It started with this. Two little emails. The whole fucking world was in them, if you knew how to read between the lines. The fuse being lit. I copied them in here so I'd never forget where the fire came from.
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EMAIL 1
From: Charlotte
To: Abi
Subject: Our little arrangement
Hey.
So it looks like our men want to see us catfight each other. Just to let you know, I am more than comfortable with that. More than fucking comfortable. Fucking excited actually.
I’ve seen the photos, of course. You’re quite the little artist, aren’t you? Pretty pictures. And a pretty face to go with it. It’ll be a shame to mess it up. Then again, maybe a few bruises will give you something real to paint about.
Let’s be clear. This isn't a game. This is proper, private business. Just us, them, and whatever marks we decide to leave on each other as a souvenir. A settlement of accounts between the mam from Pontcanna and the mam from Port Talbot.
On a more serious note, my life is my life, and what happens in that warehouse, stays in that warehouse. Attached is a non-disclosure agreement. It’s not negotiable. You’ll sign it. No photos, no videos, no gossiping down the pub to your mates. Break it, and I’ll bring a world of legal and financial shit down on you that’ll make a few bruises feel like a fucking tickle.
Let me know when you've signed. Assuming you've got the guts to show up.
Charlotte
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EMAIL 2
From: Abi
To: Charlotte
Subject: Re: Our little arrangement
Read your little love letter.
Don’t you worry about your precious fucking reputation, you screeching Cardiff cow. Signed your bullshit paper. Happy now?
You want a proper catfight? I’ll be happy to give you one.
As for leaving marks... I hope you like the colour red, you stuck-up bitch.
See you on the mats.
Part One: The Weigh-In
I remember the dust. That’s the first thing. It hung in the air of that warehouse like a silent, buzzing crowd, catching the light from the grimy windows. The whole place smelled of damp concrete and rust and something else… potential. The thick, metallic scent of a promise about to be kept. Our men had set it all up on Fetlife, two kings moving their queens across a board. But the moment I saw her, I knew this wasn't their game. It was ours.
Her fella, the ref for the night, called out the introductions. My man Jonny stood in my corner, a dark, solid shape in the shadows. I felt his eyes on me, and hers too. I was wearing the leopard skin bikini set, of course. A statement. I am a predator after all, and this was my fucking jungle.
I watched her as her stats were called. Five-foot-three. One-twenty-one pounds. Thirty two years old. Fucking hell, I had a 6 year age gap and 20lbs on her. But where I was solid, built to stand my ground, she was all coiled energy, a whip ready to crack. Port Talbot Punisher my arse. She wore a vivid red sports bra and matching bikini briefs, the colour of a fresh wound. The colour of Wales. Arrogant little cow. She was trying to claim the flag before we'd even started.
You think that colour makes you a queen, darling? I’m going to make you bleed to match your knickers.
Then he announced me…
"And in this corner… from the capital city of Cardiff… weighing in at one-hundred-and-forty-five pounds… 'The Voice of Defiance'… CHARLOTTE!"
That’s my fucking name. Not the singer, not the celebrity. The Voice of Defiance. It rang out like a bell in that dusty cathedral of violence, and I felt a surge of pure, righteous power. I gave a slow, deliberate nod, letting my arms hang loose at my sides. I wanted them to have a good look at the machine. I wanted my man to see his queen, ready for war. And I wanted hers to see the walking fucking apocalypse that was about to dismantle his girlfriend. Let her have her Port Talbot pride. I was bringing the capital. I was bringing the noise.
Then the ritual. The final act. Stripping to topless. I was all business, peeling my leopard skin top off, letting the cool air hit my already-erect nipples. I stood there, solid, powerful, my tits heavy and ready for war. I really fucking wanted this. Wanted to make her the first notch, the first W, of my catfighting career.
Look at this and marvel at me, I thought, a message for both our men. This is the body that’s going to break your piece of girl-trash to smithereens.
When it came to her, she made a fucking show of it. A slow, deliberate unhooking, pulling the red fabric away to reveal that pale, freckled skin and those perfect, round 34Cs.
My pussy actually clenched. The sight of her, bare-chested and defiant, that condescending smirk on her lips… it was the most infuriating, intoxicating thing I’d ever seen. I wanted to scratch my own pattern over her freckled canvas. I wanted to bite those pale shoulders until I left a mark they'd see for a week. The fantasy was so sharp, so sudden, it almost made me gasp. Me, on top of her, not on these mats, but tangled in clean white sheets, my teeth on her skin, her hands tangled in my hair, pulling me closer, grinding pussies, her shaking for me…
I’m gonna blow you away, babe.
