myself to restart. Your beautiful form is hauled into the ring and I wince, seeing the way your body just flops around and comes to a halt. Then I see it. Your chest rising and falling. You are still breathing. Thank God.

Why can't Punky just pin you? Just end this massacre of a first fall already? No...that is not the Punky I have come to know in the short time since we met. She's gonna do more first. She has to do more first. And now she is digging under the ring. Come on Rowan...wake up. Move. Get out of there!

"COME ON ROWAN!!!"

My scream rings out before I even realize I had formed the words and I look around to see if anyone noticed such a wail from the top row. Who am I kidding? From up here I could be blasting on a trombone and nobody by the ring would hear, there is so much yelling and screaming going on.

Come on Rowan... 

[ThePurpleVixen]

I roll your limp, bloodied body into the ring, and just for a moment as I press my hands to the apron, I think again about how easy it would be to just beat the holy fuck out of you with a chair. This is No Holds Barred. If anything, a bunch of these bloodthirsty and well-funded lunatics who paid exorbitant prices to be here will WANT to see absolutely ferocious violence. They'll want to see us destroying each other with plunder in the bloody way that got made famous at the corner of Ritner and Swanson in Philadelphia. No ref would stop me. Our ref is paid well to NOT stop any viciousness tonight. No one would stop me.

Just for a moment, watching you lay there.

So fucking beautiful. So heart-stoppingly beautiful.

Gods above and below, I want to destroy you so much my fingers twitch.

I drop back off the apron, hissing a little at the torque in my knee - and with my customary flourish I FLING the ring drape up, drawing a roar from the bloodthirstier part of the crowd. Not as much noise from the front row, though. And someone in the back seems VERY distressed.

There's so much evil shit down here - I paid the ring crew extra to go out and procure whatever their wicked little hearts desired to stash in the shadows beneath the canvas. Neat piles of metal chairs, gleaming blood red. A stack of tables, buffet length and with the center screws removed for easy breaking. A garbage can full of kendo sticks and hockey sticks and a cricket bat. A fat coil of gleaming steel chain, like a serpent. A roll of barbed wire. These French fuckers are well-versed in the fucking classics.

One thing that isn't down here is my roque mallet, the Red Queen. Got the thing in a little marketplace in North Africa, sitting among the cardboard sleeves of old Marlboros and the ancient pottery and the crocodile eggs. Heavy red heartwood, the kind you don't see anything made of anymore, and someone had drilled the head and filled it with lead. Damn thing practically leapt into my hand. It's always had a sort of ... mojo to it. And I don't mean the steroid model who hangs out with Zack Ryder. It's got juju. It's gotten me out of some weird situations, including that thing in Tokyo with you and Tantalus and Red and the mask that I try not to think of too much.

And I remember the reason I didn't bring it, why it's still sitting up above my big black desk in the manager's office of my Portland club, Pandemonium. Because it'd make things too simple. Too fucking simple.

I let the apron curtain drop without drawing any toys out to play, and the crowd lets out a collective sigh that warms the room by 2 degrees. I look over my shoulder at Gemma, who's watching with a wicked grin. I flex my fingers, curling my hands into fists, still spattered with blood from my manic flurrying beatdown.

"With my own two fucking hands ..." I growl, reminding myself of how I want this done. Of how I want to beat you. No excuses, no what-ifs. No blogs about how I won because I beat you with a mallet like a Hammer Brother pounding an Italian plumber into paste.

I slither into the ring, flicking my sweaty purple punktails back and rise to my feet, my coffin skirt fluttering around my sugar skull shorts, and grin down at you through my skullpaint.

"Let's see how much you have left to give, darlin'  ..." I purr, grabbing a handful of slick dark hair, aiming to drag your limp form up to your feet, ready to guide your head between my sweat-smooth pale thighs to lock you in so I can bend down and deliciously lock my arms over your hip and between your legs in the cradle that's the prelude to the Vicious Punky Spike, relishing each moment.

[Rowan Chance]

(Part of this story is true.)

My first real booking in Japan. The flight seemed a million hours and the train a million more. When I get there, I'm exhausted, hungry and sore. I just want to eat good sushi, get an ice cold bottle of saki and settle down in a tiny hotel room with a bed that I'm small enough to fit into. But I have to meet the booker first, and I'm in no mood for bullshit. And with bookers, it's always bullshit. Trying to grab something, trying to trade "favors" for a top spot or giving you some sort of slutty gimmick.

