4
I couldn't get that chat from work out of my head all week. Sara and I had been in the same Marine Corps unit for months—pushing through grueling PT sessions, deployments, and all the crap that comes with it. She always caught my eye: sharp as a tack, full of that fiery Puerto Rican confidence. Her dark hair fell loose over her shoulders, skin kissed by the sun, curves that turned heads, and a body sculpted from years of discipline and grit. She was stunning, no doubt.
We were shooting the shit during a smoke break when the talk shifted to how we met our partners. I told her about Ella—my girlfriend, this gorgeous blonde LAPD officer I'd first spotted at a boxing gym downtown. She was laying into the heavy bag like it had wronged her, sweat glistening on her toned arms and abs, blonde hair loose and wild. One sparring match led to drinks, and that was it. She's as tough as they come, quick on her feet, and thrives on a good fight.
Sara leaned back against the wall with that smirk of hers. “Rachel and I met at a women's underground fight night. She's a brunette like me—killer legs, athletic as hell, and she loves scrapping just as much as I do. We still go at it in our basement ring sometimes. Nothing gets me hotter than dominating another woman—feeling her give way under my punches, making her submit.”
I laughed, throwing in a challenge. “Ella's no pushover. She's got that cop edge—fast hands, power from chasing suspects and drilling mitts. She'd wipe the floor with you in a ring.”
Sara's eyes lit up. “Oh yeah? Your blonde cop thinks she can take me? I'd love to strip away that confidence, punch by punch. Leave her topless and gasping, begging for mercy.”
“Talk's cheap,” I fired back, grinning. “Ella's crushed bigger egos than yours. She'd knock that smug grin right off your face.”
The banter stayed light but edged sharp. She claimed she'd make Ella tap out in three rounds, maybe pin her down until she quit. I shot back that Ella would wear her down slow, target the body until Sara crumbled in a clinch. By the end of the shift, they had each other's numbers, and the challenge was set.
I got home that night still buzzing. Ella was kicking back in the living room, fresh off shift, still in her gym gear: tight black sports bra clinging to her athletic build, low-slung black shorts showing off those strong legs. Blonde hair loose, cascading past her shoulders in soft waves, green eyes sparkling. She's got that runner's physique—fit, toned, with defined shoulders, a flat stomach, and powerful thighs from pounding pavement on foot chases and bag work. Same height as Sara, same hourglass figure honed by hard training: narrow waist, full breasts, curves wrapped in muscle.
I spilled the whole story—every cocky word Sara threw out. Ella listened, biting her lip, her cheeks flushing not from anger but straight-up excitement.
“Your coworker wants to throw down with me? Topless? In her basement?” She moved closer, voice dropping low. “That's kinda hot. Run that part about dominating women by me again.”
I repeated it verbatim. Ella's smile turned wicked. “She thinks she can knock me out? We'll see about that.”
By bedtime, Ella had Sara's number, and the texts were flying—raw, unfiltered, loaded with edge.
Ella: Heard you like breaking women down. Bring your best. I’ll have you eating mat and begging.
Sara: Haha tough girl? I’m gonna enjoy watching those tits bounce while I pound you senseless.
Ella: Keep dreaming. I fight dirty, and I love humbling cocky bitches like you.
They nailed down the rules quick: no ref, clinches okay, no low blows but everything else fair game. Topless. I'd corner for Ella; Rachel for Sara. They went with lighter 10-ounce gloves—quick and stinging, ideal for a private brawl.
A few days later, Sara texted the address. “Basement ring. Saturday night. Don’t chicken out.”
We rolled up that evening. Ella looked ready to kill—black sports bra (not for long), low-slung black shorts hugging her hips and ass, blonde hair loose and flowing like Sara's dark waves. She bounced on her toes, adrenaline pumping.
Sara answered the door in a cropped tank and red athletic shorts clinging to her powerful thighs, dark hair loose over her shoulders, that confident smirk in place. Rachel was right behind her—another brunette stunner, athletic and steady, arms crossed, eyeing Ella like fresh meat.
“Welcome to the den,” Sara said, her gaze raking over Ella slow. “You actually showed. Ballsy for a pig who’s about to get humbled.”
Ella stepped right up, chin high, blonde hair shifting across her bare shoulders. “Funny. I was thinking the same about the bitch who talks bigger than she hits.”
Rachel chuckled, warm but with a bite. “They’re practically mirrors—same build. This is gonna be fun.”
We trailed them inside, the banter flying all the way to the stairs.
Sara glanced back at me. “Your girl’s got mouth, Mat. Shame it’s about to get shut.”
I grinned. “Keep underestimating her. Makes it sweeter when she drops you.”
Rachel nudged Sara. “Babe, don’t get too cocky. She looks like she can punch.”
Ella shot back, “I can. And I’m gonna love making you eat those words, Sara.”
We hit the basement stairs. The air got cooler, thick with the scent of rubber mats and old leather. Down below, the ring waited: smaller than standard—maybe 14 by 14—roped off with thick white cords on padded posts, the floor covered in heavy blue mats that looked soft but grippy. Bright overhead lights, stools in opposite corners, a small table with water and towels. It felt intimate, private—perfect for what was coming.
Before we stepped onto the mats, Rachel mentioned keeping the fight area clean and asked us to remove our shoes. Ella slipped off her sneakers, her bare feet hitting the cool floor—natural, unpainted toenails, clean and athletic, toes flexing as she adjusted. I kicked mine off too. Sara and Rachel were already barefoot; Sara's toes gleamed with bright red polish under the lights, the color popping against her darker soles as she padded forward.
Sara peeled off her tank, tossing it aside. She laced up her red 10-ounce gloves—sleek and tight over her wrists, the bright red leather matching her painted toes. Her Puerto Rican skin glowed under the lights—strong shoulders, tight waist, powerful legs, full breasts rising with each breath. Pure muscle and feminine fire, red shorts low on her hips, dark hair loose and framing her face.
Ella didn't miss a beat—unhooked her bra, let it drop. She pulled on her black 10-ounce gloves—matte and snug, light and fast. Blonde hair loose, shifting across her shoulders as she straightened up, bare-chested and fierce, black shorts fitting just right on her athletic hips. They were almost identical in build: same height, same hourglass—defined arms, etched abs, strong thighs and calves. Ella’s pale skin contrasted Sara's richer tone, loose blonde waves echoing Sara’s dark ones, both women radiating that deadly mix of softness and steel, ready to throw down.
Sara’s eyes raked Ella from head to toe. “You look like you could take a punch. Too bad you’re about to get wrecked in my playground.”