We stepped to the centre, no words. Her fella, the ref, reminded us of the rules and gave the final nod. There was nothing between us now but a few feet of charged air and a whole world of bad blood. I don’t know where the hell it came from. We hadn’t even spoken to each other. I realise I didn’t even know what her voice sounded like. Sometimes you just recognise your enemy, though, don’t you? Like sometimes you just recognise your lover. You just know. Her dark brown eyes burned with a chaos that called to my own.
You feel it too, don’t you, you slag? This isn’t just a fight. This is a fucking courtship. All done up with your pretty ginger braids and your fuck-me eyes. I’m going to enjoy taking you apart, piece by piece, right in front of him. Both of them.
"Round one… Begin!"
The word cut the silence. We started to circle, a slow, predatory orbit on the soft, forgiving mats. The world shrank to just her. The sway of her breasts, the tension in her thighs beneath the red briefs. I was mapping the territory I was about to conquer.
Then she opened that fucking gob for the first time. "All that big talk, Charlotte. Let's see if your fists can cash the checks your mouth writes."
Perfect. The cheap taunt was the final ingredient. It gave me permission.
I didn't rush. I moved in like a tide, a solid wall of intention. The impact was sublime. My body, my weight, my reality, crashing into hers. The air whooshed out of her, and I drove her back, pinning her against the cold breeze-block wall, my forearm on her neck. Her skin was already hot, slick with a sudden sheen of sweat, and our bare torsos slid against each other, a raw, grinding sensual friction that was already half-sex. I could feel her heart hammering like a trapped bird against my ribs.
Fuck yes. I had her. Like a dog on a fucking lead. I could feel her man’s eyes on me. He must have been getting hard anticipating this for weeks. Seeing his woman get utterly owned by me.
How d’ya like that, bitch, huh? This is what a real woman feels like. You can’t handle this.
But just as I was savouring it, she exploded with a surge of fury, twisting, creating a sliver of space.Her open hand cracked against my cheek. The sound of it, a clean, sharp gunshot in the silent warehouse, was shocking. My head snapped sideways.For a heartbeat, there was just the sting, a white-hot bloom of pain. And then, an ecstatic wave of pure, unadulterated bliss washed through me. She’d marked me. The foul-mouthed slut had put her brand on my face for them all to see. It wasn’t an insult. It was a fucking gift. It was the most intimate touch I’d ever known. Now, I could give one back.
I turned my head back slowly, letting her see the smile on my lips. I tangled my hand in her braids, yanking her head back cruelly. Her body arched, exposing her side, that canvas of pale, freckled skin. I didn't hesitate. I drove my fist into her ribs. It wasn't a punch so much as a detonation. The sound of the impact, a deep, meaty thud, followed by her agonised gasp… it was the most beautiful music I had ever heard.
"Time!"
That fucking saved her. We staggered apart. Both already marked by the other.
Part Two: My Turn
It was a fucking interruption. I walked back to my corner, my body thrumming. The slap-mark on my cheek was a hot, pulsing trophy. I felt Jonny’s hand on my shoulder, a steadying pressure, but my eyes were locked on her. I watched her stumble to her corner, a wounded animal, her hand clamped to the spot where I'd signed my name on her ribs. Her fella, the ref, was leaning in, whispering in her ear, trying to put the fire out.
Pathetic. He was trying to soothe the beast I’d just woken up. I wanted to see the hurt I’d put on her. I wanted to see her doubt. I wanted to see his worry. This was my stage, and they were all my actors now. The show was going exactly to plan.
Feel that, little artist? That’s called reality. A proper fucking muse for you. You can thank me later.
I saw her nod at whatever her fella was saying. She looked up, her dark eyes finding mine across the mats. The smirk was gone, replaced by a cold, hard focus.
"You’re not fighting a girl today," she called out, her voice a hoarse rasp. "You're fighting a mother."
I had to laugh. The fucking nerve of it. Using her kid as a shield. It was the cheapest shot in the book, and I loved her for it. It gave me everything I needed.
"I see exactly what I'm fighting," I shot back, my voice clear and carrying, a performance for the both of them. "A woman who uses her child as a shield for her own weakness. Pathetic."
I saw the words hit her. A flinch. A flicker of real, deep hurt in her eyes. Good. The canvas wasn't just physical. I was going to splash a coat of suffering all over her fucking soul.
The bell went, a starting pistol for the second act, and I came out like a fucking greyhound. Didn’t just walk through her pathetic attempt at a chop; I erased it. In a single, fluid motion, I had her. It wasn’t a grapple; it was an act of consumption. My arms became a cage of muscle around her, my fist twisting into that beautiful, stupidly braided hair, yanking her head back.
The feeling of her body, hot and slick and struggling against mine, was a drug. This wild freckled thing, this creature of pure, chaotic energy, was mine to control. I felt her frantic pulse beat against my bicep, a secret rhythm just for me. My fantasy from before, the one in the sheets, came roaring back, but this was better. This was real, full of sweat and pheromones.
