[femfitefan]

I've been playing with an AI program to write some story ideas that have been tumbling around in my head for years.  This is my first attempt at it.  I wrote a couple of paragraphs to establish the concept, and made some edits along the way, but all credit to the AI for most of it.

Chapter 1: A New Home

Lisa’s first sight of Renner Hall is a wall of red brick, three stories and change of university optimism, all heat-warped glass and steel-trimmed doors. She stands on the curb with her duffel, her mother’s hand-me-down rolling suitcase, and a borrowed backpack that already cuts into her shoulders. The sun’s a monster; everyone’s sweat-wet and red-faced. Some families still cling to their kids, others drop off boxes and speed away in a minivan exit. Lisa bites her lower lip and watches two older girls haul a futon up the steps, one end each, arms knotted with swimmer’s muscle.

A cluster of orientation leaders in green shirts and snapbacks clusters at the archway, barking room numbers and giving the freshmen the once-over. Lisa checks her printout: “Renner 2B-16.” She picks her way through the crowd, conscious of every footfall, every scuffed sneaker. No one looks her way except a beanpole boy who raises a fist and says, “Good luck. You’ll need it,” then grins like it’s a joke she doesn’t get.

Inside, the lobby is chaos, a rolling tide of luggage and parents and girls who already know exactly where they’re going. Lisa threads the gauntlet, scanning the nametags: some kids are clearly upperclassmen, already lounging on the lobby couches in short-shorts and crop tops, sipping from Nalgene bottles like summer camp never ended. One girl leans over to tie her shoe, exposing a sharp line of back and a sports bra Lisa only ever saw on professional athletes.

Her room is on the second floor, so she takes the stairs. The elevator’s backed up and, anyway, she’s used to stairs. The stairwell smells like cleaning fluid and old sneakers. She counts the steps, not because she cares, but because her mind needs numbers when her chest is tight. First floor landing—loud voices, someone’s duffel blocking half the hall. Lisa edges past.

Second floor. She finds 2B-16 easy enough. The door’s propped open with a battered flip-flop. She takes a breath, shoulders her way inside.

The room is a split rectangle: two beds, two desks, two sets of identical wooden drawers, no frills. One half is untouched, institutional. The other half has already been colonized—duffel flung on bed, suitcase open and half-unpacked, a stack of polka-dot storage cubes ready for action. Lisa checks the nameplate on the door, half-expecting it to be wrong, but no, it’s right. She’s early. Or her roommate’s just as eager as she is.

She chooses the bed farther from the window. It feels less exposed. She drops her bags with a controlled exhale, then starts the routine: textbooks out first, stacked by subject—Calc, English, Psych, two massive Bio tomes she bought used online. Next, she unzips a padded case and lines up her laptop, charger, phone, all cords spooled with hair ties. She pins her high school swimming patch to the corkboard above the desk. Last, a dog-eared family photo: her mom, her older brother, and Lisa herself, hair still wet from a meet.

Lisa sits. Just for a second. Lets her shoulders relax and listens to the noise outside. Girls laughing, a heavy thump like someone dropped a fridge, a voice somewhere down the hall. Her mouth is dry.

She unpacks her closet. Hangs shirts by color, the way her mother does at home. Shorts next, then her two pairs of jeans, then the hoodie she wears on off days. It smells like detergent and the safety of her old bedroom. She presses it to her face for a second, just breathing.

The flip-flop falls away from the door. Lisa looks up, heartbeat stuttering. In strides her roommate, towing a second suitcase behind her and radiating the kind of confidence you can’t fake. Blonde hair, high ponytail, little wisp-bangs, and a jawline sharp enough to cut glass. She’s in a track tank and running shorts, calves like she lives on stairs, and Lisa instantly pegs her as a gymnast or maybe soccer. Her arms are ropey and defined, tan lines etched along the edge of her shirt.

The girl surveys the room in a single sweep. “You must be Lisa,” she says. Her handshake is dry and firm, all business. “Kelly Thompson. Hope you don’t mind I claimed the window bed.”