Ella stepped onto the blue mat, her bare feet spreading for balance, black-gloved fists up, blonde hair swaying. “Keep staring. It’s the last clean look you get before I make those tits bounce with every hook.”
Rachel laughed from her corner, already topless, arms crossed under her chest. “Look at them—this is gonna be a war.”
I headed to Ella’s corner, pulse racing, as she bounced lightly on the balls of her bare feet, soles whispering on blue, black gloves flexing, blonde strands shifting with every move. Sara mirrored her across the ring—red toes gripping the mat, red gloves rolling in circles, dark hair loose, dark eyes locked.
Rachel moved into Sara’s corner first, all quiet confidence, brunette hair loose. Without a word, she closed the gap, cupped Sara’s face gently, and kissed her—slow, deep, possessive. Sara melted into it for a second, then Rachel’s hands slid down, palms covering Sara’s full breasts. She massaged them firmly, thumbs circling the dark nipples until they hardened. Sara let out a low, throaty hum, arching slightly into Rachel’s hands, eyes half-lidded but still fixed on Ella.
“Get her good, baby,” Rachel murmured against Sara’s lips, giving one last slow squeeze before stepping back. “Make her feel every punch.”
Sara rolled her shoulders, nipples still peaked and flushed, a wicked smile curling her mouth. “Oh, I will.”
I stepped to Ella’s corner. She turned to me, green eyes blazing, loose blonde hair brushing her shoulders. I leaned in, kissed her hard—tasting the faint salt of her skin. My hands found her breasts, cupping their weight, thumbs brushing over her pale pink nipples in slow circles. Ella’s breath hitched; she pressed forward, a soft moan vibrating against my mouth as her nipples stiffened, blonde strands tickling my wrists.
“You’ve got this,” I whispered, kneading gently. “Show her what you can do.”
Ella pulled back, lips parted, cheeks flushed, hair falling forward slightly. “I’m gonna make her regret every word.”
She bounced once on the balls of her bare feet then lifted her black-gloved fists, loose blonde waves shifting with the motion. Across the ring, Sara mirrored her—red toes, red gloves up, nipples erect from Rachel’s touch, dark hair loose and ready.
Rachel called from her corner, voice calm but edged with heat. “No ref, clinches allowed. Fight till someone quits or can’t continue.”
I nodded from Ella’s side. “Same rules. Let’s go.”
The two women stepped to the center, bare feet padding softly, breasts rising with each breath, 10-ounce gloves raised. They touched fists—red on black, brief and ceremonial—then backed up.
Sara smirked, voice low and taunting. “Ready to get dominated?”
Ella’s smile was sharp, feral, blonde waves swaying. “Ready to shut that mouth.”
ROUND 1
The clap from Rachel’s hands cracked sharp—round one.
They circled slow in the tight ring, bare feet whispering on blue mats. Ella’s natural toenails flashed faintly with each pivot; Sara’s bright red-painted toes gripped and released, deliberate. Black 10-ounce gloves high for Ella, red for Sara—both women loose-haired, blonde waves and dark waves swaying, framing faces already flushed with heat. Breasts rose steady, nipples still stiff from the corner touches.
From my corner I leaned forward, voice low but urgent. “Come on, Ella—stay sharp, pick her apart!”
Rachel mirrored me across the ring, arms crossed, eyes locked on Sara. “That’s it, baby—own the center, make her come to you!”
Sara jabbed first—quick red glove snapping toward Ella’s face. Ella slipped it clean, blonde hair shifting across her cheek, then fired back a crisp left hook to Sara’s ribs. Leather cracked leather as Sara blocked on her arm, breasts jiggling from the force.
“Yes! Good slip, Ella—now punish her!” I shouted, fists clenched.
Rachel clapped once. “Fuck yeah, Sara—keep that jab snapping, wear her down!”
They reset, feet shuffling. Sara’s lips curled. “That all you got, pig?”
Ella didn’t bite back with words. She feinted high, dropped, and slammed a straight right into Sara’s stomach—solid thud. Sara’s breath punched out; her full tits bounced.
“Beautiful body shot, baby—keep digging!” I yelled.
Rachel’s voice cut through. “Shake it off, babe—hit her back harder!”
Sara stepped back half a pace but came roaring—double jab clipping Ella’s cheek, leaving pink heat on pale skin. Sara followed with a sneaky right hook aimed low, but it glanced off Ella's guard and clipped the underside of her left breast—thud—causing the pale flesh to mold around the red glove for a split second before rebounding with a jiggle
“Atta girl, Sara!” Rachel called, grinning fierce.
Pace jumped. They met in the pocket, gloves blurring. Sara looped a wild right hook; Ella ducked, stepped in, clinched tight—arms locked around Sara’s waist, cheek to shoulder. Bare torsos mashed—sweat-slick skin sliding, breasts flattening hard against each other, nipples scraping in the press. Ella hooked short uppercuts into Sara’s ribs while trapped close, each thump drawing a grunt.
“Work those ribs, Ella—break her down in close!” I urged, voice rising.
Rachel leaned in. “Push her off, baby—don’t let her smother you! Use that power!”
Sara snarled low, shoved Ella off with raw power. They broke apart, chests heaving faster, loose hair sticking to damp necks and shoulders.
Sara lunged, one-two snapping out. The jab popped Ella square on the mouth—stinging crack—snapping her head back, blonde strands whipping. Ella tasted copper but exploded forward: planted her bare feet wide, toes digging into blue mat, and ripped a three-punch combo. Left hook to the body, right cross whipping Sara’s jaw sideways, left uppercut grazing chin and snapping dark hair.
“Fuck yes, Ella—that combo! Keep pouring it on!” I roared, pumping a fist.
Rachel’s cheer was sharp. “Come on, Sara—fire back! Show her!”
Sara’s head rocked, eyes blazing. “cxnt.”
Close-range war now—no circling. Gloves smacked gloves, forearms, ribs. Ella’s black glove cracked Sara’s head to the side with a vicious right hook; Sara answered with a left that thudded into Ella’s cheek, blooming red. Breasts bounced wildly with every twist—pale against bronze, nipples diamond-hard from adrenaline and earlier teasing. Sweat sheened both bodies, trickling down etched abs, darkening the waistbands of black and red shorts. In the frenzy, Ella slipped a short right uppercut that landed square on Sara's right breast—smack—the black leather sinking into the soft mound, molding it upward and inward with the impact.
Ella drove forward, backing Sara toward the ropes. Sara countered with a short right to the solar plexus that folded Ella with a gasp. Ella clinched again—arms clamping Sara’s ribs, bare feet scrabbling for purchase. Bodies ground together: slick skin, ragged breathing, tits crushed flat, loose hair tangling as foreheads pressed.
