Margot Robbie vs Samara Weaving
On paper, it was a great idea: take two talented actresses who had a natural physical resemblance and have them play the roles of two sisters starring in a story of family drama. In reality, the physical resemblance between Margot and Samara had caused, over the years, no small amount of tension between the two divas who had no qualms about giving vent to such tensions during the filming of the movie in the form of barbs, tantrums and passive-aggressive provocations.
"Alright, let's get this show on the road," the director, a stern-looking man with a graying beard, announced to the crew. The sun was already high in the sky, casting a warm glow over the quiet film set. The air was filled with the distant sound of chirping birds and the rustle of leaves from the nearby trees. The crew, a mix of experienced professionals and eager interns, murmured in agreement as they checked their equipment for the umpteenth time. The anticipation was palpable as the moment of truth approached.
Margot and Samara, standing opposite each other, took deep breaths. The script called for an intense confrontation that would showcase the raw emotion and turmoil that existed between their characters. But the tension between the real-life counterparts was thick enough to cut with a knife and the resentment was about to spill over into the scene.
The director, noticing the strain, stepped forward, clipboard in hand, to give them their final instructions. He spoke calmly, detailing every move and line of dialogue with precision. "Remember, Margot, you're the older sister, Emma. You've had to bear the brunt of your father's expectations and you're feeling the weight of the family's legacy on your shoulders. Samara, as the younger, rebellious Chloe, you've always felt overshadowed by Emma's success and you're tired of living in her shadow."
Samara, leaning against a tree with one hand in her pocket, nodded lazily. "Got it. So, I'm the cool, carefree one who doesn't take life too seriously?" she quipped, a hint of challenge in her eyes.
Margot's jaw clenched as she shot Samara a sideways glance. "You make it sound like you're playing yourself," she replied, her voice laden with passive aggression. She adjusted the strap of her sundress, the fabric whispering against her skin as she tried to maintain her composure. "But I'm sure you'll nail the 'resentful sibling' part, given your...experience."
The director rolled his eyes and raised his hands in a placating gesture. "Ladies, let's channel that tension into the scene, shall we?" He stepped back, giving them space to mentally prepare. The crew watched with bated breath, hoping the tension wouldn't boil over into an actual fight before the cameras rolled.
Action was called and the scene began. The two actresses circled each other, the tension rising like the steam from their coffee cups left forgotten on the picnic table. The dialogue was sharp, each word a dagger thrown with precision. The script called for an escalation of emotions, and the pair delivered it in spades.
As Margot's hand shot out to deliver the slap, the sound echoed across the stillness of the pond, sending ripples across the water's surface. Samara's head jerked to the side, the impact more intense than she'd anticipated. The sting on her cheek was a stark reminder that while this was a scene, the emotions were all too real.
Her eyes watered with a mix of pain and shock. For a brief moment, she stared at Margot, her mind racing. The script had called for a dramatic slap, but the force Margot had used was unrehearsed and unexpected. "What the fuck was that?" she exclaimed, her hand flying up to her face, her words a stark contrast to the quiet countryside.
The director called out, "Cut!" His voice was sharp, cutting through the tension like a hot knife through butter. The crew paused, looking at each other nervously. It was clear that the scene had taken a turn that was not in the script.
Samara's hand remained on her cheek, her eyes brimming with a mix of disbelief and anger. "What the hell was that, Margot?" she spat out, glaring at her co-star. The sting from the slap was fading, but the emotional impact was still raw.
Margot took a step back, her smug expression unwavering. "It's called method acting, darling," she said with a shrug. "Sometimes you just get carried away in the moment. It's what real actors do."
Samara's eyes narrowed as she felt the heat rise to her cheeks. "Method acting or not, you didn't have to hit me that hard," she retorted, her voice trembling slightly. She could feel the imprint of Margot's hand on her cheek, a stark reminder of the pain that had just been inflicted.
The director, his face a picture of exasperation, sighed heavily. He'd seen enough drama for one day. "Alright, let's do this again, shall we?" he asked, turning to Samara. "Are you okay to continue?"
Her eyes still blazing, Samara nodded curtly. The director took a deep breath and called for action once more. The scene started again, with the sisters picking up their coffee cups, the tension in the air as palpable as the heat of the sun beating down on them. The dialogue was the same, the anger simmering beneath the surface, but this time, as the moment of the slap approached, the director could feel the tension coiling tighter than a spring ready to snap.