Lisa manages not to flinch. “All yours.”

Kelly’s smile is wide but never quite hits her eyes. She lifts her suitcase onto the bed with a grunt and unzips, flicking glances at Lisa’s corner, noting the order, the patches, the photo.

“Swimmer?” Kelly says, nodding at the patch.

Lisa nods. “High school. You?”

“Gymnast. Vault and beam, mostly. State three years running.” Kelly says it like she’s reading off a stat sheet, like it’s supposed to matter.

Lisa half-smiles. “Impressive.”

“Was,” Kelly corrects, hauling out a rainbow array of sports bras and folding them into her drawer. “I’m retiring. Tore my ACL last year.”

There’s a heartbeat of silence. Kelly doesn’t look up, just keeps unpacking, fast and efficient. Lisa wants to ask if it still hurts, but something about the angle of Kelly’s jaw warns her off.

Instead, Lisa sits on her bed and untangles her phone charger. Her hands shake a little.

Kelly’s already finished with clothes, now lining up a shelf of trophies on her desk. She has at least eight. All different sizes, all with the same gymnast figurine up top. She places them so they face the doorway, like sentries.

“You here on scholarship?” Kelly asks.

“Academic,” Lisa says. “Sort of. I mean, I worked for it.”

Kelly glances up, grins. “Don’t we all?”

She plucks a green binder from her suitcase and tosses it onto the desk. “You like the color?”

Lisa’s startled by the question. “Sure.”

Kelly’s face does something complicated—a smirk, but with edges. “Dorm color. They told me. Green for Renner.” She shrugs. “Could be worse.”

Lisa looks at her own side of the room, sees the blue notebook she’s always carried. Suddenly it feels like a flag for the wrong team. She flips it face-down.

Kelly finishes with the trophies and moves on to a tray of makeup, hair bands, and a giant bottle of Tylenol. She catches Lisa watching and raises her brows.

“I get headaches,” Kelly says. “From my knee. Or maybe from my mother.”

Lisa isn’t sure what to say. “Do you need help with anything?”

Kelly shakes her head. “Nope. Got it down to a system. Parents move a lot.” She doesn’t sound bitter, just matter-of-fact.

A sudden volley of laughter erupts from the hallway. Kelly cocks an ear, then moves to the door and peers out. “Already sizing each other up. It’s like the Olympics of Girl.”

Lisa laughs, uncertain. “You think?”

Kelly grins. “Watch. The upperclassmen always start it. They walk around in sports bras and tiny shorts to show who’s not a freshman. Then we all copy them. By October, nobody remembers who started it. It’s Darwinism, but with Lululemon.”

Lisa glances out the door, sees two older girls in matching tanks striding past, the one on the left wearing spandex shorts so brief they barely count as clothing.

“Wow,” Lisa says.

Kelly leans in, voice low. “Last year, rumor was the RA did a whole week topless. She gives Lisa a sly look. “No pressure, though.”

Lisa’s face heats. She picks at her fingernail, then forces herself to look up. “I’ll stick to tank tops.”

“Give it time,” Kelly says, then turns back to her own bed, stripping the thin dorm blanket and replacing it with a shockingly neon comforter. She slaps a pillow into place, sits cross-legged, and regards Lisa with open calculation.

“You nervous?” Kelly asks.

Lisa blinks. “Should I be?”

Kelly shrugs, then lays back on the bed and props a foot on the window ledge. “Nah. Just checking if you’re one of those types that freaks out on Day One. Had a roommate in sophomore year—cried for three hours straight and then transferred to commuter.”

Lisa forces a smile. “I can handle it.”

“Good.” Kelly points a finger at Lisa, mock-pistol. “You look like you can.”

There’s an odd moment—a truce, maybe, or a challenge deferred. Lisa looks away, and in doing so, lets herself take in the full reality of the room: two beds, two girls, nowhere to hide. She wonders if Kelly will always be like this—so fast, so sharp. She wonders if she can match it.