This is where you belong, darling. Wrapped up in me. Don’t fight it.
Then I made her world tilt. With a grunt of pure, performative power, I hauled her off her feet. The whump of her back hitting the soft mat was the most satisfying sound in the world. I landed on top of her in a heavy, suffocating sprawl. My weight. My reality. Crushing her. Fucking crushing the life out of her.
When I looked down I saw pure, animal terror in those brown eyes. The tough Port Talbot girl was gone. This whimpering, trapped thing was all that remained. Fucking beautiful. I could feel her man's eyes on me, on us. Was he seeing his woman any more, or was he just seeing me, his new queen? The thought of his divided loyalty was a filthy, delicious spike of pleasure.
I could have battered her, but that was too simple. This needed a signature. I shifted my weight, pinning her completely, and just… covered her pathetic, tear-stained, panting face with my hand. A slow, deliberate act of erasure. I wanted to feel her panicked breath hot against my palm, to hear her muffled cries. I was silencing the gobby little bitch, taking her voice away from her.
"This is reality," I grunted into the sweaty chaos. "Not your pretty pictures. Fucking submit."
That’s it. Breathe me in. I’m the only fucking thing in your world right now. Is he watching, darling? I hope he’s getting a good look at this beatdown.
I felt her struggle, the little slaps against my back growing weaker. The last of her will was draining away, flowing right into me. It was an orgasmic transfer of power and I was brutalising her like a fucking gladiatrix. And then before I got a chance to make her world dark, he was there, her fella, the ref, pulling me off her and yelling at me to get back to my corner. One automatic submission to me already and I only needed three to win, assuming she could even beat the count.
‘One!... Two!”
I just stood there, breathing hard, my body a furnace of adrenaline, watching my handywork writhe and sob on the floor.
‘Three!... Four!”
Part of me hoped that she could beat the count because now I just wanted to hurt her more. I wasn’t done. I needed to finish her off properly. Devastation was on my mind. Annihilation even.
‘Five! … Six!”
Why is he counting so fucking slowly? So what? Fine by me. Let the bitch get up and have a bit more of this.
That poor bitch was a heap on the floor, a pale carcass lying there like fucking roadkill and her sobs were a glorious hymn. Already a broken woman and I had fucking broken her.
‘Seven!”
Didn’t know you were gonna crumble that easily, you fucking disappointment. Fuck it, I own you now. And I own your bloke too, you ginger pussy.
‘Eight!”
Fucking slow count.
But then that stubborn little cow started to move. She trembled, pushed herself up, and at the count of nine, she made it to her feet, swaying like a Friday night in Neath, held up by nothing but sheer, stupid pride. And I was standing right there, waiting to end her.
The bell for the end of the round saved her, so it wasn't clean satisfaction for me but it was a new, simmering rage. Beating her wasn't enough. Humiliating her wasn't enough. I needed her to stay broken. And looking at her now, this shattered but just-about-standing wreck, I knew I was going to enjoy every second of picking her apart all over again as soon as we got back at it.
Part Three: The Turning
I strutted back to my corner, feeling like a fucking goddess. My body was a live wire, humming with victory. I knew I was taking her apart, piece by piece. My man gave me a proud, approving nod. He knew. He could see the absolute power I was radiating. I glanced over at her, now crumpled on her stool, her fella fussing over her. Her dark, muddy-brown eyes were glazed over, lost.
How do you like the havoc I wreak, huh?
It was perfect. A proper masterpiece of domination. I was the fucking artist, and she was my agonised, beautiful subject. I wanted to burn the image of her humiliation into my memory forever. I wanted to paint it myself.
But then as she recovered her composure, the little cow did something that set my teeth on edge. She looked up from her stool, past the pain and the exhaustion, and she gave me this tiny, vicious little smirk.
The absolute fucking cheek of it. After I had so completely dismantled her, she had the nerve to smirk. It wasn’t defiance. It was something worse. It was a secret. My cool, calculated dominance evaporated, replaced by a hot, simple need to wipe that look off her face for good. Jonny’s eyes narrowed when he saw the shift in me. He could tell I was proper pissed off with her now.
"I don't need instructions on how to break you," I snarled across the mats, the words for her, but the tone a performance for her man. A promise of what was still to come.
The bell rang, and I was on her. This was it. The grand finale. Time to put the rubbish out. But something was wrong. I went to grab her, to manhandle her, to continue the lesson, and she just... collapsed into me. She wasn't fighting back, not really. She just clung to me like a fucking limpet, burying her head against my shoulder, making herself dead weight.
It was the most cowardly, infuriating thing. It wasn't a fight; it was a fucking hug. I was supposed to be delivering a brutal, beautiful finish for this audience of two men who wanted blood, and she was turning it into an ugly, sweaty, grinding mess. The frustration was a physical thing, a hot flush under my skin. I was the showman, and she was ruining my fucking show.