Margot took a step closer, her arm winding back for another hit, but this time, Samara was ready for it. The moment Margot's hand made contact, Samara's own hand shot out, her palm colliding with Margot's cheek with surprising force. The sound of skin meeting skin was like a gunshot in the quiet afternoon. The director's eyes widened, but the cameras kept rolling, capturing every moment of the unscripted drama unfolding before them.
The two actresses stumbled back, their hair flying in the gentle breeze, their chests heaving with rage. They locked eyes, their faces flushed with the heat of the moment. Without another word, Margot and Samara lunged at each other, their fingers intertwining in a fiery dance of anger as they grabbed handfuls of hair. The sound of their scuffling and grunts filled the air, a stark contrast to the serene setting. The crew watched in a mix of horror and fascination as the two blondes, once so poised and professional, descended into a messy brawl. The director could barely contain his excitement, his heart racing as he watched the scene unfold.
They stumbled around the pond's edge, their dresses snagging on the overgrown grass and mud flying with every step. The water rippled with their movements, the reflection of their contorted faces a twisted mirror of their inner turmoil. The pain from the hair pulling brought tears to their eyes, but the adrenaline and resentment that had been brewing for so long only fueled them further.
Margot managed to break free, her nails scratching Samara's cheek as she did so. Samara screamed, the sound a mix of pain and rage. She could feel the warmth of her own blood trickling down her face and the sting of the scratches burning. She stumbled back, her hand flying to her cheek to cover the wound, her eyes wide with shock and anger.
The director's assistant, a young man with a headset and a clipboard, rushed over, his voice frantic. "We have to stop them!" he exclaimed.
The director, his eyes never leaving the chaotic scene before him, responded calmly, "Keep rolling." He didn't bother to look at his assistant, his full attention on the two women locked in a furious battle.
"But, they're actually fighting!" the assistant protested, his voice laced with panic.
The director waved him off, his gaze never leaving the unfolding scene. "Yeah, I know” he said, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. "But I've had to put up with their tantrums for weeks now, so I might as well let them blow the steam off and in any case this is gold."
The crew held their breaths as Margot and Samara stood before each other, their hands a blur as they exchanged a flurry of slaps. Each hit echoed through the quiet countryside, punctuating the silence like a series of gunshots. The sound of their palms meeting skin was a symphony of spite and anger. Their faces were masks of rage, twisted and contorted with each strike.
Margot's arm reared back, her fist clenched tightly as she prepared to deliver a haymaker that would surely knock Samara off her feet. But Samara had other plans. With a swiftness that belied her delicate frame, she ducked under the wild swing and lunged forward, her body colliding with Margot's midsection. The force of her tackle sent them both crashing to the ground, the thud of their bodies hitting the earth a testament to the depth of their animosity.
They rolled in the damp grass, each trying to gain the upper hand. The soft fabric of their sundresses slid against each other's skin as they grappled, their legs entwined in a dance of mutual destruction. The once-pristine dresses were now stained with dirt and mud, a stark visual representation of the mess their relationship had become.
Margot, fueled by years of simmering resentment, managed to gain the advantage. She sat kneeling across Samara's belly, her knees digging into the soft ground. Samara's breath left her in a whoosh as the wind was knocked out of her, the air around them thick with the scent of sweat and desperation. Margot's hands shot out, pinning Samara's wrists to the ground over her head, their fingers interlocked in a vice-like grip.
"You're just a knock-off," Margot spat through gritted teeth, her eyes flashing with fury. "A cheap copy trying to ride my coattails." The words were like acid, burning into Samara's ears and fueling the fire within her. She writhed beneath Margot, her body a testament to her desire to break free.
Samara's eyes narrowed as she struggled against the weight holding her down. "You're just afraid of me," she managed to gasp out, her voice strained with the effort of speaking. "You can't handle the fact that I might be better than you." The words hung in the air, thick with challenge.
With surprising speed, Margot's right hand snaked out from her grip on Samara's wrist and reached for the top of Samara's sundress. She yanked at the delicate fabric, popping buttons off one by one as if they were the last obstacles in her quest for dominance. The dress gaped open, revealing Samara's naked breasts to the world, her nipples erect with the mix of fear and arousal that the fight had brought forth. The coolness of the spring air brushed against her exposed skin, sending a shiver down her spine.