“Fight through it, Ella—push her back!” I called, leaning over the ropes.
Rachel’s voice was hot and encouraging. “Hold her there, baby—then explode out! You’re stronger!”
Sara hissed hot against Ella’s ear, voice thick. “Bitch.”
Ella shoved hard, breaking free. They reset center-ring, both glistening, chests pumping, gloves raised, eyes locked like knives.
Rachel clapped sharp—end of round one.
They retreated to corners, bare feet leaving damp tracks. Ella dropped onto her stool, legs spread, black gloves on thighs, breasts rising fast, small red mark under her left eye, blonde hair plastered to flushed cheeks.
I wiped sweat from her brow with the towel, voice steady. “You’re doing great—those body shots are hurting her. Keep the pressure on.”
Ella grinned, green eyes electric, breathing heavy. “She hits like a truck.”
Across the ring, Rachel tended Sara—towel, water, murmured heat. Sara leaned back, red toes flexing on the mat, nipples still peaked, dark hair clinging to her neck, lips parted in a hungry smile.
“Ready for more, pig?” Sara called, teasing.
Ella lifted her black-gloved fists, loose blonde waves shifting. “Born ready, cxnt.”
Rachel clapped again.
ROUND 2
The second clap from Rachel snapped the air—round two.
They surged forward without hesitation, no more cautious circling. Ella met Sara center-ring, bare feet planting firm. Loose blonde waves whipped as Ella led with a fast jab; Sara slipped it, red glove flashing back in a counter hook that grazed Ella’s temple, sending blonde strands flying.
From my corner I leaned over the ropes. “Go, Ella! Pressure her—don’t let her breathe!”
Rachel’s voice rang out opposite. “Come on, baby! Walk through her!”
They traded in the pocket, gloves cracking like gunfire. Ella snapped a left hook to Sara’s ribs—thud—drawing a sharp hiss. Sara answered with a vicious right cross that landed flush on Ella’s cheek, snapping her head sideways, pale skin blooming bright red. Breasts bounced wildly with the torque—pale against bronze, nipples rock-hard, sweat flying in tiny arcs.
“Fuck yes, Sara—crack her again!” Rachel shouted, pumping a fist.
“That’s it, Ella—shake it off and fire back!” I called, heart hammering.
Ella tasted blood, blonde hair sticking to her flushed face. She dipped low, drove an uppercut into Sara’s solar plexus—leather sinking deep. Sara’s breath exploded out, tits heaving as she staggered half a step. Ella followed with a left hook that whipped Sara’s jaw, dark hair snapping, red toes sliding an inch on the mat.
“Beautiful, baby—keep digging to the body!” I roared.
Rachel countered loud. “Get your feet set, Sara—don’t back up! Pound her!”
Sara recovered fast, lunging into a clinch—arms wrapping Ella’s waist, cheek pressed to blonde shoulder. Their bodies slammed together: slick torsos grinding, breasts mashing flat, nipples scraping painfully sweet. Loose hair tangled—blonde strands mixing with dark—as they wrestled for leverage. Ella hooked short shots to Sara’s ribs inside the clinch; Sara answered with clubbing overhand rights to Ella’s side, each thud forcing grunts. In the tight press, Sara sneaked a short left punch upward, smacking into the bottom of Ella's right breast—thud—the pale mound compressing and molding against the red glove from the impact.
“Break her ribs, Ella—wear her down!” I urged.
Rachel’s cheer was fierce. “Hold her there, baby—then explode! You’re stronger!”
Ella snarled, shoved hard—breaking the clinch with raw power. They separated, chests pumping, sweat streaming down etched abs, darkening shorts. No pause. Ella stepped in, feinted high, then ripped a right straight to Sara’s mouth, a clean crack that split Sara's lip.
“Fuck yeah, Ella—that’s my girl!” I shouted, bouncing on my heels.
Rachel clapped hard. “Shake it off, babe—hit harder!”
Sara licked the blood, eyes blazing, and charged. She threw a blistering three-punch combo: jab-jab-hook. The final left hook landed square on Ella’s jaw—head rocked back, blonde hair whipping, small cut opening at the corner of her mouth. Ella staggered but stayed up, bare feet scrambling for balance.
“Head up, Ella—fight through it!” I yelled.
They closed again, trading bombs. Ella’s black glove cracked Sara’s cheekbone—red mark blooming fast. Sara retaliated with a body shot that folded Ella slightly, lifting her onto her toes, air whooshing out. Breasts bounced with every violent twist, sweat-slick skin slapping together on missed punches, loose hair flying wild. Sara pressed her advantage, firing a quick right jab that glanced off Ella's arm and thudded into Sara's left breast—smack—the flesh molding inward around the glove's curve, a spray of sweat erupting from the hard contact.
Ella pressed forward, backing Sara toward the ropes once more. Sara fired back, catching Ella with a short uppercut that snapped her chin up. Ella clinched instinctively—arms locking tight, bodies grinding again in the ropes: tits crushed, abs flexing against abs, ragged breaths hot on necks.
“Push her off the ropes, Ella—don’t get trapped!” I called.
Rachel leaned in. “Use the ropes, baby—turn her, then unload!”
Ella shoved free with a roar, stepping back to center. Both women glistened head to toe—sweat dripping from chins, hair plastered to necks and shoulders, faces marked: red blooms, small cuts, lips swollen. Gloves up, chests heaving, eyes locked in pure fire.
Rachel clapped sharp—end of round two.
Ella collapsed onto her stool, legs wide, black gloves heavy on her thighs, breasts rising fast, blonde hair a damp mess across her flushed, marked face. A thin trickle of blood from her lip; red welt under her eye darkening.
I knelt, towel gentle on her cuts, water bottle ready. “You’re killing it—those body shots have her hurting. Keep the pressure, baby.”
Ella grinned through split lips, green eyes blazing. “She’s tough.”
Across the ring, Rachel wiped blood from Sara’s lip, murmuring low, possessive. Sara leaned back, red toes flexing, dark hair clinging wet to her neck, nipples still peaked, chest pumping. A fresh bruise bloomed on her cheekbone; ribs rising tender.
“Ready for more, bitch?” Sara taunted.
Ella lifted her black-gloved fists, loose blonde waves shifting, blood on her teeth. “Come get it, cxnt.”
ROUND 3
The third clap from Rachel sliced the thick basement air—round three.
They exploded forward like the fight had never paused, bare feet slapping blue mats in aggressive strides. Both women glistening head to toe, sweat streaming down etched abs, darkening the low-slung black and red shorts, breasts heaving with every ragged breath.