Fight me, you little pussy! Stop hiding and fucking fight me!
Then came the pissy little digs. Little elbows and short, closed-fist punches to my stomach. They weren't powerful. They were just... there. Annoying. Thud. Thud. A constant, nagging reminder that I couldn't get her off me, that I couldn't land the clean, powerful, soul-destroying blow I was craving. My whole body was building in frustration.
For a second, a flash of a different scene hit me. Her, clinging to me just like this, but not in a fight. In my bed. Her red head buried in my shoulder, her hands gripping my back, not to stall, but to pull me closer. I could make her shake there too given half a chance. The thought was so vivid, so hot, it made me miss a breath. It was a disgusting, treacherous thought, and it only made me angrier.
Near the end of the round, my patience snapped. I shoved her away with everything I had, just to get some fucking space, to reset, to finish it properly. And in that second, that tiny window of my own making, the little cow did the unthinkable. She didn't stagger. She rode the push, found her footing, and landed a clean, sharp punch right in my fucking solar plexus.
All the air went out of me in a sharp, shocked gasp. It wasn't just the pain, it was the insult. The sheer, fucking audacity. This broken wretch, this clinging, surviving creature, had just landed the cleanest hit of the entire fucking fight.
Thank God the bell rang. I stumbled back to my corner in shock, rubbing my stomach, supreme confidence gone.
Part Four: The Backlash
Doubt is a cold, sick thing, and I could feel its tendrils wrapping around my guts. I could feel the eyes on me. My man, his jaw tight. Her man, the ref, watching me with a new, calculating expression. The whole spectacle was starting to curdle. I was losing the crowd.
Then I heard her, talking to her bloke, her voice all hoarse but full of this new, cocky swagger.
"I'll tear that bitch down, brick by fucking brick”. Then she called across to me,” You feel that ache deep inside, Charlotte? That's me. That's the ugly truth you've been screaming about with your voice of a fucking angel! Hurts, don't it?"
Who the fuck do you think you are, bitch?
The rage that went through me was pure and black. It burned the doubt away. Fuck her. Fuck her cheap psychology. We may be mams with complicated lives now, but deep down, we’ll always be working-class bitches from the estates, looking to impress a bloke by fucking up his girlfriend. The painter from Sandfields against the dark fucking angel from Pontcanna, Cardiff. This was about who was the harder bitch.
The bell rang for the fourth, and I came out meaning to finish it. No more games, no more art. Just pure, fucking demolition.
"Had your little rest, love?" I sneered.
"Just getting started," she fired back, and before I could even process the comeback, she did it again. Feinted high, and as my hands came up by instinct, she drove another vicious, short little dig right into the same fucking spot on my belly.
A proper, pained gasp ripped out of me. It wasn't a showman's grunt; it was real. The little bitch did it again. In that split second, I was no longer the Voice of Defiance. I was just a girl from Cardiff who’d been thumped in the gut, and the shock of it must have been all over my face for them to see.
The whole round became a horrible, hairpulling, slogging match. A messy, sweaty clinch on the soft, yielding mats and against the cold breezeblock walls. She was all elbows and spite, digging away at my guts. Thud. Thud. Thud.
My strength and weight advantage was useless. It was a desperate, ugly scrap, and I was losing it. I roared with pure frustration.
I’m not fucking having this.
I used my raw power and finally reversed her, pinning the slag down with her back on the mat. Right, my turn now. I rained down slaps on her face and tits, leaving angry red welts on that pale, freckled skin of hers. I wanted to paint her with suffering and re-establish things to their rightful order.
In a flash of red rage, I saw myself not just slapping her, but biting down on her shoulder, my teeth sinking in like a raging leopardess, a proper animal mark of ownership. I imagined her crying out, a sound that was half pain, half pleasure, her body arching up into mine...
The fantasy snapped me back to the ugly reality. I needed to break her spirit. I leaned in close, my mouth by her ear, and snarled the worst thing I could think of.
"Dylan would be fucking embarrassed if he could see me breaking you up like this!"
I thought that would be it. The kill shot. I expected her to crumble, to cry, to finally break. Instead, her body went rigid beneath mine. She opened her eyes, and the look in them was pure murder.
"Don't you ever fucking speak his name," she whispered, and the venom in that whisper was colder than any shout.
And in that moment, as I was still processing my mistake, she exploded. A violent, bridging buck that wasn't about escape, but about creating one single inch of space. And into that space, she drove her fist one more time, a brutal, final punctuation mark right into my tormented stomach. A real groan of agony tore out of me. My whole body curled around the pain, my grip loosened and I rolled sprawling across the canvas, dominance shattered into a million pieces. I was ashamed of my tears that mixed with the sweat on my cheeks.