The director's assistant, horrified by the turn of events, tried to intervene once more. "We can't let this go on!" he pleaded into the director's ear. But the director was in his element, his eyes glued to the chaos before him.
"Shut up and keep rolling," the director hissed, not taking his gaze off the two actresses. His voice was filled with excitement rather than concern. "This is what we need for the movie. If we can't use it, it's still gold.”
Margot's hand found its target, her fingers digging into Samara's soft, warm flesh with a possessive ferocity that surprised even her. Samara's eyes widened with a mix of pain and shock, and she let out a muffled cry that was lost in the sound of their struggle. The coolness of the spring air caressed her bare skin, adding another layer of reality to the scene.
As Margot's grip tightened on Samara's nipple, the other actress's body arched off the ground, her legs kicking wildly in a desperate attempt to break free. Her cries grew louder, a symphony of agony that seemed to resonate with the very essence of the scene they were supposed to be filming.
Margot leaned in, her breath hot against Samara's ear, and whispered, "You're so weak, just like everyone says." Her nails raked across the sensitive skin of Samara's breasts, leaving red trails in their wake. "So desperate for attention, trying to be me. But you're just a pathetic little copycat, aren't you?" Each word was a knife, twisting in Samara's chest, fueling the fire of her rage.
With a snarl, Samara managed to twist her head to the side and spit out the words, "Get off me, you fucking psycho!" Her eyes, wild with a mix of anger and fear, searched for any sign of weakness in Margot's grip. But she found none. Instead, she felt the weight of her opponent's body pressing her down, the heat of Margot's thighs against her hips.
Margot's laugh was cold, cruel. "Is that all you've got, Samara?" she taunted, leaning down so that her lips brushed against Samara's ear. "You're just a little girl playing at being tough."
With a sudden, vicious move, Margot leaned back and spat in Samara's face. The saliva hit her cheek and slid down, a hot, wet trail that made her skin crawl. Samara's eyes widened in disgust and she jerked her head to the side, trying to wipe it away with her shoulder. But Margot wasn't done. She grabbed Samara's face with her right hand, her fingers digging into the soft skin, and smeared the saliva across her cheek, mixing it with the mud and dirt already there.
The gesture was degrading, humiliating, and it was all Samara could take. With a snarl of her own, she opened her mouth and sank her teeth into Margot's hand. Margot's scream was piercing, a high-pitched sound that seemed to shake the very air around them. She recoiled, her grip on Samara's wrists loosening for just a fraction of a second.
It was all the opening Samara needed. With a grunt of effort, she bucked her hips, using every ounce of her strength to push Margot off her. The other woman toppled backward, her arms flailing as she hit the ground with a thud. Samara took a deep, painful breath, her chest heaving with the effort. She tasted blood in her mouth and knew she had drawn it from Margot's hand. The taste was metallic and oddly satisfying.
Ignoring the pain, she scrambled to her knees and lunged after Margot, who was trying to crawl away through the damp grass. Samara's hand closed around the fabric of Margot's sundress, the material already stretched and torn from the earlier struggle. The dress gave way easily, and Margot's bare ass was exposed to the world. The director's eyes grew wide with excitement, his voice hoarse as he shouted for the crew to keep filming.
With a vicious tug, Samara managed to rip the dress from Margot's body, leaving her in nothing but a flimsy lace bra and matching panties. She didn't care who saw or what the consequences would be; all that mattered was the power she felt in that moment. She threw the dress aside like a rag and jumped on Margot’s back pushing her face down on the ground. Samara sat up straight on Margot’s lower back and started raining slaps at her opponent’s head and back "You think you're so much better than me?" she screamed, her voice cracking with rage. "You think you're some kind of queen?"
Margot, her face buried in the grass, could feel the coolness of the earth against her skin, the scent of freshly cut grass mixing with the bitter taste of defeat. She raised her arms to protect her head, her hands forming a shield against the barrage of slaps. Each hit sent shockwaves through her body, the pain radiating from her cheeks to her very core.
Samara's smile grew wicked as she watched her enemy squirm beneath her. The sound of her palms hitting Margot's flesh was music to her ears, a sweet symphony of revenge. But as she continued, she realized that her blows were not having the intended effect. Margot's arms had become an impenetrable fortress, and she was unable to land a direct hit to her face. With a twisted smirk, Samara decided to switch tactics and untied Margot’s bra.