A thud from above makes both girls look up. Kelly laughs. “Third floor’s the party floor. Give it two days, someone’ll get naked and hang out the window. It’s tradition.”

Lisa grins, genuine this time. “Are you going to?”

Kelly frowns, pretending to consider it. “Nah. My thing’s making it to finals week without a single code violation. Bet I can do it.”

Lisa raises an eyebrow. “Bet?”

Kelly’s eyes glint. “Wanna take the other side? Loser buys coffee for the winner. Winner’s choice of place.”

Lisa thinks for a half second, then nods. “Deal.”

“Good.” Kelly offers her hand again, and this time Lisa shakes without hesitation. Kelly’s grip is just as firm, but there’s less edge to it now. Maybe even warmth.

The sun shifts; a rectangle of light crawls up the far wall. Lisa looks at her own desk, at the photo of her family, at the neat stack of textbooks. She feels the tightness in her chest ease. Just a little.

Kelly flops back on her bed, one arm behind her head, and Lisa finds herself doing the same. For a moment, they’re just two girls in a dorm, nothing to prove.

Then Kelly says, “Hey, swimmer—bet you ten bucks you can’t beat me to the dining hall.”

Lisa grins, already up and moving, racing for the door.

-----

The dining hall is mostly empty—either too early or too late, Lisa isn’t sure which. She and Kelly take their trays to the far table by the window, unconsciously mirroring their territory in the dorm room. Kelly demolishes a cheeseburger in four bites, then surveys the room like a general.

“You see how many juniors live in our building?” Kelly says. “Weird, right? Normally, you only get first-years in the quads.”

Lisa picks at her fries. “Maybe they like the atmosphere.”

Kelly’s mouth quirks. “Or maybe they like reminding everyone who’s boss.” She waggles her eyebrows, then snatches one of Lisa’s fries. “Day One, and already a food thief,” Kelly says, not sorry at all.

After lunch, they split up. Kelly’s off to orientation; Lisa’s on her own. The main hallway of Renner is a long, sunlit chute, every door open like a mouth. Lisa walks slow, letting her feet guide her. Every few paces, she catches glimpses into rooms: girls sprawled on beds, some reading, some FaceTiming with someone back home. A few rooms look more like battlegrounds, clothes already everywhere and two girls on opposite sides, not speaking.

What really gets her is the way the girls dress. Not just comfort, but something performative, deliberate. Sports bras, yes, but also halters over bare skin, shorts so minimal they make Lisa’s running gear seem Victorian. She passes a room where two girls—older, definitely upperclass—are just in thongs and nothing else, sitting on beanbags playing Mario Kart, barely acknowledging her. They don’t even try to cover up, as if nudity is the least interesting thing about them.

A door to her left slams, jolting Lisa from her gawking. She glances over and finds a girl with purple hair and a piercing in her brow, leaning against the frame.

“You new?” the girl says.

Lisa nods.

The girl looks her up and down, not unkindly, just measuring. “Welcome to the jungle,” she says. Then she disappears, leaving Lisa with the odd feeling she’s missed the joke.

The further down the hall Lisa goes, the more she sees the same pattern. Even the shy-looking girls, the ones clinging to their cardigans and leggings, have a way of checking each other out—subtle but real. A pecking order, Lisa realizes. Everyone wants to know who’s strong, who’s weak, who’s prey.

By the lounge, things get even stranger. The room is empty except for two girls on opposite couches. One, a redhead with the build of a rower, lounges like a queen, legs spread, phone in one hand and an air of supreme boredom in the other. The other, a dark-haired girl in a pink tank and gym shorts, sits upright, arms folded, watching the redhead with the focus of a hunter in tall grass.

Neither speaks. Lisa stands in the doorway a second, caught in the invisible gravity between the two. Around her, other girls pass by, glancing in, quickly looking away, a few even pausing to take in the tableau before moving on. It’s not hostile, exactly. More like nobody wants to be the first to blink.