I leaned hard over the ropes. “Come on, Ella! Pressure her—finish strong!”
Rachel’s voice cracked opposite, thick with heat. “That’s it, baby—make her quit!”
They collided center-ring in a storm of leather. Ella snapped a fast jab to Sara’s guard, then ripped a left hook low into the ribs—thud that forced a sharp grunt from Sara’s lips. Sara twisted, breasts jiggling from the impact. She fired back instantly: right cross cracking Ella’s jaw—snap—snapping her head sideways, blonde hair exploding outward, fresh blood trickling from the corner of her mouth to join the dried streak under her eye.
“Fuck yes, Sara—keep cracking her face!” Rachel shouted, fists pumping.
Ella shook the punch off, green eyes blazing through swelling lids. She dipped low, drove a vicious uppercut into Sara’s chin—clean leather-on-bone crack—rocking Sara back on her heels, dark hair snapping, red toes lifting off the mat. Sara’s full breasts bounced hard, sweat flying in tiny arcs.
“Beautiful, Ella—keep digging to the body!” I roared.
Rachel countered fierce. “Chin down, baby—then unload! You got her!”
Sara snarled, lunged back into range, and threw a blistering three-punch combo: jab to Ella’s face stinging the cut lip, right hook sinking into the ribs, left hook whipping toward the jaw. The final left landed flush—crack—Ella’s head snapped violently to the side, loose blonde waves fanning like a halo, eyes glazing for a heartbeat. Her knees buckled; black gloves fluttered uselessly; her bare feet slid out from under her. In the chaos, Sara slipped in a quick right punch to Ella's exposed left breast directly on her pink nipple—thud—the pale flesh compressing from the red leather, with a splash of sweat from the forceful impact.
“Head up, Ella! Fight through it!” I screamed, voice cracking.
But Ella couldn’t recover. Sara smelled blood—stepped in close, planted her feet, and unloaded a short, devastating right hook to the temple. The punch connected with sickening precision—thud-crack—Ella’s head whipped around, body going limp. Her legs folded completely; she dropped hard to one knee, then collapsed forward onto both palms, ass up for a split second before rolling onto her side and flat onto her back on the blue mats.
The basement went dead quiet except for the wet rasp of breathing.
Ella lay sprawled—chest heaving in frantic bursts, pale breasts rising and falling fast, slick skin streaked with sweat and blood from her split lip, nose, and the fresh cut above her eyebrow. Loose blonde hair fanned out in a damp halo around her swollen, flushed face; natural toes twitched once against the mat. Black 10-ounce gloves rested limp at her sides, eyes half-open, dazed but flickering with stubborn fire.
Sara stood over Ella, red gloves still up, chest pumping, dark hair plastered to her neck and shoulders, a wicked, breathless grin splitting her bloody lips. Sweat dripped from her chin onto the mat near Ella’s head. “Get up, cxnt,” she rasped, voice thick with lust and victory. “Or stay down and admit I own you.”
Rachel’s sharp intake turned into a low, throaty moan from her corner. “Fuck… yes, baby,” she breathed, eyes locked on the scene, hand already sliding down the front of her pants, pressing and rubbing slow circles against the fabric. Her other hand cupped one of her own breasts, thumb brushing the nipple in firm strokes. “That’s my girl… dropping that bitch.”
I vaulted the ropes, dropping to my knees beside Ella. “Ella—hey, you okay?” My hands hovered, then gently cupped her face, thumbs brushing blood from her cheek. She blinked slow, green eyes focusing through the haze.
Across the ring, Rachel closed on Sara in quick strides. She grabbed the back of Sara’s neck, pulled her into a fierce, open-mouthed kiss—tongues clashing, hungry and possessive. Sara groaned into it, red gloves hanging loose as Rachel’s free hand slid up under Sara’s breasts, massaging them firmly, rolling the dark nipples between her fingers until Sara arched and whimpered against her mouth. Rachel’s other hand stayed between her own thighs, grinding deliberate, eyes half-lidded with raw arousal as she broke the kiss just enough to murmur hot against Sara’s lips, “You fucked her up so good.”
I turned back to Ella, heart slamming. She was already pushing up—slow, stubborn—onto one elbow, then both palms. Breasts shifted with the effort, pale skin flushed and marked, loose blonde hair falling across her cut brow. “Not… done,” she rasped, voice wrecked but defiant.
I leaned in close, one hand steadying her shoulder, the other sliding to cup her breast—gentle at first, then firmer, thumb circling her pale pink nipple the way she liked when the adrenaline burned hot. She sucked in a sharp breath, nipple hardening instantly under my touch. “You’re fucking incredible,” I whispered against her ear, kneading slow, feeling her body respond even through the pain. “Show her you’re still here.”
Ella’s eyes locked on mine, then flicked to Sara and Rachel—still tangled in their corner, kissing deep, Rachel’s hand working between her legs, the other massaging Sara’s tits like victory itself. Ella’s bloody lips curled into a feral smile. “She thinks it’s over,” she muttered, pushing higher, getting one knee under her. “Not even fucking close.”
She rose unsteadily—bare feet finding the blue mats again. Black gloves lifted inch by inch, loose blonde waves clinging to sweat-slick shoulders. She wiped some spit away with a glove, green eyes burning straight at Sara.
Rachel broke the kiss with Sara, both breathing hard, lips swollen. Rachel’s hand stayed pressed to the front of her pants, rubbing slower now, eyes on Ella rising. “Look at that… bitch won’t stay down.”
Sara rolled her shoulders, red gloves coming back up, dark hair shifting, still grinning. “Good. I wasn’t done anyway, cxnt.”
Ella stepped forward—slow, swaying, but forward—gloves raised, chest heaving, blonde hair wild. “Then come get it, bitch.”
The round was over—no one clapped to end it formally.
ROUND 4
The fourth round ignited without ceremony—just a shared nod between Rachel and me, the silent signal that the basement war rolled on. Sara advanced first, red gloves flicking out sharp jabs—pop-pop—stinging Ella’s guard, forcing her to retreat half a step each time. Ella slipped the third, but Sara followed with a looping right hook that clipped Ella’s temple—crack—snapping her head sideways, blonde waves whipping, a fresh red bloom opening under her eye.
“Fuck yeah, baby—keep her moving backward!” Rachel called, hand already drifting low to press against the front of her pants.
I gripped the ropes tight. “Head movement, Ella! Don’t stand flat—circle out!”