Now don't get me wrong, I've got a highly sexualized gimmick, but I'm not slutty. There's a difference. Men respect sexual--the allure of something they can't have--but slutty gets you no respect. And if Lance Storm taught me anything, he taught me about respect.

So when the booker hands me a mask and says (in Japanese) "You're Lady DDT," I have to wonder what he's up to.

"You saw my tape right?" I ask him, answering back in his language (thank you mixed heritage). "I'm a submission wrestler with lots of kicks."

I may not have a punch, but a lifetime of dancing on the stage and in the clubs taught me how to fucking kick.

He shakes his head. "No, you're Lady DDT."

I look at the mask. It's black with the letters "DDT" in red. It looks awful. But this is my first real gig in Japan, so I take the mask. "I'm Lady DDT."

He smiles and nods, giving me a very short bow. The minimum required. I return it with a respectful bow. "Arigatōgozaimashita," I say.

And so I spent six months as "Lady DDT." They don't let me use my kicks or my submission holds. Just DDTs. I get my ass kicked and my body stretched for five minutes, then?OUT OF NOWHERE!!!?I land a DDT. Standard DDT, Reverse DDT, Flying DDT, Impact DDT, Cradle DDT, Fisherman's DDT, Shooting Star DDT...

And you know what? It got over. The fans watching me get stretched and pounded for five minutes, waiting for the inevitable DDT from me...it got over. Big time.

But my finisher...that was something I came up with. A special twist on the move that I used for the first time in the Tokyo Dome. My opponent's name was Killer Kong (another in a long line of Kongs). When I reversed her powerbomb into a Reverse DDT, the crowd went nuts. When she kicked out after two, they went even nutser. And with her kneeling there, trying to get up, I knew it was time for the debut. Something nobody had ever seen before...

* * *

RP: What the @#$% is Punky doing? She should be pinning Chance!

LVK: She went under the ring, but she hasn't grabbed any plunder.

"With my own two fucking hands..."

RP: That's a goddamn mistake, Van Keel. She should be doing everything in her power to put Chance down. I've seen that woman get up from three powerbombs.

LVK: The resiliance of Rowan Chance is legendary in the world of professional wrestling, but right now... look! Rowan seems to be moving!


I can see the lights. That's about it. They're blurry blobs of white shining down on me.

I can feel my arm move. Just a little. Taste the blood in my mouth. And the pain starts to return. In my back. In my head. My shoulder feels like someone hit it with a rock...

...or a punch from Punky.

And that's when I remember where I am. And who I'm there with. So when your purple punky tails come into view and you start to pick up my head by my hair, and your voice purrs down at me, "Let's see how much you have left to give, darlin'..." I know what to do.

I've got no punch...

So I KICK.

Straight forward. You've got a wide base so you can lift me up. Gives me a great target. In fact, there's a little skull that shows me exactly where to aim for.

So I KICK.

Hard domme heel first. Straight where I know will hurt you the most. You dodged me the first time.

Let's see if you can dodge this one... darlin'.

[RedEnforcer]

"Fuck me....."

I've seen Rowan beaten down before. Hell I've provided a good pounding once or twice. But what I'm seeing from Punky is just bitter rage. I see Rowan flop over in a roll as she gets dumped like yesterday's trash into the ring. That sinewy body still looks graceful even when she's unconscious.  And then Punky grabs for the apron and flips it up looking for plunder.

And suddenly my mind is in Burlington....

"Look, I don't care what they did to me. The point of tonight is for you to finally show everybody on this coast what you can do. Sure, Owen ran things differently in Portland, Puerto Rico is just insane, but this is the Carolinas. Fans expect much different things here. And in this case that means no weapons."

I wasn't sure if the purple haired, inked up beauty was even listening. Talk about your clash of cultures.  Scotty told me that this girl he was training had a head for the business and was almost as smart as he was. If you knew him, that was high praise. What she needed though was to expand her idea of what wrestling was. She needed time on the road in the little small towns. And there wasn't a circuit full of small towns like the old Mid Atlantic area.  Mid Atlantic Wrestling still existed in a smaller form after Crockett got gobbled up by Turner.  And Scotty wanted this girl to learn life on the road.  He flat out told me I was the only one he trusted to show her the ropes and not get "handsy" with her.

