Round1
From the opening clang of the bell, Seika exploded like a whirlwind of pent-up rage, her vow fueling every calculated move, her compact frame darting forward with the explosive speed of a judo black belt. I expected a tentative probe to test my reach, so I lunged forward with a lazy jab, leveraging my impressive 70-inch reach to keep distance, my micro-skirt fluttering up to flash a tantalizing glimpse of my lacy thong-clad cheeks and the subtle curve of my womanhood beneath. But she ducked under it with blinding speed, her smaller frame a sensual blur of motion, her years of wrestling drills making her evasion second nature.
Before I could reset my stance, she fired a lightning-fast low kick to my inner thigh, the impact snapping like a whip against my smooth, exposed skin, sending a shiver of unwanted heat up my spine,
The pain shot through me like fire, my leg buckling slightly, my ample breasts jiggling provocatively with the force as I shook it off. I swung a wide hook that she evaded effortlessly, slipping inside my guard like a lover's intimate advance, her olive skin brushing against mine in a fleeting, charged contact that made my skin tingle despite the aggression.
She was a maestro of dominance, her feet a flurry of intricate footwork that made my taller, curvier form look clumsy and vulnerable by comparison, like a gazelle outmaneuvered by a panther. She peppered me with a series of stinging straight punches—pop-pop-pop—each one landing flush on my flushed cheeks and jaw, snapping my head back, leaving my full lips parted in gasping surprise, my bold red lipstick smearing slightly across my chin in humiliating streaks that marred my perfect makeup.
I stumbled backward, my arms flailing as I tried to clinch, drawing on my Muay Thai roots to pull her close for a knee strike, my micro-skirt riding up higher to reveal the thin strap of my thong nestled between my pert ass cheeks, the lacy fabric digging in uncomfortably and chafing with every twist. She spun away with agile precision, delivering a spinning back fist that grazed my temple, sending stars exploding in my vision and a flush of humiliated arousal to my core, my nipples hardening visibly through the thin top as my body betrayed me with an involuntary response.
What the hell was happening? I was supposed to be dominating, not feeling this mix of pain and unwanted heat.
The crowd erupted in a deafening roar as she pressed her advantage, her strikes a symphony of precision laced with sadistic intent, each one calculated to punish without ending the fight too soon.
She feinted high with a jab, drawing my hands up to protect my made-up face, then drove a knee into my midsection, the point digging into the soft flesh just below my navel, folding me over with a whoosh of expelled air that made my micro-skirt flip up entirely, exposing my thong's lacy front pouch clinging translucently to my womanhood, the fabric dampening with sweat and an embarrassing hint of betrayal.
I gasped loudly, clutching my stomach in pain, my full breasts straining against the strappy top, nipples poking like beacons of my growing shame amid the arena's flashing lights.
But she didn't let up, her relentless pace a testament to her endurance training. She grabbed my wrist in a textbook judo wristlock, twisting it just enough to force me to my knees with a sharp cry, my micro-skirt pooling uselessly around my thighs like a discarded tease, my thong and bare ass visible to the roaring audience as I knelt submissively, cheeks burning with regret for my outfit choice and the public exposure it invited.
Humiliation washed over me—how had she gotten me here so fast? I was the taller one, the striker!
"Get up, you prissy dog," she taunted in accented English, echoing her interview insult with a voice dripping with mockery and triumph, her breath steady despite the exertion as she released the hold and followed with a roundhouse kick to the ribs. The impact echoed through the arena like a thunderclap, my body jerking sideways as I hit the ropes, my curves undulating with the force, sweat glistening on my cleavage and thighs like oil on a lover's skin, my thong wedging deeper between my cheeks from the momentum. I, humiliated and red-faced beneath my smudged makeup, tried to rally, muttering through gritted teeth, "You're just jealous," but my voice cracked with uncertainty.