Sara pressed, stepping inside. She feinted a jab, then ripped a left to Ella’s body—thud—leather sinking into bruised ribs. Ella grunted, breasts jiggling from the force, pale skin flushing darker. Sara clinched quick—arms wrapping Ella’s waist, cheek to blonde shoulder, bare torsos grinding slick and hot. Breasts mashed flat—pale against bronze, nipples scraping raw in the press. Sara hooked short, clubbing shots to Ella’s sides inside the tie-up, each muffled thump drawing a grunt. In the close quarters, Ella retaliated with a sneaky left uppercut that smacked into Sara's left breast—thud.
Rachel’s cheer cut sharp. “That’s my girl—grind her down!”
Ella shoved hard, breaking free with a surge, but Sara reset faster—circling, controlling the center. She snapped another jab that popped Ella’s swollen lip wider, blood trickling fresh down her chin. Ella fired back a wild hook; Sara ducked, countered with a right uppercut that grazed chin, rocking Ella back toward the ropes again. For those first minutes it was Sara dictating: sharp combinations keeping Ella defensive, body shots folding her posture, clinches where she muscled Ella against the ropes and worked inside while Ella struggled to escape.
Then Ella caught Sara’s next jab on her forearm, slipped the follow-up cross, and exploded forward. She planted her bare feet wide and cracked a straight right to Sara’s mouth—crack—splitting the lip wider, sweat spraying fine across blue mats.
“Fuck yes, Ella—turn it now!” I roared, bouncing on my heels.
Sara tried to reset, but Ella gave no quarter. She stepped inside, black gloves pumping: left hook sinking into Sara’s ribs—thud—right cross whipping jaw sideways—snap—left uppercut clipping chin. Sara staggered, breasts bouncing wildly as she absorbed.
Rachel’s voice cracked. “Come on, baby—plant your feet! Don’t let her steal it!”
But Ella was surging. She feinted body, then ripped a right hook to Sara’s temple—clean, ringing thud. Sara’s knees dipped; she clinched to survive, arms locking tight around Ella. Bodies ground again—sweat-slick skin sliding, breasts crushing flat, loose hair tangling as foreheads pressed. Ella hooked short uppercuts into Sara’s tender ribs inside the clinch, each one forcing a sharp exhale from Sara’s lips.
“Dig deeper, Ella—she’s feeling those!” I urged.
Sara shoved free with raw power, but Ella was already advancing—black gloves flashing, blonde waves whipping with every punch. She snapped a jab to Sara’s face—pop—then a vicious left hook to the body that folded Sara forward, air whooshing out. Sara swung back desperate; Ella slipped it, countered with a right cross that rocked Sara’s head back, dark hair snapping, her feet scrambling.
The back-and-forth raged: Sara would land a stinging counter jab or short hook, forcing Ella to cover up, then Ella would slip and answer with a blistering combo that drove Sara backward. A right from Sara to Ella's cheek would bloom red on pale skin; Ella’s uppercut would snap Sara’s chin up, dark eyes glazing for a heartbeat. Clinches came in bursts—both women tying up to catch breath while Rachel and I shouted encouragement, grinding torsos slick, breasts mashing, ragged breaths hot on necks—before shoving apart and trading again. Sweat poured off them in sheets, darkening shorts, pooling at waistbands; nipples stayed diamond-hard from adrenaline and pain; loose hair clung to flushed, battered faces. During one explosive exchange, Sara landed a glancing left hook to Ella's right breast—smack—sweat spraying in a fine mist.
For the second half, Ella held the edge: advancing, landing cleaner shots, forcing Sara to retreat more often, controlling the center with relentless pressure. Sara fought like hell—landing heavy counters, muscling clinches.
Rachel clapped sharp—end of round four.
They retreated to corners. Ella collapsed onto her stool, legs spread wide, black gloves resting heavy on thighs, chest pumping frantic, blonde hair a damp, bloody curtain over her swollen face—new welts across ribs, fresh blood from nose and lip. Green eyes still burned fierce.
I knelt fast, towel gentle on her cuts, water to swollen lips. It was so hot watching my girl take back momentum this round. My hand slid to cup her breast—firm, thumb circling the pale pink nipple slow and deliberate. She arched slightly into the touch, breath hitching, nipple stiffening instantly. “You fucking owned that second half,” I whispered hot against her ear, kneading gently, feeling her respond. “Keep pouring it on, baby. You’ve got her.”
Ella grinned. “Felt her legs go soft.”
Across the ring, Rachel wiped blood from Sara’s split lip, murmuring low and possessive, hands lingering on Sara’s breasts for a slow squeeze. Sara leaned back, her red toes flexing against the mat, dark hair clinging wet, nipples peaked, chest rising fast. A fresh bruise darkened her cheekbone; ribs tender under Rachel’s careful touch.
No one clapped to start the next. They just stared across the small ring.
ROUND 5
The fifth round exploded without preamble—just the raw grind of two fighters refusing to break. Ella rose slow from her stool, loose blonde hair hanging in sweat-drenched ropes across her battered face—eyes puffy and half-shut, cuts weeping fresh blood, ribs a patchwork of deep purple bruises. Black 10-ounce gloves lifted shaky but stubborn. Sara rolled her shoulders opposite, red gloves high, dark hair plastered to neck and shoulders, bloody grin splitting wide. Both women dripped sweat in steady sheets, darkening shorts, pooling at waistbands, breasts rising frantic with every ragged breath.
They slammed together center-ring—no feints, no circling—just a brutal, ugly slugfest from the first second. Gloves cracked leather on skin, wet smacks echoing sharp in the small basement. Sara snapped a jab that popped Ella’s swollen lip wider spraying sweat and spit, Ella answered with a vicious left hook sinking into Sara’s ribs—thud—drawing a sharp grunt. Sara fired a right cross—crack—snapping Ella’s head sideways, blonde waves whipping. Ella ducked the follow-up, came up inside, and ripped a right uppercut into Sara’s chin—snap—rocking dark hair back. Bare feet shuffled frantic—toes scraping the blue mat in little desperate steps—bodies slamming, sweat flying in arcs, breasts bouncing with every violent twist, nipples diamond-hard.
The sounds were everywhere: leather thudding flesh, sharp grunts on impact, wet rasps through split lips, the slick slide of sweat-slick torsos colliding, low growls mixing with heavy exhales. Sweat on the mats below their feet.
Sara started gaining inches. A short right hook to the temple staggered Ella; Sara clinched fast, her arms wrapping tight around Ella’s waist, cheek pressed to blonde shoulder, bare torsos grinding hot and slick. Breasts mashed flat—pale against bronze, nipples scraping raw in the press. Sara hooked short, clubbing shots to Ella’s sides inside the tie-up—thump-thump—each one forcing a wet grunt from Ella’s throat. Sara mixed in a dirty right punch to Ella's left breast, deforming deeply under the impact, sweat spraying outward.