Samara planted her nails on Margot’ shoulders raked them down across her back, leaving a trail of red lines that stood out like a scarlet ribbon on alabaster skin. Margot's screams grew more desperate, her body jolting with every stroke. The pain was intense, and she knew that even if she won this fight, she'd wear the marks of Samara's fury for days to come. She had to get away, to put an end to this nightmare before it was too late. With a burst of adrenaline, she bucked and twisted, trying to break free from Samara's iron grip.
But Samara had other ideas: she grabbed Margot’s hair pulling back with all her strength, forcing Margot to bend backward. Margot screamed in pain and humiliation as she feels Samara snatching her bra and exposing her tits to the crew.
“No, stop it!” Margot shrieked frantically
With a sadistic laugh, Samara leaned forward, her eyes gleaming with triumph. "What's the matter, Margot?" she taunted, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "You're always so eager to show off your assets to the world. Why so shy now?"
But Margot was beyond caring about modesty. With a roar of rage, she twisted her body and reached back with her free hand, her fingers latching onto Samara's hair. She pulled with all her might, the roots of Samara's hair feeling like they were being torn from her scalp.
Samara's grip on Margot's hair loosened a bit, and she let out a scream of pain as Margot forced threw Samara off her back. But she wasn't going down without a fight: the two blondes now had each other in a vice-like grip, their locks entwined like serpents fighting for dominance.
Their bodies were a mess of torn fabric and mud, their faces flushed with exertion and anger. The air around them was thick with the scent of sweat and the metallic tang of blood from Margot's bitten hand. They knelt side by side, their breaths coming in ragged gasps as they stared into each other's eyes. The hatred that had simmered between them for so long was now a raging inferno, each struggling to extinguish the other.
Their hands remained locked in each other's hair, their knuckles white with the effort of maintaining their holds. The silence that had descended upon the scene was eerie, the only sounds the distant chirping of birds and the soft rustle of leaves in the breeze. The crew had frozen, their eyes glued to the spectacle unfolding before them, unsure of whether to intervene or keep filming.
"Had enough?" Margot panted, her voice thick with both challenge and exhaustion. She leaned back slightly, her eyes flashing with a mix of anger and fear. Samara's teeth were bared in a snarl, her eyes narrowed to slits as she glared at her opponent.
"Fuck off, Margot," Samara spat, her voice filled with venom. The words seemed to snap the last thread of restraint holding Margot back. With a roar of frustration, she released Samara's hair with her right hand and instead began raining slaps down on her body. Her palms connected with Samara's bare skin, leaving red handprints that stood out like a road map of rage.
Samara screamed in pain, but instead of cowering, she found a new surge of energy. She lunged at Margot, wrapping her arms around the other woman's body. They toppled over, their limbs tangled as they rolled through the damp grass and onto the muddy bank of the pond. The cool, squelching earth beneath them was a stark contrast to the heat of their rage.
Margot's legs shot up and locked around Samara's waist, her ankles crossing like a pair of steel handcuffs. Samara's breath was forced from her lungs as the other woman’ strong thighs squeezed tight, her eyes widening with surprise. But she wasn't going to be held down so easily. She managed to plant her hands on the ground, pushing herself up and over Margot, her muscles straining with the effort.
Margot's smile grew wider, her teeth gleaming in the sunlight. "You're going to hurt yourself if you keep this up," she whispered, her voice dripping with mock concern. Her legs tightened further, the pressure on Samara's ribs increasing. Samara could feel the beginnings of pain blossom, a dull ache that threatened to spread and consume her.
But she was not about to be outdone. With a snarl, Samara lowered her head, her teeth bared. She aimed for the soft flesh of Margot's right breast, biting down hard. The pain was immediate, a sharp stab that pierced through the haze of anger. Margot's eyes went wide with shock, and she let out a high-pitched screech that was almost comical in its intensity.
The shock of Samara's bite made Margot's legs convulse, releasing their vice-like grip on Samara's waist. With a snarl of pain and anger, Margot managed to free her arms and latched onto Samara's hair, her grip as tight as a noose. "Let go!" she screamed, her voice hoarse from the battle.