I charged with a takedown attempt, my longer reach aiming to scoop her up in a clinch, but she anticipated it with sumo-like balance, sprawling her legs wide and countering with an elbow strike to my back. The blow sent me sprawling face-first into the canvas, my micro-skirt hiking up to fully bare my ass, the lacy thong string disappearing between my cheeks—a teasing, erotic glimpse that drew wolf whistles and camera flashes from the crowd, amplifying my regret as viral clips began circulating in real-time. My face burned; this wasn't how it was supposed to go.
She mounted my back like a dominant predator claiming her prey, her hips grinding against my exposed rear in a humiliating cowgirl position, the friction sending sparks of unwanted pleasure through me, my body betraying me with a shameful moistening that soaked through my thong. She rained down short, controlled hammerfists to my shoulders and head, not hard enough to cut but relentless and precise, forcing me to turtle up in defense, my body writhing sensually beneath her weight like a captive in ecstasy.
"You like showing off? Feel this, jealous? Ha!" she whispered harshly, her breath hot on my ear as she shifted into a grapevine hold, spreading my legs wide with her own powerful thighs, pinning my thighs apart in a vulnerable, spread-eagle pose on the mat, the micro-skirt barely covering my thong as the crowd cheered the erotic display, my face buried in the canvas in mortification, my makeup smearing further against the rough surface.
I snarled weakly, bucking wildly in a desperate bid for freedom, my sexy curves twisting in futile, sensual resistance—my breasts pressing into the mat, nearly popping from the top with each heave, my legs kicking to reveal more flashes of my thong—but her grip was ironclad, her wrestling and sumo background making the control effortless and unbreakable.
She transitioned into a rear-naked choke hold, her slender arms snaking around my neck like vines, squeezing just enough to make my face turn purple with effort, my tongue peeking out between painted lips as I gasped erotically, my vision blurring from the pressure. I thrashed wildly, my micro-skirt twisted around my waist now, my thong damp with sweat and humiliation, the lacy fabric outlining my arousal plainly for anyone close enough to see.
She released the choke only to flip me over with a powerful judo throw, slamming me onto my back with a thud that shook the ring and made my body bounce enticingly, nipples visibly erect through the top, drawing more catcalls from the enthralled audience. I lay there, dazed and panting, my legs splayed awkwardly in exhaustion, the micro-skirt doing nothing to hide the outline of my womanhood through the thin thong fabric as she stood over me, taunting with a smirk, her own body glistening with a sheen of victorious sweat, her small breasts rising and falling rapidly but controlled.
The round dragged on in one-sided, erotic agony, the clock ticking slowly as she toyed with me. She landed spinning heel kicks that whipped across my thighs, leaving red welts on my creamy skin but no breaks, each strike making my body quiver and my skirt flip teasingly, regretting every second of my "sexy" choice as pain mingled with unwanted arousal.
A superman punch from her caught me square on the chin, knocking me senseless against the turnbuckle, my eyes glazing over as I slid down the pads, my micro-skirt riding up to bunch at my hips, exposing my thong fully to the leering crowd. The referee checked me closely, but I waved him off with a trembling hand, my pride fueling my refusal to quit despite the tears smearing my mascara down my cheeks like black rivers.
I managed to block a few strikes, my height and reach allowing me to absorb without catastrophic damage, even landing a glancing knee to her body that forced a momentary retreat and bought me precious seconds. But I couldn't land a single meaningful blow to turn the tide—her speed was a ghost—elusive, punishing, her every move a step toward fulfilling her vow.
By the bell, I was a humiliated, aroused mess, staggering to my corner on unsteady legs, my body slick with sweat, makeup ruined beyond repair, micro-skirt disheveled and useless, deeply regretting my outfit as flashes of my exposure went viral across the globe. How I lasted through that barrage was a testament to my exceptional physical build and fighter's heart, my Muay Thai conditioning allowing me to endure what would have broken lesser opponents, but it only prolonged the inevitable torment, drawing out my suffering for the delight of the crowd.