The bell rang, saving me again. It fucking saved me. The fear was back, but this time different. It had caught fire. It had transmuted into the blackest, purest rage I have ever felt. The pain in my stomach became the core of a furnace.
I stumbled back to the corner, one hand clamped to my gut where her repeated signature was bruising me up and burning me. My body sagged onto the stool.
I sat there, clutching my belly like some old biddy with a stitch. The pain was a hot, coiling snake in my gut, but the fear was worse. Fear of her? Fear of getting hurt? Or fear of being humbled in front of them? A mixture of all three, I guess. It was a cold, sick thing. I could feel the eyes on me. Jonny, his face a mask of worry. And him. Her bloke. The ref. Seeing me, the great Voice of Defiance, huddled over, winded, and properly, truly rattled. The humiliation was a physical taste in my mouth, like cheap iron.
And then, from across the mat, she opened her fucking gob again. That girl-next-door sing-song voice cut through the fog.
"You’re quiet all of a sudden, Charlotte," she taunted, and every word was a sharp little knife, twisting in the wound. "Getting hard to insult me with my fist in your gut, is it?"
Something in me snapped. The fear caught fire and burned up. The look of pure, undiluted murder I'd seen in her eyes when I mentioned her son... it wasn't just terrifying; it was the most real, most authentic thing I had ever seen. And it was fucking beautiful. I had poked the bear and found a dragon who was breathing fire in my direction, and the thought of provoking that magnificent, savage fury again was the most profound turn-on I have ever known. The pain in my stomach was no longer a wound. It was a souvenir. It was the core of a furnace.
She stood up and ran a hand over the livid welts on her own breast, a gesture of such beautiful, arrogant defiance that it pushed me right over the edge. I angrily jumped to my feet. Jonny was still trying to give me advice, but I shoved his hands away. A guttural, wordless roar ripped out of me. Not a performance. A fucking exorcism. The doubt, the fear—it was all burned away in that one sound.
Let me get my hands on you, bitch!
All that was left was a pure, ecstatic, and deeply sadistic need to make her pay. Not just for the punches. But for making me feel afraid. For showing me a part of myself I didn't know I wanted. I needed to finish her now, real bad. Real bad.
"I'm going to wipe that stupid fucking smirk off your face forever!" I snarled and I meant every word. It wasn't a threat. It was a fucking prophecy.
Part Five: The Queen of Pain
I came out of that corner a different woman. The strategist was gone. The brawler was gone. What remained was something much older and much more honest. I was a predator, and I was starving. She threw a weak jab and I walked straight through it like it was a cobweb. The first slap I threw was a thunderclap, rocking her head back on her neck. I followed it with a brutal chop to the side of her neck that had no technique, only malice. And down she went. Onto her knees.
Oh, sweet mother of God! The sight of her. That flame-haired Amazon, that goddess of the gutter, humiliated on all fours on the mats. Bowing down before me. It was everything, a religious experience. All the air in the warehouse seemed to get sucked into that one, perfect image of her submission. I didn't pounce. That would be a waste. This was a moment to be savoured, a spectacle to be enjoyed for our private audience of two.
"Look at you," I sneered, my voice dripping with the contemptuous pleasure that was flooding my veins. "Right back where you belong. On your fucking knees."
I let her try to get up, then I was on her, grabbing her hair in both hands and throwing her back onto her stomach. I mounted her from behind, my knees digging into those pale shoulders, my weight pinning her to the world. My fist tangled in her hair and yanked her head back, exposing the white, vulnerable arch of her beautiful porcelain neck. I wanted to smash it. If I was a guy, I swear I might have fucking raped her there and then. That beautiful, defiant body was just meat for me to tenderise. I started landing short, punishing shots to her kidneys. With every thud of my fist, a little cry of agony was torn from her, and every cry was a fresh jolt of pure, erotic power through my system.
This is for that cheap shot to my gut, you little bitch. A little reminder from me to you. I’m going to make you piss blood for a week, you little cow.
This was what she wanted. What we both wanted. To be pushed past the point of pride, into a place of pure feeling. We were painting each others’ bodies with a palate of pain, and it was the most beautiful art we could ever hope to create.
I leaned down, my lips so close to her ear she could feel my breath.
"Show's over," I whispered, the intimacy of the threat more violating than any blow. “Goodnight fucking Vienna!”
And for my grand finale, I shifted my weight, rolling her over, and sank down into a deep, smothering facesit. Fuck that felt so good! This was it. The ultimate act of contempt, forcing her lips to bear homage to the pussy of her goddess. My victory, pressed right onto her face. I ground down, feeling her weak, pathetic struggles against my thighs. Her panicked, muffled sounds were the only applause I needed. She was just a warm, struggling weight beneath me, and it was the best feeling in the whole world. Better than any number one single. It was truth.