"She's a good kid, Red. Maybe kinda weird about askin' me about ECW an' she likes doin' backdrop drills way too much, but she's a good kid." is what he told me.  After a month of hauling her around, I thought he was ribbing me.  The kid had skill and she made a natural heel especially in this area where her tattoos and purple hair and alternative lifestyle all checked boxes against her in the South.  But Scotty was right. She needed to learn how hard it was on the road to toughen her up. But she also needed to learn how to win the right way. Sure everyone wants to win. And I've never been above cheating myself.  But the way in which you win will cement your reputation and your legacy. Do you want to be a chickenshit heel or the greatest who ever lived?  Some matches require you to do whatever it takes. Others, it's all a matter of choice.

I finally made some progress with that thick head of hers and she started listening to me.  Splitting gas money in my 88 Dodge Shadow, eating at greasy truck stops with food made by Bubba, spending nights in the (insert town name) Motel added up to be a fun bonding time for us.  What really sealed the deal though was our shared nerdom.  Silly Marvel vs DC debates.  Quoting lines from Princess Bride and the Godfather with equally straight faces. Obscure references that snuck by people standing right there. It was a hard time, but it was a fun time. She worked her way into learning how to win the right way and started to turn people's opinions around. For these fans, suddenly they didn't mind the tattoos. The purple hair wasn't so strange. And the other part just didn't make a difference compared to the skill she showed in the ring. And then it was time.

This night, she'd finally graduated from the small towns of Lawrenceville, Gastonia, Conway and now she's having a big fight at the Carolina Sports Arena (well that's what it was called then, now it's the Mid-Atlantic Sportatorium) for the CWF Women's Championship currently held by Amber Holly.  She's not thinking about that now. All she can think about is the fact that because of double booking and a smaller than expected house, I wasn't on the card.  No wrestling, no pay. And my funds were depleted thanks to a water pump that decided it was time to die. So now, she had to win. She needed to split the winner's purse with me so I could make it to the next town. She was hitting the Burlington-Alamance Regional Airport and meeting back up with Scotty for her next step in her training. 

She was pissed. She knew I wouldn't ask her for any money. She also knew I was giving her a bigger share than half all this time. She was going places. I was just living a life I chose in the Carolinas. She wanted to win badly as payback. "Look at me. You've built up a rep here in this area. You've changed people's minds about women and what the expectations for them should be. It's hard making morons see the change, but you've done it. You bring a weapon out in this fight and everything you made will crumble. Sometimes, it's not about winning or losing. It's about how you do it. "

She didn't win that night. But she also didn't bring out a weapon. Amber did a nice thing for her and left the ring before she got to her feet so the crowd could cheer the punk girl that fought so hard.  It was a moment.

And now seeing this person who looks like the girl I road up and down the trails with, who has such a ferocity and viciousness in her eyes that I have never seen before. Seeing this Punky go under the ring, it makes me nervous. She's gonna pull out that roque mallet she calls the Red Queen. A lot of people think it's a croquet mallet, but no, roque is a similar but different game. This mallet makes a croquet mallet look like a Playskool hammer.

"Don't do it Megan. Don't do it that way."

I know she can't hear me. But it still needs to be said.

And she comes up...empty handed?

I lean back in my seat and let out the breath I didn't realize I was holding.  This violence is still way too much, but at least it won't get so far out of hand that.....

Rowan's thick leather boot just slams into Megan's intimate area with the force of a Mike Tyson in his prime haymaker...so hard Megan's eyes go glassy

My jaw drops. That one blow....so....devastating...

[ThePurpleVixen]

I like it rough.

I always have.

I mean, not just in the sense of wrestling. Obviously I like that, or I wouldn't have been doing it for 18 fucking years.

But I mean ... I like it rough.

All the way back to my first fumbling grasps with the first girls I could get to make out with me. I liked having my dyed hair pulled. I liked being pinched, bitten. I liked pleasure pushed to the point of pain.