Lisa backs away. As she turns, she nearly bumps into a tall, tattooed girl balancing a mug of something herbal and a plate of celery.

“First week is like dog park politics,” the girl says, eyes glinting. “You gotta sniff butts before you can run off-leash.”

Lisa laughs, a little too loud. “Is it always like this?”

The girl shrugs. “Only until the real fights start.”

Lisa wants to ask what that means, but the girl’s already vanished, lost in the river of bodies flowing through the hall.

She returns to her room, unsettled. Kelly’s at her desk, headphones in, watching gymnastics highlights on her laptop. A parade of medals, splits, flips, and falls blares on the screen. Kelly senses Lisa and pulls one earbud free.

“How was the tour?” Kelly asks.

Lisa sits on her bed, watching as Kelly adjusts a small army of gold and silver trophies, arranging them in a pyramid. “It’s like everyone’s...waiting for something,” Lisa says.

Kelly gives a wry smile. “Welcome to Renner. They say this place makes you competitive, even if you weren’t before.” She places a particularly large trophy at the apex, polishes it with the hem of her shirt. “You’ll see. People do crazy shit to win around here.”

“Win what?”

Kelly shrugs. “Whatever matters. Grades, sports, hookups, popularity. Last year, two girls had a pull-up contest in the stairwell. Loser had to dye her hair green. She did it, too.”

Lisa can’t tell if Kelly admires this or is warning her. She glances at the window. Across the way, another dorm’s windows reflect the late afternoon sun, a grid of light. In a room directly opposite, she sees two girls locked in some kind of arm-wrestling contest, forearms straining, mouths open in laughter or maybe fury.

“What about you?” Lisa asks, surprising herself with the boldness.

Kelly looks up, not defensive, just curious. “What about me?”

“Are you here to win, or just not lose?”

Kelly considers this. “I’m here to see if anyone can actually beat me.” She grins, sharp and hungry, but not cruel. “You?”

Lisa shakes her head, slow. “I’m here to survive.”

Kelly laughs. “That’s the spirit.”

The rest of the afternoon passes in a pattern: girls moving through the halls, some clustering in packs, others keeping to themselves. Lisa finds herself noticing the silent challenges—quick glances, a tilt of the chin, a calculated smile. It’s not unfriendly, but it’s never soft.

After sunset, the hallway heats up again. Music thumps through the walls, distant and insistent. Someone’s blaring pop songs three doors down. Kelly’s changed into a clean tank and mesh shorts, hair in a tight bun. She paces their room like a caged animal, restless.

“You coming to the mixer?” Kelly finally asks, arms folded.

Lisa hesitates. “Mixer?”

“In the lounge. They make you play games, icebreakers, all that crap. But if you’re not there, people notice.”

Lisa nods, stands. She follows Kelly down the hall, past the open doors and the girls who watch and assess and, sometimes, smirk. In the lounge, the same two girls from earlier are still there, but now they’re sitting on the same couch, shoulder to shoulder, their tension replaced by a truce. The rest of the room is filling fast, clusters forming and breaking apart like soap bubbles.

The RA, a grad student with hair buzzed to the scalp, takes charge with a dry, bored voice. “We’re gonna do names, majors, and a secret talent,” they announce.

Kelly leans in. “You first,” she says.

Lisa takes her turn when it comes, voice soft but steady. “Lisa Madison. Bio major. I, uh, can hold my breath for over three minutes.” The room murmurs, impressed.

Kelly’s turn. “Kelly Thompson. Pre-Phys Ed. I can recite pi to fifty digits.” She does, flawlessly, as if she’s waited her whole life for this exact moment.

There are more games, more challenges. Kelly wins two, loses one. Lisa makes it through without screwing up, which feels like a win.

Afterwards, the two of them linger in the lounge, watching the crowd thin out. A group of older girls gathers by the vending machine, talking low and close. One of them, the rower from earlier, stares at Kelly, and Kelly stares right back, neither giving ground.