Her man had to call it, a submission of absolute shame. I rose slowly, nodding theatrically, a conqueror standing over a ravaged city.
How about that, bitch? How about fucking that? Two fucking submissions now! Two fucking nil. Suck it up.
I didn't even look back at her as I strode to my corner and he started the count. I could feel her brokenness behind me. I turned and watched with a mixture of amusement, contempt and longing. Watched her, impossibly, drag her shattered body upright at the very last second.
So fucking what. She was standing, but she was mine. A broken toy I could play with whenever I wanted. And as the bell rang, all I could think about was the delicious, agonising punishment I was going to deliver to her next.
Part Six: The Reckoning
I swear to God, I could have floated back to my corner. Every part of me was singing. The ache in my gut was gone, replaced by the warm, electric thrum of pure power. I watched, like a director watching dailies, as her man practically scraped Abi off the floor and dragged her back to her stool. She was a phantom. A ghost. Her body was a roadmap of the beautiful work I’d done on her, all bruises and red welts. She was my canvas now.
My man Jonny was looking at me with absolute awe. He was seeing his queen in her element. Her fella, the ref, couldn't take his eyes off me either. He wasn’t just watching a fight; he was watching a masterclass in humiliation. I was owning them both, and his woman was my instrument.
And then, the ghost spoke. Her voice was a shredded, ragged whisper, but it cut through the air like broken glass.
"You celebrating already, Charlotte? This fight ain’t over until I say it is."
I actually laughed. A proper, loud, contemptuous laugh that echoed in the warehouse. The sheer, balls-out cheek of it. It was like a mouse, pinned under my boot, threatening to bite my ankle. It wasn't a threat; it was a joke. A cute, final little squeak before I squashed her for good. It only made the coming pleasure that much sweeter.
"What are you going to do? Bore me to death?" I shot back, playing to my tiny, captive audience.
The bell for the sixth rang, and it felt like the dinner bell. I was going to eat her alive. I came out of the corner with a swagger, not rushing, enjoying the performance. I was going to play with my food. And that's what she was doing. Running. The little bitch was actually just moving around, staying away, making me chase her. It was pathetic, but it was also part of the show. The predator stalking its wounded prey. The leopard and the quarry.
"Stop running and take your fucking beating!" I snarled, my patience starting to wear thin. I wanted to feel her under my hands again. I was getting bored.
And then she just suddenly stopped. And she turned and faced me. Walked right into my space. There was no fear in her dark brown eyes. Nothing. Just a cold, dead calm.
It was a glitch. A wrong note in my perfect symphony of cruelty. For a split second, I was confused.
And in that split second, she hit me. It wasn't a flurry. It wasn't a wild swing. It was one, single, perfect, focused punch. It felt like her entire body, her entire will, every last scrap of her life was compressed into her fist. And she drove it, with flawless, beautiful timing, right into the burning, ravaged centre of my stomach.
The world didn't go black. It just... stopped. All the air in the universe vanished. My brain, lungs, legs—everything disconnected. There was no sound, only a silent, screaming pressure from the inside out. Then the spasm. A deep, violent, uncontrollable heave that buckled my fucking legs.
Just like that, I was on my hands and knees. On the mat. The sour, hot stench of my own sick filled my nostrils. Vomit dripping from my lips.
Not like this. Please God, no! Not like this!
The silence in the warehouse was absolute. Stunned. And through the ringing in my ears, I heard her. Now she was standing over me, her body trembling with the effort of just standing, but she was over me. She didn't shout. She didn't taunt. She just spoke three, quiet, devastating words that hammered the final nail into the coffin of my pride.
"I'm still here."
And in that stunned silence, I felt it. The weight of their eyes. But they weren't on me anymore. The pity, the shock – THAT was aimed at me. But the awe... it was all for her. In one punch, she hadn't just stolen my breath; she'd stolen my fucking audience. I was no longer the star of the show. I was just part of her fucking scenery. I looked up, my vision blurry with tears of pure, undiluted agony. No longer was she a broken toy. No longer a ghost. She was a fucking demon who she’d summoned from the depths of her own ruin.
The bell rang somewhere in the distance. It didn't really matter. It felt like the curtain was closing on my show. The predator was now the prey, kneeling in her own filth, and for the first time in my life, I truly, honestly, wanted to die. I guess the ref should have started to count but he didn’t. I guess he was probably in shock too. At least it meant she still didn’t have a submission to her name, not that I was even thinking about anything other than survival.
Part Seven: The Longest Minutes
I didn't walk back to my corner. I crawled. On hands and knees, like a penitent making her way up a mountain of glass. My man rushed out and tried to help me, but his touch felt wrong, an intrusion from a world that didn't matter anymore. I collapsed onto the stool, my body a useless, sagging weight, but my eyes... my eyes never left her.