And years of wrestling, of heavy impacts and brutal shots and rough, vicious women just pounding the fuck out of me have only made that kink deeper. It's not even a kink, really. I'm just fully fucking bent.

And you know that, better than fucking anyone except Gemma.

"Harder," I'd whisper in your ear, biting at your shoulder.

You never protested, or said you didn't want to hurt me like other girls I'd implored for more and more and fucking more. Your - previous training made sure of that. You'd just murmur "Are you sure?" in that silky voice.

And I'd nod, and you'd go to work. Harder.

So when I start to peel your limp body off the mat and you strike like a fucking coiled snake and drive the heel of that big tall black leather boot into my cxnt, it's not just agony that glazes my eyes and doubles me up.

No, not just agony at all. Although that's gigantic, immediate, and white-out brutal.

There's heat, rushing through me, tightening my belly and puckering my stiff pierced nipples under my sports bra.

My ass juts back in my little sugar skull shorts as I fold in half around the shot, my hands falling from your hair to sway in the empty air for a moment as my eyes go wide as boiled eggs, my black lips forming a perfect O so I look like I'm singing some sort of death-themed opera in utter silence.

Staring right through you with heat and ache and humiliation blazing through me.

The whole arena draws an indrawn breath that comes out as a collective groan of empathy as I finally stagger back two swaying steps folded in half, and clutch my brutalized pussy in both hands, letting out a long tormented gutshot wail with my eyes squeezing shut at last as the pain races through me like wildfire.

"AUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUHHHHHHHHHHH ...."

I sway, not quite able to fall, punktails brushing the canvas as I'm halved, my boots splayed and drunkenly staggering, hands buried in my crotch - and under the grip tape on my palms, under my sweat-warm shorts, I can feel the pulsing heat of unwilling, poorly timed desire.

A fucking cxnt punt like that would brutalize anyone - but I'm pretty sure I'm the only one who gets so god-damn hot from it at the same time.

Fuck, it's hard being so fucking bent sometimes.

[Rowan Chance]

RP: Ooooo! That was brutal...

LVK: And that move is just as legal as a...

RP: Just as legal as a wrist lock. We know, Van Keel. We know.


I can barely stand. But I don't need to. You're bent over, feeding me your head. And I know exactly what to do with it.

I'm on my knees, moving like the coiled snake you always seem to call me, pivoting on my hips with my knees under me. And when you lean forward, my upper torso strikes. I wrap my arm around your neck with my left hand and wrap my right arm under your armpit, locking my hands under your chin.



LVK: OHMYGOD... Rowan is setting up...

RP: What? It's a front face lock.

LVK: NO! IT'S...



And in one fluid motion, I snap my body backward, bringing you down with me, slamming your skull into the canvas...

... but I don't let go.


LVK: IT'S THE THREE FIRES DDT!!!


And after the first impact, my body goes erect again, using those ab muscles I earned in Japan with endless crunches. Hours and hours and hours. Dancing gave me wind. Gave me kicks. But Japan gave me discipline.


A virtue you may want to add to your repertoire... Punky.


And erect again on my knees, dragging your body back up with me, I get ready for another drop... the second of three.

And DOWN!

Plummeting your head straight at the canvas a second time. Hammering it home before straightening back up, like a ghost rising from the grave.

And we know all about your history with ghosts... don't we... Punky.


LVK: That's two! Can Rowan hit the third?

RP: Like two wasn't enough. Jeezuz...

[ThePurpleVixen]

Surprisingly, it's kinda hard to focus when you've just had a bootheel with over 4K Newtons of force behind it - whatever, I know science shit when it's related to fighting, fuck off - crunched into your pussy. That makes it shockingly hard to think straight. Even moreso when you're a deviant who gets all fluttery from pain and was already kinda hot and bothered from violently punching her ex in the face a dozen times.

Fortunately, you're there to get my attention right where it should be.

Unfortunately, you do that by cinching in a front facelock from your knees, and dropping back to drill me into the canvas.

THUD.

My head spikes in, compressing my neck and dropping me down to my knees as they fold in towards each other, my boots rolling outwards to either side as my ass settles on my calves, my body jolted with the brutal drop.

A DDT is an interesting move - it's not like a piledriver, where the objective is to compress the spine completely and induce a nerve-trauma blackout from the impact to go with the concussive shot to the skull - it's more like getting punched in the forehead with the entire fucking ring while someone's holding you still so you have to take it.