“See her?” Kelly says, nodding toward the rower. “Last year, she broke a girl’s wrist during arm wrestling. Didn’t even get written up.”

Lisa is not sure if that’s supposed to be inspiring or terrifying.

They head back to their room. Lisa changes into shorts and a T-shirt, ready for bed, but not quite ready to sleep. Kelly scrolls through her phone, then sets it aside.

“You get used to it,” Kelly says, softer than before. “Just don’t back down. That’s the only rule.”

Lisa nods, filing the advice away.

Later, lying in the dark, Lisa listens to the muffled sounds of the dorm—music, laughter, a faraway shriek that might be joy or anger. She thinks about the day, about the unspoken games, about how every girl here is sizing up the competition. She wonders which side she’ll be on when the real contests start.

She turns over, faces the wall. There’s a flutter in her chest—not fear, exactly, but something sharper. Anticipation.


Chapter 2: The Revelation

Lisa doesn’t sleep. Not really. She drifts, rolls, flips the pillow to the cool side. At five AM, the hallway is dead quiet, the air somehow thicker. By six, there’s a thud from the stairwell and the distant hiss of a shower. At seven, Kelly is up and running—literally, doing stretches against the window ledge, counting off reps under her breath. Lisa stays in bed just to see how long she can hold out.

They both dress in athletic gear, though neither mentions it. Lisa’s in navy running shorts and a faded meet T-shirt; Kelly’s chosen bright pink mesh, the kind that turns heads. They trade looks, but neither blinks.

At nine sharp, a mass email arrives, summoning all Renner residents to the main lounge for “mandatory orientation.” Kelly grins. “Showtime,” she says, and they set off, Lisa trailing by a half step.

The lounge is bigger than Lisa expects—high ceiling, dusty sunlight, and rows of stackable chairs arranged in a deliberate semicircle. The room is half full already. Some girls clump in familiar packs; others sit alone, arms folded, scanning for weakness. There’s a current in the air—like the humid silence before the starting gun at a meet.

Lisa scans the crowd. She counts at least five girls from the lounge last night, including the redhead rower, who now sits sprawled over two chairs, unbothered and queenly. Purple Hair leans against a column, tapping a rhythm on her knee. There’s a tall, severe-looking junior in all black, watching everyone with sniper focus. A few girls giggle together, but most just wait.

Kelly nudges Lisa, whispers, “See? All the alphas are here.”

Lisa pretends not to care, but her neck prickles with adrenaline.

The clock on the wall ticks up to nine-fifteen, and with mechanical precision, the conversation dies as a woman strides into the center of the semicircle.

She’s tall, athletic, forty-ish but in a way that says she could still take you in a footrace. Crisp gray blazer, dark slacks, gleaming white sneakers. She moves with a coach’s stride—shoulders back, chin up, but easy. She plants herself dead center, surveys the room, lets the silence burn an extra second before she claps her hands, hard, a single crack.

“Ladies. My name is Evelyn Hughes. I am the Resident Director for Renner Hall. You may call me Ms. Hughes or, if you’re feeling brave, Evelyn. Do not call me Evie.” She lets this settle, a flicker of humor at the edge of her mouth. “We’re going to keep this brief.”

She paces, hands clasped behind her back. “You weren’t randomly assigned to this dorm. I want to clear that up right now.”

Lisa hears a ripple of murmurs. Someone in the back swears, just loud enough to get caught.

Ms. Hughes continues, “You’re here because you have something the university is interested in: call it drive, call it aggression, call it a low tolerance for losing. Some of you have tempers. Some of you have bodies that make other girls jealous, or nervous. Some of you have both. We chose you because you’re not going to wilt when things get difficult.”

A girl two seats down from Lisa huffs, “What the fuck is she talking about?” under her breath. Kelly leans forward, laser focused.

“Renner Hall is a testbed,” Ms. Hughes says, tone flat but not cold. “This is not a punishment, and it’s not an experiment on lab rats. It’s a challenge. And you are the first cohort to face it.”