In that moment, the switch didn't just flip. It fucking shattered. The fear, the rage, the need to win—it all just burned away, leaving behind a pure, terrifying, and beautiful clarity. Abi stood in her corner, refusing to take her seat, and looked at me with an expression that will be burned into my soul forever. It wasn't smug. It wasn't even triumphant. It was the calm, appraising look of an artist who has finished a masterpiece and is simply standing back to admire her creation. I was her creation. This broken, shuddering, utterly devoted thing on the stool—she had made me. And I had never felt more truly myself. She wasn't a scrapper from Port Talbot anymore. She was fucking magnificent. The Welsh bomber who had just levelled my city. The flame-haired goddess of retribution. And I, her blasphemous subject, was kneeling in the ruins, waiting for her to deliver the coup de grace.
My man was shouting some nonsense in my ear, trying to give me a strategy. It was just the buzzing of a fly. Charlotte the activist was dead. Charlotte the singer was a ghost. All that was left was this body, this vessel of glorious pain, waiting for its next sacrament. When they helped me to my feet for the bell, my legs were shaking. I looked across the mats at her, at my destroyer, and my eyes must have conveyed the truth.
I'm yours. Finish me.
Part Eight: The Altar
The bell rang for Round 7. It was a summons. I stumbled forward out of my corner, my arms wrapped around my burning core, not as a defence, but as an embrace of the damage she had inflicted. I was a pilgrim walking the final steps to the shrine.
She didn't rush. A predator doesn't rush a crippled animal. She stalked towards me, and I just waited. I was hers to take. She didn't go for the gut again. That would have been too simple, too merciful. She wanted to play. She wanted to continue the performance.
A stinging slap rocked my head back. Then another. She contemptuously swatted my feeble attempt to guard myself aside and wrenched me off balance by my hair, forcing me to my knees for the second time, my hair still in her clenched fist. The symmetry of it was beautiful. I was down exactly where I had put her. It felt like I belonged there.
This was it, I suppose. Reversal complete. I was the kneeling supplicant, dethroned, and now she was the Queen of Pain. This was what she wanted. What we both wanted. To be pushed past the point of pride, into a place of pure feeling.
She didn't strike me further. Instead, she stepped behind me, pushed me forward onto my back, and with a horrifying, beautiful sense of inevitability, sank down into a deep, smothering facesit.
The same move I had used on her, but this time it felt different. It wasn't about anger. It was about ownership. A calm, absolute declaration that she could do whatever the hell she wanted with me, whenever she wanted. And I didn't struggle. I just lay there, my face pressed hard against her pussy, the world reduced to the pressure of her body and the scent of her snatch, and I endured it, wondering how it must have looked as she celebrated her magnificent body over my now broken one. I even welcomed it, even as the darkness closed in on me.
Her fella, the ref, had to call it and rescue me before I lost consciousness. "Break! Automatic submission!"
She slowly rose off me, fully satisfied but without a word, and he remembered to count this time. "One... Two..." This time, it wasn't pride that got me up. It was need. A desperate, masochistic need for the punishment not to end. I couldn't let her finish it with a submission. It had to be the final, perfect blow. On nine, I had made it to my feet, a complete wreck, a ruin held together by sheer, perverse desire. The bell rang, ending the seventh. I had survived. I had earned my execution.
Part Nine: The Benediction
Jonny had to virtually carry me back to the corner. I sagged onto the stool, head lolling. I think he was begging me to let him stop it, but I just shook my head weakly.
She deserves a proper ending to this.
How could I explain it to him? This wasn't a fight anymore. It was a consecration, and the final rites were about to be read to me.
Across the way, I heard her voice, flat and clinical, a final command.
"One more round," she stated, licking her lips. It wasn't a question. "Then you can go back to screaming at the world. But you'll always remember who put you on your knees."
They had to pull me to my feet. The bell for the eighth round was a death knell for the woman I used to be. I stumbled forward.
She came for me. Not like a fighter, but a reaper. An inevitable, beautiful finality. She didn't need to slap me or grab my hair. She just walked up to me, looked me in the eyes, and I knew. She feinted a hand high, and my body, what was left of it, reacted, leaving my core exposed for the last time. She went back to the well. Her fist, that perfect, brutal instrument of my unmaking, sank one final time into my solar plexus.
The world didn't switch off. It went supernova. A silent, white-hot explosion of pure feeling that radiated out from the point of impact.
Oh. There it is. The punch I was waiting for. The one I knew you had in you. The one I needed. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Don't stop. Finish me.
I fell, crumpling into a heap on the mat, my body curling into a tight, foetal ball around the epicentre of her power. And then she was just... there. Standing over me. A colossus. Her hands on her hips, her chest rising and falling, not with exhaustion, but with the sheer, primal satisfaction of her absolute victory.