“Stay the fuck there, bitch,” Sara rasped hot against Ella’s ear, voice thick with sweat and lust. “You going to arrest me, bitch?"
Rachel’s voice cut from her corner, low and throaty. “Pin her, baby!”
I leaned over the ropes, heart hammering. “Fight out, Ella! Use your hips—push her off!”
Ella planted her feet, hips twisting for leverage, and shoved hard with both shoulders—muscling Sara back half a step. Sara held the clinch a beat longer, clubbing one last hook to the ribs before Ella broke free with a surge, stepping out to the side. But Sara was relentless—lunged forward again, red gloves pumping—jab-cross-hook—driving Ella backward step by step until Ella’s bare back slammed against the padded post in my corner splashing sweat. The ropes creaked under the impact; Ella was trapped—back to the post, her feet scrabbling, black gloves high trying to cover.
Pinned in the corner, Ella fights desperately, shoving Sara’s head down repeatedly, firing frantic short uppercuts to the body, twisting her hips to spin along the ropes, even trying to bull forward with shoulder drives. Up close—right in front of me—I could see every detail: Sara’s sun-kissed skin sheening with sweat, droplets running from her dark hair down her neck to drip onto Ella’s pale shoulders; Ella’s breasts heaving against Sara’s with every frantic breath; fresh red welts blooming across Ella’s ribs; Sara’s red-painted toes flexing and gripping the mat as she leaned her weight in, pinning Ella against the post. The sounds were deafening this close—wet leather cracks, sharp exhales, low snarls, the slick slide of skin on skin, sweat spattering the blue mats inches from my feet.
“You going to arrest me, bitch?” Sara taunted again, voice ragged and mocking, red glove snapping a short hook to Ella’s side—thud. “Stay the fuck in there, bitch.”
I was so close I could feel the heat rolling off them, smell the sharp mix of sweat and leather. My eyes flicked to Rachel across the ring—she was leaning forward on her stool, one hand pressed firm between her thighs, rubbing slow, deliberate circles against the front of her pants, the other hand cupping her own breast, thumb brushing the nipple in firm strokes. Her lips were parted, breathing shallow and fast, eyes locked on the corner trap like it was the hottest thing she’d ever seen. Every time Sara landed a clean punch—thud—Rachel’s hips shifted slightly, a low moan escaping her throat. She was getting off hard on watching Sara dominate Ella right there, pinned and helpless in my corner.
“Fuck… yes, baby,” Rachel murmured, voice thick, barely audible over the leather pops. “Keep her there… make her take it…”
“Break free, Ella! Fight out of there!” I roared. Sara battles viciously to keep her trapped—shoulder driving into Ella’s chest so their bare, sweat-slick breasts mash together with wet slaps, ripping short dirty hooks to the flanks, a low shot to the thigh, and another glancing right that clips the underside of Ella’s right breast, making it swing heavily. They grind and wrestle in the corner—skin sliding, leather smacking, loose hair whipping.
Ella growled low, refusing to fold. She ducked a wild hook, twisted her hips again her toes digging deep for purchase—and exploded upward with a right uppercut that slammed into Sara’s solar plexus—deep thud—forcing Sara’s breath out in a whoosh. Sara staggered half a step back; Ella shoved hard with both black-gloved palms against Sara’s shoulders, breaking the trap completely. She stepped out of the corner, legs shaky but moving, blonde hair whipping as she reset in open space.
Sara recovered fast—lunged back in, clinching again—bodies grinding tight once more along the ropes. They wrestled there—bare feet shuffling, loose hair tangling, breasts mashing, sweat flying—trading short, ugly punches inside the tie-up. Ella hooked ribs; Sara clubbed cheek. Back and forth, relentless. Ella landed a short black-gloved punch to Sara's right breast—smack—the bronze flesh molding around the impact, sweat spraying in a mist.
Rachel signaled for the end of round five. The clap rang out clear in the basement.
Neither woman stopped.
As if the sound hadn’t reached them—or they simply didn’t care—Ella and Sara kept trading punches. Sara lunged first post-“bell,” red glove whipping a looping hook toward Ella’s temple—Ella ducked under it, came up inside, and slammed a left uppercut into Sara’s belly—deep thud. Sara exhaled hard, breasts heaving, but stepped forward anyway, firing a short right hook that thudded into Ella’s ribs—red welt blooming instantly on pale skin.
I glanced at Rachel. She was leaning forward on her stool, one hand still pressed between her thighs over the black yoga pants, rubbing slow, deliberate circles, the other gripping the edge of the stool. Her lips were parted, breathing fast, eyes locked on the continued carnage. She didn’t call time again. Instead, a low, throaty laugh escaped her.
“Let ‘em go,” she murmured. “They’re not done.”
I felt the same fire—pulse hammering, cock straining against my shorts as I watched the two glistening, battered bodies refuse to separate. The extended exchange stretched—maybe thirty seconds, maybe more—pure, ugly trading in the center of the ring. Ella snapped a jab that popped Sara’s guard open then ripped a right straight to the mouth. Sara growled, red toes curling for power, and answered with a vicious body hook—thud—that folded Ella forward with a wet gasp. Ella straightened, blonde hair clinging to flushed cheeks, and fired a left hook that grazed Sara’s cheekbone—red mark blooming fast.
Bare feet shuffled while sweat flew in tiny arcs with every punch, dripping from chins and breasts onto the mats in steady plinks. Breasts bounced wildly—pale against bronze—nipples diamond-hard, slick skin slapping on missed shots, ragged breaths hot and audible.
As the brutal exchange raged on, Rachel's rubbing intensified, her body tensing, breaths coming in sharp, needy gasps. Suddenly, her hips bucked forward, a hard pleasure moan escaping her lips as she orgasmed intensely right there on her stool, her hand pressed firmly between her thighs, eyes fluttering shut for a moment before refocusing on the fight with a satisfied, heated glow.
Finally—after another brutal exchange of hooks to ribs and crosses to jaw—both women staggered back half a step at the same instant, chests pumping frantically, gloves still raised but heavy, eyes locked through swollen lids.
Rachel clapped again—sharper this time, ending the extension.
“Enough,” she called, voice still edged with heat. “Round’s over… for real.”
They retreated—bare feet dragging wet streaks across the blue mats. Ella collapsed onto her stool in front of me, legs spread wide, black gloves heavy on thighs, chest heaving, blonde hair a soaked curtain over her battered face—new bruises blooming, ribs screaming, blood streaking from nose and lip. But green eyes still burned.