She stops in front of the redhead, who doesn’t flinch. “You’re not here to ‘build community’ by making posters and holding bake sales.” Now she’s moving again, voice low and controlled. “You’re here to figure out how to compete—how to win and lose—without burning this building to the ground.”

Nervous laughter flickers at the edges, then dies. The girls shift in their seats, some leaning in, others pulling back.

“So, yes, the rules are different here,” Ms. Hughes says. “You will have freedom to settle your own scores. Within limits. There will be fights—physical, verbal, whatever. There will be consequences. But there will also be opportunity. Some of you will thrive in this environment. Some of you will run home by October.”

Lisa’s heart thrums like it does before the horn at a swim final. She wants to look at Kelly, but she can’t. Instead, she glances around, sees the range of reactions: some girls look pissed, others delighted. A few look like they might puke.

Ms. Hughes lifts her chin. “I’ll get to the details in a minute. First, you’ll meet the rest of your dorm leadership. Please be polite. They know more about this place than you do.”

She gestures, and three more women stand up from the far side of the lounge: a muscular grad student with tattoo sleeves, a soft-spoken teaching assistant in jeans, and an upperclassman with a gymnast’s build and a scar on her neck. Each nods, stone-faced.

“They’re here to make sure no one actually dies,” Ms. Hughes says, almost smiling. “Beyond that, it’s up to you.”

A heavy pause. Then she points to Kelly. “Let’s start with you. Name and what you want out of this year.”

Kelly, never missing a beat, stands. “Kelly Thompson. I want to see if anyone here can keep up.” She sits. No smirk, just raw hunger.

Ms. Hughes doesn’t react, only turns to Lisa. “Next.”

Lisa stands, aware of every eye. “Lisa Madison. I want to prove I belong here.” She sits, fast, her cheeks burning.

Around the circle, the answers stack up: “To win a championship.” “To be left alone.” “To get through the semester without killing my roommate.” Each one more revealing than the last. By the end, Lisa feels wrung out, exposed.

Ms. Hughes nods. “Good. Some honesty, for a change.” She walks the room again, slower now. “There are three rules in Renner Hall. They’re posted everywhere, but I’ll say them once for those of you who don’t read signs.” Her eyes flick over the crowd, daring anyone to laugh.

“One: No weapons. Obvious, but it needs to be said.”

A few girls snicker, not quite sure if it’s a joke.

“Two: No outside interference. That means if you have a beef, you settle it yourself. No running to campus security unless you’re bleeding.”

Now the snickers become outright grins. Lisa feels the tension in the room change—it’s not softer, but it’s cleaner, less masked.

“And three: No permanent damage. We want you to compete, not cripple each other.”

Purple Hair raises a hand. “Define ‘permanent.’”

Ms. Hughes grins, showing teeth. “If you have to ask, don’t do it. If you’re not sure, ask an RA. Or don’t, and hope for mercy.”

That gets real laughter, and Lisa feels the mood shift again—a tide rising, everyone realizing they’re all in the same ocean.

“Tomorrow night, we’ll have our first challenge,” Ms. Hughes says. “If you have questions, ask them now, or forever hold your peace.”

Hands shoot up. Some ask about curfews (none), about boyfriends “Boys are not allowed in this dorm,” Ms. Hughes states firmly, her gaze sweeping the room to ensure the message lands. A ripple of reactions spreads among the girls—some nodding in agreement, others exchanging incredulous glances. “This space is for you to focus on your competition and your growth without distractions.”

A girl in the back raises her hand, skepticism etched on her face. “What if we want to invite friends over?” she asks, her tone challenging.

“Friends are fine—female friends, and only if they don’t make trouble about what we do here.” Ms. Hughes clarifies, her voice steady. “But this is a sanctuary for your battles and your victories. We want you to forge connections with each other, not with boys who might pull your focus away from the challenges ahead.”