My body jolts from the impact which crosses my fucking eyes against the mat - but before it can even settle in you're rising up, from a supta virasana to a vajrasana (you're not the only one with a dozen years of yoga to your name, bitch!), dragging me with you. One hand clutches at your left arm, fingers curling to try to peel it away, but my right hand is still nestled between my thighs, instinctively clutching my aching mound, and I'm way too fucked to properly get free. Clearly.

And then you drive me down again.

THUD.

This time my body JOLTS, hips rising in the air as my legs come up and then collapse back down, left splayed out wide to the side and my aching right knee folded under me, arms flopping off their loose clutches to the canvas as the impact hits like thunder.

My right hand slowly, blindly comes up and paws at your abs as you sit up again, my eyes fluttering as the impact sends crazed cracks through my rattled brain, slowly dragged up like a deadweight as you come back to your knees.

I can't do a fucking thing to stop you right now, and it's clear to the entire audience who get to marvel at a wonderfully apt presentation on how quickly things can turn around in a god-damn wrestling ring.

[Rowan Chance]

Your limp, helpless grip tries to pry my arm loose. I almost laugh.

"Not tonight, baby," I whisper in my sultry voice. The one I use...just before...

Well, you know. Don't you? Punky.

I throw my body backward a third time. The adrenaline of putting you through this is just enough to make me ignore the pain in my spine. Just enough. Because I know what happens next.

Your head hits the mat. Your body shudders. Maybe even a little spasm in there as it falls face first onto the canvas.

I take in a quick breath with a smile on my face, my arms still locked around your body. Then, I let go and allow you to collapse onto the canvas.

"Little dead girl," I say, invoking Rob Z's intonation.

I slowly--oh so fucking slowly--roll you over. Your arms splayed out. Legs wide open. Your skirt twisted on your hips.

And slowly--oh so fucking slowly--I slide my body over yours. Starting at your booted feet...up your legs...over your wounded crotch...I spend a moment there so you can feel the heat of my breath through your little skully panties...up your toso...my hands crawling beside your body like a predator...my knees doing the same...up and over your tented and pierced breasts...I give an exhale over your left, just like your pussy...right until my face is on your face...my tits are on your tits...and my knee...yes...my knee is on your crotch...

...pressing down.

"Remember this, Punky?" I whisper, my hands taking your arms and putting up and over your head...crossing your wrists on the canvas...

"Remember?"

And I kiss you...with my tongue and my lips and my teeth.


RP: Good @#$%ing lord...

LVK: Uh...um...Punky is...uh...in a pinning predicament!

RP: I'd @#$%ing say so.


The referee--yeah, I don't know how her top got so open, either--gets down to the canvas and checks your shoulders. And as she counts, "ONE!" my knee so gently presses against your pussy and I kiss your lips, saying the exact same word.

"...one..."

[ThePurpleVixen]

I'm fucking OUT of it as the third DDT jolts me into the mat, completing the Three Fires DDT. I knew what it was gonna be as soon as you locked your hands in that distinctive way, around my neck and under my arm while on your god-damn knees.

I knew exactly what was coming - but it's hard to do a thing about it when you've just had your clit kicked up into your fucking esophagus.

Sprawled almost flat, my right leg spasms - just a little bit - as my nerves misfire. The sight of that classic sign of impact trauma draws some groans from those who love me and those who have francs riding on my win.

You roll me over, the lights blazing into the dark behind my closed eyes. My skull paint smeared and streaked as my arms unroll, flopping above my head, my taped palms turned up towards the lights and my legs splayed out, showing off my damp black Lycra boyshorts, the grinning sugar skulls seeming like they're grinning a bit ironically now. The skirt of strips of tattered red velvet rucked around my hips. My head lolls to the side, eyes showing slits of white as my parted black lips glisten, breasts rising and falling slowly in my sweat-clinging zombie tee - and under the lights, the outline of my pierced nipples' aching stiffness is visible even through the Suplex Apparel sports bra. Even my purple punktails are splayed out in sweaty tangles to either side.

I look fucked UP.