I knelt, towel gentle on her cuts, water to cracked lips. My hand slid to cup her breast—firm, thumb circling the pale pink nipple slow. She arched into it, breath hitching, nipple stiffening fast. “You fought like hell in there,” I whispered hot against her ear, kneading gently. “Even after the bell—you turned it. She’s wearing down too.”
Ella grinned bloody, voice hoarse. Rachel wiped blood from Sara’s lip, hands lingering possessive on her breasts, squeezing slow. Sara leaned back and Rachel now had her hand inside Sara's shorts while we waited for round 6.
ROUND 6
The sixth round began the moment they both pushed off their stools—no signal needed, just the shared, feral understanding that this wasn’t over until one of them stayed down.
Ella rose first, both women dripped sweat in steady rivulets, darkening shorts, pooling at waistbands, breasts rising and falling in frantic, heavy rhythm.
They met center-ring and Sara took control immediately—aggressive, relentless, like she’d saved her last reserves for this. Red gloves snapped out in crisp, punishing combinations: jab-jab-cross—pop-pop-crack—stinging Ella’s guard and snapping her head back, blonde waves whipping. Ella tried to counter with a hook, but Sara slipped it, stepped inside, and ripped a vicious left to the body—thud—sinking deep into bruised ribs. Ella gasped, air punched out, breasts jiggling from the force, pale skin flushing darker.
“Fuck yeah, baby—break her!” Rachel shouted from her corner, voice thick, one hand already rubbing slow circles between her thighs.
I leaned over the ropes in Ella’s corner, pulse roaring. “Stay tight, Ella—circle out, don’t let her trap you again!”
Sara pressed forward, muscling Ella toward the ropes. She feinted high, then slammed a right uppercut into Ella’s chin—snap—rocking her back. Ella clinched instinctively—arms wrapping Sara’s waist, cheek to shoulder, bare torsos grinding slick and hot. Breasts mashed flat, nipples scraping raw. Sara hooked short, clubbing shots to Ella’s sides inside the clinch—thump-thump—each one forcing wet grunts from Ella’s throat. Sara added a quick red-gloved uppercut to Ella's right breast—smack—the pale flesh molding upwards.
Ella shoved hard, breaking free, but Sara was already advancing again—red gloves pumping, driving Ella back step by step until her bare back hit the ropes. Sara pinned her there, short hooks and jabs thudding into ribs and arms, sweat flying in arcs, the wet smack of leather on skin filling the basement. Ella blocked what she could, fired desperate counters—left hook clipping Sara’s jaw—but Sara absorbed and kept coming, dominating the pace, the space, the fight.
Ella ducked a wild right hook, planted her natural toes wide, and exploded upward with a vicious right cross—crack—landing flush on Sara’s jaw. Sara’s head snapped sideways, dark hair whipping, knees buckling. Ella followed instantly—left hook to the temple—thud—right uppercut to the chin—snap. Sara’s eyes glazed; her red gloves dropped half an inch. Ella stepped in close, planted her feet again, and ripped a final, looping left hook—clean, devastating—cracking Sara square on the cheekbone sending sweat and spit.
Sara’s legs folded. She dropped hard—first to one knee, then collapsing forward onto both palms, ass up for a heartbeat before rolling onto her side and flat onto her back on the blue mats. Dark hair fanned out in a damp halo, chest heaving frantic, sun-kissed breasts rising and falling fast, sweat pouring off her in sheets. Her red 10-ounce gloves lay limp at her sides.
Ella, exhausted from the grueling exchange, staggered back a few steps and leaned heavily against the matted corner post in her own corner, her bare back pressing into the padding as she gasped for air, chest heaving wildly, sweat cascading down her body in rivulets. Her loose blonde hair clung to her flushed, marked face, green eyes still fierce but her legs trembling from the effort it took to stay upright after delivering that punishing combo.
Watching it up close—Ella towering over Sara at first, then retreating to lean on the post, both women soaked, glistening, breathing ragged—the sight hit me hard. My cock throbbed in my shorts. The raw power in Ella’s stance, the way sweat dripped from her onto Sara’s defeated body, the heavy rise and fall of both their chests—it was fucking intoxicating.
Rachel vaulted the ropes in an instant, dropping beside Sara. “Come on, baby—get up! You’re not done—get the fuck up!” Her voice cracked with urgency and heat, one hand on Sara’s shoulder, the other brushing sweat-soaked dark hair from her face. As Sara stirred, Rachel leaned in closer, her breath hot against Sara's ear, whispering fervently, "God, baby, you fought so sexy out there—I'm so turned on watching you. You're incredible."
Ella didn’t move—just stood there, black gloves loose at her sides, chest pumping, sweat still dripping in slow falls onto Sara and the mat. Her bloody lips curled into a feral smile.
“Get up, bitch,” Ella rasped, voice hoarse and thick. “I’m not done yet.”
Sara coughed once—wet, ragged—then blinked slow, dark eyes focusing upward through swelling lids. She pushed up on one elbow, breasts shifting with the effort, sweat streaming down her sides.
Both women were breathing heavy—chests rising and falling in sync, ragged gasps filling the quiet basement. Neither looked away—eyes locked, gloves coming up inch by inch, loose hair clinging to flushed, marked faces. They stood there for a tense moment, recovering, sweat dripping, bodies glistening under the lights as they caught their breath, waiting for the signal to get back into the fray.
They squared up again—center-ring, bare feet planted, sweat dripping, breasts heaving—waiting for whoever moved first. The fight wasn’t over.
As if some silent bell had rung, both fighters surged forward at the exact same instant—center-ring, no hesitation, no more testing. Ella and Sara collided in an epic, toe-to-toe slugfest that felt like the entire fight had been building to this one brutal exchange.
Gloves cracked leather on skin in a furious rhythm: Ella’s black 10-ounce right cross snapping Sara’s head sideways—crack—dark hair whipping, blood spraying from her split lip; Sara answering instantly with a vicious left hook that thudded into Ella’s ribs—thud—pale skin blooming red, a sharp grunt forced from Ella’s throat. They stayed glued together feet digging into the blue mats—breasts heaving against each other, sweat flying in arcs with every twist, nipples scraping raw in the press of slick torsos.
The fight swung wildly, back and forth, neither able to claim lasting control. Ella drove Sara toward the ropes with a blistering three-punch combo—jab-hook-cross—pop-thud-crack—forcing Sara’s back against the white cords. Sara’s red toes scrambled; she clinched tight, arms wrapping Ella’s waist, muscling her around in a half-circle until it was Ella’s bare back slamming the ropes instead. They wrestled there—loose blonde waves tangling with dark strands, bodies grinding hot and slick, short hooks thudding ribs and sides—until Ella shoved free with a surge of hips and shoulder, stepping out and firing a right uppercut that grazed Sara’s chin. In the grind, Sara landed a short punch to Ella's left breast—thud—with a grunt.
