When old acquaintances meets again… Part 2
By the Masked Writer
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Jane explodes forward, fists flying in wide, panicked arcs. Her blows are driven by anger and humiliation rather than skill. Most of them glance off Sylvia’s forearms, shoulders or torso. Sylvia turns slightly, uses small pivots of the hips and soft deflections to let most strikes slide harmlessly away. Every blocked hit sends a jolt through Jane’s shoulders; adrenaline keeps her moving even as the effectiveness of her attacks falls away.
Sylvia finally answers with a short, controlled counter: a hard shove to Jane’s chest, enough to break her rhythm and force her back a step. It knocks the wind from Jane for a beat and makes her stumble on the soapy concrete. Sylvia closes distance again.
When Jane lunges again, Sylvia meets her and takes a firm hold at her shoulders and upper arms, controlling Jane’s posture. She steers Jane’s head and torso, preventing another blind flurry. Jane tries to twist free, feet slipping, but the wet surface and Sylvia’s superior strength give her the edge.
Sylvia brings Jane down by pressuring her hip and shifting Jane’s center of gravity; Jane’s feet slide on the soap-slick concrete and she collapses backward. It’s not a showy throw — more a practical, forceful disruption of balance that ends with Jane She ends landing on her butt on the wet ground. Sylvia follows through quickly to maintain control, staying upright and close rather than pulling away.
Once on the ground, Sylvia pins a wrist to the concrete with one hand and uses her forearm across Jane’s chest/shoulder area to keep her from rising. The hold is heavy and immobilizing; Jane scrambles, planting her feet and trying to bridge, but the slippery ground and soap make it harder to generate leverage.
From the controlling position Sylvia lands a few short, open-handed strikes and forearm nudges — aimed to disrupt rather than to seriously injure — while Jane fights for position. Jane answers with desperate attempts: frantic knees up, one or two short punches that connect with the shoulder or upper arm. Each contact steals a little more breath, and both women’s faces show the strain.
The earlier bucket blow left Sylvia bleeding at the temple; the thin line of blood trickles into her hair and stings her eye intermittently. For a beat she had been shocked — then the sight of it and Jane’s aggression turns into a cold, focused anger. That focus tightens Sylvia’s movements: her responses become faster and just a touch less forgiving.
Jane’s breathing is ragged now, high and fast. Her arms shake on every attempt to push or strike; the muscles in her shoulders and forearms burn with lactic acid. Her power is fading
Recognizing an opening when Jane overcommits on a roll, Sylvia threads an arm under Jane’s far shoulder and uses her weight to pin Jane flat. She brings a knee to the ground near Jane’s hip to block an escape and presses down with steady force across Jane’s upper body. From that position she delivers a few controlled, short strikes to Jane’s torso and face area that are enough to keep Jane subdued and disoriented. Jane tries to grab Sylvia’s wrists, to pry them off, but the soap makes grips slippery and Sylvia anticipates most of the attempts. Jane’s punches at close range mostly glance off or are caught and absorbed.
Jane mounts one last frantic effort: a bucking, an attempt to twist and use her hips to break free. She exhales with a raw sound and pushes, but her legs tremble, she can’t find firm traction, and her arms lack the strength to dislodge Sylvia. Panic gives way to a defeated, ragged breathing. The fight loses momentum; blows become sparse as both women fatigue rapidly.
Sylvia maintains the pin long enough for Jane’s movements to slow to a stop. She keeps control — wrists held down, weight spread so Jane cannot easily roll — until Jane’s breathing steadies into heavy, exhausted gasps and she stops struggling. Sylvia does not escalate into anything more injurious; she simply uses her superior size, balance and conditioning to contain Jane. The fight ends not with a fatal blow but with Sylvia in a clearly dominant position and Jane spent, humiliated and aching.
So Sylvia decides to add the final touch to Jane's humiliation. With a sudden movement, she grabs the top of the bikini of the woman lying down and tears it off, exposing her bare chest.
-“Those are a bit flabby.” She says, with a grin. And indeed, Janes breast look almost flat on her torso, little masses of pale white flesh near her, looking like fried eggs, sunny side up, near her prominent ribs. Then Sylvia did the same with Jane’s bikini bottom, in spite of her feeble resistance, as she tried to kick with her exhausted legs.
-“Oh! A Brazilian, how sweet for an old hagg!” Says Sylvia. She then grabbed Jane's arms, which were trying to cover herself with her hands, and, without any gentleness, flipped her onto her stomach. She then used the two pieces of the bikini to tie her hands behind her back. She patted Jane’s buttocks, saying –“This is flabby too!”
Then Sylvia simply walked to her car, got in, started the engine, and drove away, leaving Jane naked, hands tied, on her lawn, crying and screaming in helpless rage.
Unlikely they ever meet again. And they certainly won't wash their cars together...
The End