The atmosphere shifts as the girls absorb this information. Some seem relieved at the idea of a distraction-free zone, while others look disappointed, their hopes dashed. Lisa feels a mix of excitement and trepidation; the absence of boys means an intensified environment where every interaction could spark competition or camaraderie., about drugs and drinking (“You know the rules, don’t make me care”). One girl asks if fights are scheduled. Ms. Hughes laughs, “Sometimes. Usually they just happen.”

Finally, she claps her hands a second time. “That’s it. Welcome to the most interesting year of your lives. You can go.”

Girls pile out in knots, buzzing. Some start talking trash immediately, the way dogs do through a fence. Kelly is vibrating, practically dragging Lisa back to their floor.

“That was fucking awesome,” Kelly says, voice hoarse with excitement. “Did you see the look on the rower’s face? She’s already planning who to take down first.”

Lisa walks in silence for a moment, mind racing. “Were you expecting that?” she finally asks.

Kelly snorts. “Nah. Thought it’d be all ‘don’t run in the halls’ and ‘please respect quiet hours.’ This is way better.”

They reach their room. Kelly slams the door and does a fist-pump. “I knew there was something weird about this place,” she says, pacing. “It’s like Thunderdome, but with laundry.”

Lisa laughs, and this time it feels real. She sits on her bed, staring at the ceiling, letting the new world settle around her.

She thinks about swim practice, about the locker room showdowns, about the pure rightness of winning a race. Then she thinks of the way Ms. Hughes looked at her—like she was both a threat and an experiment.

Her heart won’t slow down. Lisa is scared. But more than that, she is ready.

-----

The next morning, the summons comes in green and all-caps: ALL RENNER RESIDENTS REPORT TO LOUNGE, 10:00 AM. The walk down is silent except for shuffling feet and low murmurs. By the time Lisa and Kelly arrive, the semicircle is packed—sixty girls, every seat filled, some cross-legged on the carpet. The buzz in the air is different today. Not nervous anymore, but charged, like everyone’s looking for the next boundary to cross.

Ms. Hughes stands front and center. She’s ditched the blazer for a fitted track jacket, and her presence is somehow even more intense. She waits until every eye is on her before speaking.

“I promised you details,” she says. “Let’s get to it.”

She gestures to the grad student RA, who rolls a whiteboard up and flips it to reveal a list in block capitals:

WRESTLING: YES

STRIKING: NO

NUDITY: OPTIONAL

INJURY: NO

The room goes dead quiet for a beat. Then an eruption—a few gasps, a giggle, someone’s dry cackle in the back row. Kelly actually elbows Lisa in the ribs, hard.

Ms. Hughes doesn’t smile. “If you have a problem with any of this, you may transfer out. No questions asked. If you stay, you play by the rules.”

She paces, slow, controlled. “Here’s how it works: Disputes will be settled through physical competition. Sometimes it’s scheduled, sometimes it just happens. If you want to challenge someone, you issue it in person. No cyber-bullying, no secret alliances. Old school. You want to settle a score? Do it face-to-face.”

Purple Hair raises a hand. “What if we don’t want to wrestle?”

Ms. Hughes shrugs. “Then don’t. You don’t have to accept every challenge. But be prepared for the consequences—social and otherwise.”

The girls absorb this, some nodding, some scowling.

Ms. Hughes points to the next line. “No choking. Nothing to the face. No holds or moves that will cause blood or injury.  The goal is submission, not damage. First girl to tap out or verbally submit loses.”

She lets it hang. The redhead rower leans forward, arms over her knees, grinning wide. The severe junior in black just glares at the floor, jaw tight.

Kelly pipes up, loud enough for the room: “What do we wear?”

Ms. Hughes holds up a finger. “Glad you asked.” She signals the upperclassman assistant, who starts passing out large plastic bags to each row. Lisa takes hers, peels it open: inside is a tissue-thin robe, light green, nearly sheer, and very short.