And you take your time, leisurely crawling over me - the tickle of your breath on my aching, soaking cxnt makes me rock my hips softly in my sleep with a throaty little "... mmmnmmhhh ... " barely drifts from my parted lips.

You drag up, and pin me down. Completely.

The whole fucking Zenith Paris, full of my friends, my rivals, my fans, my enemies, and my fucking wife see my ex pin me down in the middle of the ring.

Your heavy breasts pressing down on mine, dragging over my stiff pierced nipples ... your hands taking my limp fingers and ... fucking crossing my wrists above my head, a sensation that makes me shiver even in my gray daze. Your lips on mine, tasting your breath up close for the first time in quite a while.

Your knee presses down on my poor aching pussy - and my thighs quiver. Because even when I'm knocked more than halfway the fuck OUT ... even when it's YOU, Rowan, I can't help it ...

... I like it rough.

The ref's hand professionally slaps the mat - her short dirty blonde hair slicked back, she's a slight little elfin thing with evil pale eyes, her striped shirt a little unbuttoned to show the tiniest bit of perky cleavage. Maybe she just wants to add a sensual Parisian touch to the show. Or maybe she finds brunettes cruelly pinning and forcing kisses on quivering tattooed riot girls to be hot for some reason.

But that little slap echoes through my brain.

When you wrestle, you get a new set of senses. You become intensely aware of vibrations in the soles of your feet because it means movement in the ring. You become intently interested in creaking sounds, like the song of taut ropes stretching in the turnbuckle.

And you learn the hard way - the real fucking hard way - that even when your brain's been rattled, when you're fucking dazed and just want to lay there - that the tiny little clap of a referee's hand to canvas is like the knell of fucking doom.

And every veteran wrestler gets a watchman in his or her head, who keeps an ear out for that sound even when everything is dark - and wickedly, grindingly warm.

"Mmmnh ..." I murmur softly against your lips, against the slick sweetness of your tongue, the glisten of your teeth.

My red boot twitches, just a tiny bit as my hips shiver under the press of your knee into my cxnt.

Little lightning flashes on the horizon. Little rumbles.

But it's still so fucking dark. And hot. Shamefully, wickedly hot.

[Rowan Chance]

Twenty thousand years ago, we're in a dimly lit apartment. My place this time. I'm renting a dismal little room to save money, eating canned beans and boiling eggs. And you are sprawled out on the bed, your naked pale body shining in the darkness. Stretched all the way out, your curves on display to me.

I'm in the closet. The sound of hangers banging around. Clothes dropping here and there. My hands are shaking. I can't stop them. Laces, buttons, zippers... I can't keep my fingers still.

"You done in there, yet?" you ask, your voice teasing.

"A-almost!" I can't believe I stuttered. I fucking stuttered. And I hear your giggle out in the room.

"Ice cold bitch Rowan Chance. Sexfighting Queen. Erotic Wrestling Champion. And she's nervous like she's getting her first boarding school girl kiss."

"I am NOT nervous!" Lie. Fingers fumbling.

"Whatever. The bed is getting cold."

I finish the last pull. It's done. I look at myself in the old mirror I picked up at Goodwill. Cracked, but still a full body piece. As old as Philadelphia. And I smile. Then, I step out of the closet. Hand on my hip, other hand stretched out above me on the door frame, like I'm holding the whole place up.

I've got my black leathers on. Tall boots. Black leather corset and tight leather boyshorts. My hair braided back. Eyes as black as nightmares.

"This is what you wanted?" I ask.

And you nod. "Oh, yes."

I step from the closet to the bed. Looking down at you. "What does Punky want?" I ask.

"Rowan," you say, about to correct me. "Call me Me--"

...but my hand strikes under your chin like a serpent. And my voice goes all dark.

"What does Punky want?" I ask, a growl in my voice.

Your eyes are so conflicted. You want to fight back. Want to seize control. But there's something else in there. Something I see. Maybe only I see.

And without speaking...you slowly...oh so fucking slowly...put your hands above your head...

...and cross your wrists.

My scimitar smile blossoms on my lips. And I spread my body over yours. My leather-clad body over your naked pale skin.

"That's what I fucking thought," I say.

* * *

And here I am. Head ringing like a thousand churches are in my skull. Spine begging for me to lay down in a chiropractor's office. I'm dizzy. Not sure I can even stand up.