They broke apart for a heartbeat, chests pumping frantic, sweat dripping in sheets from chins and breasts onto the mats—then slammed back together again. Sara trapped Ella against the padded post in my corner—red gloves snapping short, punishing shots to ribs and arms—only for Ella to duck low, explode upward with a left hook that rocked Sara’s head back and reversed the trap. Sara ended up pinned to the opposite ropes, dark hair plastered to her flushed face, red toes sliding as she absorbed a body shot that folded her slightly. Ella pressed, slipping a black-gloved right to Sara's right breast—smack—the bronze mound compressing.
It was dead even—every advantage erased seconds later, every corner escape matched by a shove back into the ropes. The sounds filled the small space: wet leather smacks, ragged grunts, sharp exhales through bloody lips, the creak of ropes under impact, the slick slide of sweat-slick skin, low growls of effort and pain. Sweat poured off both women in rivers—dripping from loose hair, tracing down etched abs, pooling at waistbands of black and red shorts, splattering the blue mats below their shuffling bare feet.
From my corner I leaned hard over the ropes, voice hoarse with adrenaline and raw heat. “Come on, Ella—keep pouring it on! You’ve got her rocking—finish it!” My cock strained against my shorts watching them trade; the sight of Ella’s pale, battered body grinding against Sara’s bronze one, both glistening and heaving, had me throbbing.
Rachel mirrored me opposite, one hand pressed firm between her thighs, rubbing slow and deliberate against her pants, the other squeezing her own breast and pinching her nipple. Her lips parted, breathing fast and shallow, eyes locked on the even carnage. “That’s my girl, Sara—break her down! Fuck, don’t stop!” Every time Sara landed a clean shot—thud—Rachel’s hips shifted, a low moan escaping; she was soaked just watching the war unfold.
They clinched again center-ring—arms locked, torsos mashing, breasts flattening hard, loose hair tangling as foreheads pressed. Short punches thudded inside the tie-up—Ella hooking ribs, Sara clubbing cheek—until they shoved apart and traded bombs once more: Ella’s right cross rocking Sara, Sara’s left hook snapping Ella’s head back, spit and sweat flying together.
No one could pull away. The round stretched endless—back and forth, ropes to center to corners and back—both fighters gasping, chests rising and falling in frantic sync, gloves heavy but still pumping, bare feet planted stubborn on blue. It could have gone either way right up to the end.
The round had Rachel completely enthralled, her body still humming from the rush she’d felt back in round five. As Sara took a brutal right cross flush to the face—head snapping sideways, sweat and spit spraying—then fired back with a vicious left hook that slammed deep into Ella’s ribs, forcing a loud, guttural grunt from her lips, Rachel’s hand moved faster between her thighs. Her fingers pressed and circled frantically against the soaked fabric of her pants, while her other hand gripped her own breast, pinching the nipple hard enough to send sharp jolts straight to her core.
That raw, defiant exchange—Sara refusing to crumble even as Ella wound up the devastating right hook that sent spittle and sweat arcing across the ring—pushed Rachel right to the brink. Then Ella absorbed a punishing body shot that lifted her onto her toes with a sharp, audible grunt, a thin string of spit escaping her mouth as her abs flexed against the impact. The sight of Sara’s sweat-slicked body still fighting fiercely, trading blows in that relentless, endless war, sent Rachel crashing over the edge for the second time.
Her hips bucked hard against her hand, a deep, shuddering moan ripping from her throat as the orgasm tore through her. Her eyes fluttered shut for a heartbeat, back arching off the stool, thighs clamping tight as wave after wave rippled outward. When it finally eased, she was left gasping, flushed and trembling, her hand slowing to soft, quivering strokes as the aftershocks lingered.
Then, in the final furious exchange, Ella feinted low, stepped in tight, and unleashed a perfect, looping right hook—clean, devastating—cracking Sara flush on the jaw. Sara’s head whipped sideways, dark eyes glazing, knees buckling. She staggered back two steps, red gloves dropping, red toes sliding uselessly—then collapsed forward onto the mats, hitting hard on her chest and rolling onto her side. Dark hair fanned out in a damp halo, sun-kissed breasts heaving against blue, sweat pooling beneath her, red-painted toes twitching once before going still.
Ella stood over her bare feet gripping the mat, loose blonde hair dripping sweat onto Sara’s back and the blue below. Chest pumping, breasts rising fast, pale skin streaked with blood and sweat, green eyes blazing down.
Rachel vaulted the ropes, dropping beside Sara. Her hands on Sara’s shoulders, shaking gently, but Sara stayed down, breathing ragged, eyes half-open but unfocused.
Ella didn’t move—just stood there, black gloves loose at her sides, sweat still falling in slow drops from her chin and breasts onto Sara’s prone form. Her bloody lips curled into a tired, victorious smile.
“Stay down, bitch,” Ella rasped, voice wrecked but firm.
I stepped into the ring, heart slamming, cock aching from the raw intensity. Ella turned to me—green eyes meeting mine, chest still heaving—and I pulled her into a tight embrace, feeling the heat and sweat of her body against mine, the tremble of exhaustion and triumph.
Sara groaned softly on the mat slowly sitting up, Rachel cradling her head, whispering to her how hot she was in the fight. The basement air hung thick with sweat, blood, and the echo of their war.
Ella had won—barely, brutally, beautifully.
Afterwards
Across the ring, Sara groaned softly as she slowly sat up, her sun-kissed body a canvas of welts and sweat, dark hair matted to her neck and shoulders. Rachel cradled her head gently, whispering fervently, "God, you were so hot out there, baby—fighting like that, dominating her for so long. I'm still buzzing from watching you." Sara managed a weak grin, her chest rising and falling in deep, labored breaths, red-painted toes flexing against the mat as she gathered herself. "Not bad," Ella rasped, her voice hoarse but laced with respect. "You almost had me."
Sara chuckled, wincing as she touched her split lip. "Almost isn't enough. Next time, I'll make you beg." But there was no real venom left; the fight had burned it out, leaving only the shared bond of two warriors who'd pushed each other to the brink. As Rachel finished bandaging Sara's lip, the two couples exchanged glances, the air charged with unspoken possibilities. "Drinks?" Rachel suggested, her voice husky, already moving to the kitchen. We all nodded, the night far from over—the fight had ended, but the heat it sparked was just beginning to simmer into something else entirely.
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It was especially sweet since the majority here at FreeCatfight seemed to have been cheering for our opponents to win! 