"This is my fucking reality, bitch," she whispered down at me. It was a benediction, and she proudly circled my prostrate body as her man counted.
He was crouching beside me, his voice a distant rumble as he awarded a second automatic submission to her.
"One... Two..."
I looked up at this circling huntress through a haze of tears. Tears of pain, yes, but tears of something else, too. Awe. Gratitude. I had pushed her, and she had become this. This magnificent engine of destruction.
"Three... Four..."
I had given her the gift of my defiance, and she had given me the gift of her dominance.
"...Five... Six.. Seven."
My body shuddered. There was no instinct to get up. Merely the desire to stay here, at her feet, for as long as she would let me. This was no defeat. It was somehow the peak.
The count washed over me, a warm, final confirmation of my brokenness.
"...Eight... Nine... Ten! It’s over!"
He waved the contest off, a worried expression on his face, and beckoned Jonny to come and scrape what was left of me off the floor.
I lay there on the soft mat, my cheek pressed against the vinyl, listening to the sounds of her heavy, satisfied breathing. For a few seconds, that was the only sound in the universe. The ragged, powerful sound of my conqueror catching her breath. I could have stayed there forever.
Part Ten: The Aftermath
I was gone. Completely out of it. After some minutes, my man eventually got me to my feet and guided me to the centre. My tears were now just dry stains on my cheeks. There was only a strange, blissful calm. Abi was already there, standing in the middle of the mats, waiting for me, her wrist grasped by the hand of her partner. Oh, the sight of her… I swear to God, it burned itself onto the back of my eyeballs.
She was a fucking queen. Not some tart from Port Talbot who’d got lucky. She was a masterpiece of violence, sculpted from pure, stubborn will. A fine sheen of sweat coated her entire body, making her pale, freckled skin gleam under the dusty lights like polished marble. The muscles in her shoulders and back jumped with every deep, heaving breath she took. Her body couldn’t hide her excitement at having beaten me so decisively. Those magnificent 34Cs, slick with sweat and marked with the faint red welts my own hands had left, swayed slightly with the force of her breathing. They weren't just breasts; they were the twin figureheads of a conquering vessel. I wanted to kneel. I wanted to lick the salt from the hollow of her throat. I wanted to thank her.
Her fella, the ref, stepped between us. He took my hand but raised hers high in the air.
"After 47 seconds of Round 8, the winner, by knockout: Abi, the Port Talbot Punisher!"
She stood there, one arm aloft, a faint, exhausted, victorious smile on her swollen lips. Her body was a mess of my making – the fading handprint on her cheek, the welts on her tits – but they weren't marks of damage. They were her fucking crown. Her war paint. Every mark was a testament to the war she had waded through to stand on my ruins. The thrill of being beaten down by the better woman was the most intense feeling I've ever known. I was her subject, her servant, her slave. I was her masterpiece.
He stepped back so that we were face-to-face for one last time. Without a word, she stepped forward and we embraced, hard. Not affection, but a deep, animal acknowledgement. Her skin was hot and slick against mine, the press of her breasts, her hips, her thighs, leaving a final, lingering brand on me. I felt a deep, longing to stay there, to feel her boobs pressed against mine, to just be held by my conqueror.
God, I adore you. The heat of you. You ruined me but I could stand here all night. Don't think for a second this is over. This is just the beginning, you magnificent bitch.
But it did end, and we pulled apart.
I was not totally beaten. The masochist had been fed, but the sadist was already stirring, hungry again. My own dark promise was clawing its way up my throat.
"You may have got the knockout," I said, my voice a low, rough growl, "but I submitted you TWICE. I’ll be in your nightmares for as long as you're in mine”.
“Yeah, right. Singing, most probably.”
“Fuck you. You got lucky with one punch. Next time, I won’t spare you."
Abi looked at me, a slow, condescending smirk spreading across her swollen lips. She reached out and gently, almost tenderly, brushed a thumb over the fading handprint on my cheek.
"Fuck off! Lucky?" she said, her sing-song Port Talbot accent dripping with dismissive confidence. "Oh, babe. That wasn't luck. That was a huge fucking promise. And next time... you won't have to wait so long for me to keep it."
________________________________________
Even now, a day later, writing this, my stomach is a canvas of deep purple. When I press on the spot, right below my ribs, the ache is a dull, beautiful echo of her power. It’s the best fucking souvenir I’ve ever had. And it’s a constant reminder that I need more of her art on my skin.
So I bet you read every word of this, didn’t you, Abi? You think you know what happened in that warehouse? You've only seen the fucking introduction, love. You felt what it's like to be a goddess. But I wonder if you’ve got the guts to find out what it's like to be a sacrifice.
Because I promise you, that vicious little war of ours is far from over. It's just getting started. I want revenge.
So name the date, bitch.