Samara's scalp burned with the brutal hairpulling, and she could feel her eyes watering. But she knew that if she released Margot's breast now, she'd be at her mercy. So, she held on, her teeth sinking deeper into the soft, warm flesh. The pain was intense, but she had to keep going, had to show that she wasn't the weak one here.
Margot's eyes were wide with shock and agony as she thrashed wildly beneath Samara. Her hands flew to Samara's face, trying to pry her mouth open, but Samara's jaw was locked in place, her teeth embedded in the tender skin. In a final, desperate effort, Margot summoned all her strength and pushed with her legs, sending both of them rolling down the bank and into the shallow waters of the pond.
The cold water enveloped them, a shocking contrast to the heat of their battle. Samara felt the panic set in as her head and shoulders were submerged, water filling her mouth and nose. The need for oxygen overpowered the rage, and she released her bite, her teeth sliding out of Margot's flesh with a sickening sucking sound. Margot's body went limp with the sudden release, and they both spluttered and coughed as they surfaced, gasping for air.
Margot, now on her knees in the water, her breasts heaving with exertion, took the opportunity to push Samara's head down again. Her hand pressed against Samara's forehead with surprising strength, and the other woman's face disappeared beneath the murky pond water. Bubbles rose to the surface as Samara struggled, her arms flailing, trying to break free.
The director's assistant, watching in horror, could take it no longer. He rushed to the director, his voice urgent. "We have to stop them!"
The director, his eyes glued to the unfolding drama, didn't even look away from the camera's viewfinder. "Just a bit more," he murmured, his voice thick with anticipation. "This is what we need.”
With a final burst of strength, Samara managed to break the surface, her hair plastered to her face, her eyes wild with a mix of rage and fear. Water dripped from her nose and chin, and she coughed and sputtered as she fought to regain her breath.
Margot, equally drenched and panting, took the opportunity to drag Samara closer. She leaned in, her own breasts heaving with the effort, and whispered in Samara's ear. "You're nothing but a cheap copy. Give up now and admit it. This is my world, and you're just living in it."
But instead of defeat, Samara found a new spark of anger. Her eyes flashed with defiance as she spat out a mouthful of pond water. "Go fuck yourself, Margot," she hissed, her voice low and filled with venom. “You’re just a scared and insecure bully!”
The words hit Margot like a slap, and she saw red. With a snarl, she pushed Samara's head under the water once more, her hand pressing down on the crown of her head like a heavy stone. The water closed over Samara's face, and she felt the world go silent except for the muffled sounds of their grunts and splashes.
Samara's body jerked and thrashed, her hands reaching up to grab at anything she could find. But Margot's grip was unyielding, fueled by years of resentment and a deep-seated fear of being replaced. The water around them grew murky with the disturbance, and Samara's legs kicked wildly, sending up plumes of mud and silt.
Her movements grew weaker, the fight draining from her as the lack of oxygen took its toll. Her nails scratched at Margot's wrists, trying to find purchase, trying to free herself from the watery prison that threatened to claim her. The world above grew hazy, the edges of her vision darkening as the need for air became more and more urgent.
Margot felt something give. Samara's body went limp, her legs stopped kicking, and the water around them grew still. A moment of triumph flashed through Margot's eyes before she realized the gravity of the situation. With a sudden jerk, she pulled Samara's head out of the water.
“Oh my God… what have I done… Samara, are you all right?”
Samara suddenly opened her eyes, her face deformed by a wicked smile. As Margot reeled from the shock of realizing that her opponent deceived her, Samara's hand shot up from the murky depths, a fistful of mud and sludge in her grasp. With a grin that was more animal than human, she slapped it onto Margot's face, pushing the filth into her eyes, nose, and mouth.
Margot released her grip, her eyes burning with the sting of the dirty water. She staggered back, coughing and spitting, the taste of mud and pond scum filling her mouth. Samara took this moment to drag herself out of the water, her body heavy with fatigue but her spirit unbroken.
As the water cleared from her vision, Margot saw Samara stumbling towards her, a wild look in her eyes that sent a shiver down her spine. Samara's once-beautiful sundress clung to her body, revealing the bruises and scratches that marred her skin. But it was the determination in her stride that sent a jolt of fear through Margot.
Margot's instincts took over and she turned to crawl away, her movements frantic as she tried to escape the wrath of her co-star. The cold, wet earth beneath her palms offered no comfort as she propelled herself forward, her breath coming in ragged gasps. But she had underestimated Samara's tenacity.