But I'm on top of you now. My leather-clad body over yours. My boots. My corset. My little boyshorts. And your hands are crossed over your head.

And my lips are on your lips.

"What does Punky want?" I ask a moment after the ref's hand hits the mat the first time.

And when I hear that groan in the deepest part of your voice, feel your boot twitch... I whisper into your mouth...

"That's what I fucking thought."

And the ref's hand hits the canvas a second time.

And I whisper the word she shouts out loud.

"...two..."

[~Rox Erotique~]

Every fucking moment of this match has been hell on earth.

I begged Megan to let me stay home, I PLEADED with her? But that stubborn little shit was having none of it. I was going to be there to witness her greatest triumph in person and that was that.

I didn?t want to be within a hundred miles of this fucking place? watching the woman I love, my wife? fight her ex? Ugh?

I?ve sat panicked as Rowan worked her knee. I winced and shook as I watched her slam that knee into the steel steps. I felt the pain jolt down my spine like a fucking thunderbolt every time Rowan milked another bone-chilling scream from her and I had a momentary reprieve when she mounted that cow and started pounding her into oblivion but I know my wife? her hot head would get her into trouble.

I knew her too well.

And I?m never wrong.

So when she ignored the pin attempt and got Rowan?s full force boot to the pussy as a reward for her foolishness I wasn?t surprised. But I was devastated.

?God damn it Megan? use your head. Just use your fucking head? I whisper to myself as I watched her double over crotch-shocked? but that isn?t Punky. Punky fights with more heart than any girl who ever set foot in the ring, but never her head. Unless she could use it as a fucking weapon of course.

And then Rowan hit it. Her Triple DDT. The execution was PERFECT. Under-hooking the arm and locking her hands so Megan couldn?t slip it. Ice Cold and Perfect. Just like everything that cxnt does.

With every impact of my wife?s face into the canvas I shook like I just took a gut-shot. But I would have gladly taken a gut-shot instead of what I had to witness next? I would have taken the whole fucking clip. Seeing that twisted whore crawl over MY wife, rubbing her knee into her pussy. And kissing her.

I can?t look. I can?t see this. So I look down at the floor, expecting to see the shattered remains of my heart down there among the crushed beer cups and stale, discarded arena snacks.

I close my eyes and I wait for that third slap of palm on canvas, the loving wife in me hoping it never lands? the 18 year veteran in me knowing it will?

[ThePurpleVixen]

"TWO!"

The ref's voice is crisp and professional, with a slight Parisian lilt and just a hint of sly amusement. She might not see a lot of pins like this one, but then - who the fuck does? This isn't a wrestling pin. It's not even a move you'd see in your twisted and sordid world of sexfighting. It's something in between, crueler and wickeder than either.

You're fucking having your way with me in the center of the ring, grinding my battered, hot cxnt under your knee, kissing me mockingly, your tongue stealing the taste of me.

But that's not what cracks my smoldering eye open.

It's not even the two count, although that fires off neurons that are deeply ingrained, the watchman in my head ringing his bell urgently to try to wake me. It's not even those survival instincts or that manic tenacity that's defined so much of my pitbull career.

No.

It's that whisper.

"That's what I fucking thought."

An apartment in the Southwest. Even in the winter, it's hot as hell. Cheap, too. Way lower-end than your credit rating would merit. Looks more like the kind of crash pads I tend to favor. I love it.

Sprawled out naked on the double bed, listening to you change.

Seeing the leathers for the first time and the wickedness in your dark eyes ...

... those eyes locked on mine as my hands slid up over my head ...

... and crossed at the wrists. Like they are right this fucking moment.

But there's been a lot of fucking miles between now and then.

And what you fucking thought was WRONG.

I torque my hips, jerking my right arm free of your grip just enough to roll my shoulder off the mat as the ref's hand is starting its downward arc. Just barely enough to break the pin.

She throws up two fingers, and the crowd's gasp changes the air pressure in the Zenith.

Might be fucking stupid, given that my eyes are still out of focus, my head is pounding like I'm coming off a three-day drunk, my pussy still brutally throbs and my right knee is properly fucked.

But still ... fuck you, Rowan. You don't get to fucking kiss me.