In a blur of motion, Samara’s leg shot forward hitting Margot between her legs making her scream in pain, then she
leaped onto Margot's back, her legs wrapping around the other woman's midsection like a vice. The force of the impact knocked the wind out of Margot, and she stumbled, her hands digging into the mud to keep from falling face-first into the pond. Samara's grip was unrelenting, her thighs squeezing tighter with every struggling breath Margot took.
Her arms snaked around Margot's body, her hands finding their way to the soft mounds of her breasts. With a vicious twist of her wrists, she squeezed, her nails digging into the sensitive flesh. Margot’s eyes shot wide with pain and shock, her mouth forming a silent scream as she felt the pressure increase.
Margot's desperate thrashing did little to dislodge Samara, whose legs had wrapped around her waist like the coils of a python. The water and mud churned around them as Margot's nails raked the ground, searching for anything to hold onto, anything to leverage herself out of this predicament. But every time she found a handful of earth, it slipped through her fingers like sand in an hourglass, disappearing into the murky pond.
"How does it feel, Margot?" Samara hissed into her ear, her breath hot and sticky. "To be beneath me?" Her voice was a mix of triumph and spite, the kind of tone one uses when they've just proven a long-held point. "Still think you're better than me?"
Margot could feel the mud and grime sticking to her face, mixing with her makeup and running into her eyes. She tried to shout back an insult, but it only came out as a choking gasp. Her eyes burned from the mud and the tears that were forming from the pain. "You're... a... fucking... bitch," she managed to spit out, her voice strained with the effort of speaking and breathing.
Samara's grip around Margot's waist tightened, the pressure almost unbearable. But instead of weakening, she seemed to feed off Margot's insults. "Is that all you've got?" she taunted, her voice filled with derision. "You're supposed to be the big star, but you can't even come up with something original to say?"
The pain in Margot's chest was intense, each squeeze of Samara's hands sending spikes of agony through her body. She tried to form words, to say something that would wound Samara as deeply as she had been hurt, but all that came out was a strangled whimper. The nails dug in deeper, and she felt her body begin to shake with the effort of trying to endure the torment.
But then, just as she thought she couldn't take anymore, she felt something warm and wet on her neck. Samara had leaned in, her teeth bared, and sunk them into the soft skin just below Margot's ear. The pain was sudden, a flash of white-hot agony that made her eyes roll back in her head. Her scream was high and piercing, echoing through the quiet countryside like the cry of a dying animal.
Margot's body went rigid, her legs kicking out in a desperate attempt to dislodge Samara. Her fingers clawed at the earth, leaving deep gouges in the mud as she fought against the pain that seemed to spread through her veins like wildfire. The other woman's teeth were like a vise, and she could feel the warm trickle of blood running down her neck, mingling with the water and mud that clung to her body.
"Please," Margot managed to choke out, her voice a broken whisper. "Please, Samara, stop." It was the first time she had ever begged her enemy for anything, and the humiliation was almost as intense as the pain. But she had reached her breaking point, the need for mercy overwhelming her pride.
For a moment, it seemed as though Samara would grant her wish. She released her grip, her legs uncoiling from Margot's waist, and allowed her to slump into the mud, her body trembling with the aftershocks of the struggle. But instead of standing back, Samara stepped closer, placing one foot on Margot’s right tit , pressing her down into the cold, wet earth.
"You can't handle it, can you?" she jeered, her voice a mix of triumph and disdain. "You've always been the weaker one, the one hiding behind your pretty face and your name. But I've had enough of living in your shadow."
Margot's eyes watered with pain and frustration. "Please," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the sound of their heavy breathing. "I... I can't take it anymore."
But Samara was too lost in her own anger to care. With a grim smile, she leaned over, her eyes gleaming with malice. She reached down and scooped up a handful of the cold, sludgy water that surrounded them, the murky liquid mixing with the mud on the banks. Margot felt the wet earth hit her cheek, the grit and slime slipping over her skin.
With a sadistic delight, Samara began to smear the mud all over Margot's face, her movements deliberate and methodical. Margot couldn’t do nothing except sobs and weakly protest as her struggles grew weaker, her body trembling with exhaustion.
Margot could only bawl as Samara grabbed another handful of sludge and turned her attention to Margot's breasts. The mud coated her ravaged flesh, mixing with the blood from the bite marks and scratches. Each smear was a brand of humiliation, a declaration of Samara's dominance. The cold, sticky mess clung to her skin, a stark contrast to the warm, soft mounds that had once been the envy of millions.
"You're just a dirty slut, Margot," Samara spat, her voice full of disdain. "Always bragging about your talent and success. Well, now you're just another dirty whore, rolling around in the mud like the pig you are."
With a grin of pure malice, Samara reached down and hooked her fingers into the waistband of Margot's lacy underwear. With a vicious yank, she tore them from her body, the fabric snapping like a whip in the damp air. Margot's eyes widened in horror as she felt the coolness of the air against her exposed skin.
"What are you doing?" she screamed, her voice hoarse from the fight. But Samara didn't answer, her eyes focused solely on her prize. With a fistful of the cold, slimy mud, she hovered over Margot's naked crotch, the hatred in her gaze unmistakable.
Margot's entire body convulsed with fear and disgust as she felt the cold mud smack against her sensitive flesh. The weight of it was unbearable, the sensation of it sliding between her folds like a violation. "No," she whispered, her voice trembling. "Please, no."
Samara's laugh was a sadistic cackle, the sound of victory in its purest form. She didn't stop with just a smear, no. She pushed her hand in deeper, her fingers digging into Margot's skin with a brutal force. The mud was forced into her, filling her up like a dirty, unwanted intrusion. Margot's screams grew louder, her body jerking and twitching as she tried to escape the unthinkable humiliation.
And then, just when it seemed it couldn't get any worse, Samara leaned back, her hand dripping with mud and water, and spit into Margot's face with a vindictive satisfaction. The saliva mixed with the grime, creating a disgusting paste that clung to her cheeks and eyelashes.
Margot lay there, trembling with shock and pain, her eyes blinking rapidly as she tried to clear her vision. She could feel the cold mud seeping into her most intimate areas, and she was too stunned to react. Samara's lifted her mud covered right foot and started rubbing it all over Margot’s face and mouth, a symbol of her complete and utter victory.
With wobbly legs, Samara climbed out of the pond, the sodden tatters of dress clinging to her body like a second skin. She walked towards the director, her steps unsteady from the exertion of the fight and the waterlogged earth beneath her feet, a look of triumph etched into her features.
The director remained transfixed by the scene unfolding before him, his eyes glazed with a mix of shock and fascination. It was as if he had forgotten the world around him, so absorbed was he in the raw, unfiltered hatred between the two women. His camera hovered over them like a hawk over its prey, capturing every grimace, every tear, every drop of mud that fell from their bodies.
Samara approached him with the confidence of a victor, her chest heaving from the exertion of the fight. She brought her mouth close to his ear and whispered: “Now this is when you’re supposed to call the cut.”
The director blinked, the spell of the moment breaking as he finally took in the gravity of the situation. His eyes darted from the camera to Samara and back again, the reality of the scene setting in. "Cut," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. The word hung there, a stark contrast to the cacophony of the fight. The crew looked at each other, unsure if they had heard correctly. But as the silence grew, it was clear that the scene had ended, not with the director's usual enthusiastic shout, but with a simple, quiet command.
The stillness was shattered as the crew burst into action. Several members rushed to Margot's trembling form; their concern etched on their faces. They carefully lifted her out of the pond, her legs useless after the intense struggle. Her eyes remained closed, and she didn't protest as they laid her on a towel, her body shaking from the cold and shock. They whispered reassurances to her, trying to coax her into consciousness, their hands gentle as they checked her over for injuries.
Meanwhile, other members of the crew approached Samara, their eyes wide with a mix of admiration and fear. They offered her towels and water. She took them without a word, her chest still heaving from exertion, her eyes never leaving Margot's prone form. Her own bruises and scratches were a testament to the battle they had just witnessed, but she seemed unbothered by them, almost proud. She wiped the mud from her face, not bothering to hide the bruises that were already starting to form around her eyes as she turned to the director: "I'm done for today."
With that, she turned and began to stumble away, her legs wobbly from the fight and the cold. "I'll be at the hotel," she called over her shoulder, not bothering to look back. "Call me if the bitch has the balls to finish this movie….or if she wants a rematch…”