“The uniform for matches is the Renner Robe. Nothing underneath. You want to challenge, you show up in it. Both parties must agree on stakes before the match, if you want them. Witnesses are allowed, but no outside interference once it starts.”

Lisa runs her thumb over the slippery fabric. It’s so thin, it’s almost a dare. Kelly holds hers up to the light, cackling.

Ms. Hughes claps. “Questions?”

Purple Hair again: “If we wear nothing under, what if outsiders see?”

Ms. Hughes’s smile is icy. “If your female friends complain about getting an eyeful, it’s your own fault for bringing them here. But matches are for Renner girls only. Anyone else tries to jump in, you report it. We take that seriously.”

A cluster of girls in the corner are already whispering, plotting. Lisa watches, weirdly fascinated. She tries to imagine herself in that robe, facing down another girl—no pads, no whistle, no boundaries. Just willpower and skin.

Ms. Hughes calls out, “First official challenge is tomorrow, 8 PM, in the lounge. You’ll see how it works. After that, you’re free to settle things as you see fit.”

A quiet falls. Some girls look hungry. Some look like they want to bolt. Lisa feels a knot in her stomach, but it’s not fear—it’s a wild, giddy kind of curiosity.

On the walk back, Kelly is vibrating with excitement. “Holy shit, this is going to be insane,” she says, clutching her robe to her chest. “I mean—did you see how many of them were actually into it?”

Lisa tries to play it cool, but her mind won’t stop spinning. “They’re all insane,” she says. But she can’t help glancing over at Kelly, sizing her up the way swimmers do on the starting blocks.

Kelly grins. “Bet you five bucks half the building is naked by next week.”

Lisa laughs. “You’re on.”

Back in their room, they hang the robes in their closets. Kelly’s is front and center, a taunt to the entire hallway. Lisa’s is buried behind her hoodies, but she knows exactly where it is.

The rest of the day is a blur of speculation and shadowboxing. Lisa sees girls in the hallway, whispering, practicing moves, even fake-wrestling on the lounge couch. The energy is contagious.

That night, Lisa lies awake, staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars the last occupant left on the ceiling. She remembers sleepovers from middle school, the chaos of bodies wrestling on beanbags, all laughter and tangled limbs. She remembers how it felt to pin someone, even just for a second—to be stronger than you thought.

She thinks about tomorrow, about the first match, about what it will be like to watch—or maybe even to try.

Her heart kicks into overdrive. Lisa isn’t sure if she’s scared, or just ready for something she’s never had before.

-----

The next day, the girls file into the lounge with a kind of fatalistic energy. Some in pajamas, some already in tight shorts and tanks, a few in the bare minimum, as if testing the temperature of the new regime. Each girl has brought her Renner robe.  There are more now than before—word has spread, and even the shy ones know they can’t skip this.

Ms. Hughes is waiting, flanked by her lieutenants. The mood is more controlled, but only just. Lisa can feel the static in the air—everyone’s expecting something to happen.

The RA with the tattoo sleeves weaves through the throng, a sly grin on her face as she surveys the girls eagerly awaiting their turn. Each girl clutches her Renner Robe tightly, the pale green fabric shimmering like gossamer in the fluorescent lights. Laughter erupts from a few, while others remain wide-eyed, absorbing the reality of what they’re holding. When Lisa's moment arrives, her fingers tremble as she unfolds the robe, the sheer material so delicate it feels like it could drift away on a breath. She runs her hand over the fabric, astonished at how much of her skin is visible through it. Nearby, Kelly raises her robe high, the sound of her whistle piercing the chatter, drawing attention from every corner of the room.

Ms. Hughes claps. “The uniform is not negotiable. When you wear it, you signal your intent: you’re ready to challenge, or be challenged. If you want to be left alone, you don’t wear it. Simple as that.”

A girl in the front row, hair in a white scrunchie, raises her hand. “Do we have to—like, actually wear it in front of people?”

Ms. Hughes’s smile is predatory. “Not unless you want to compete. But if you do, expect an audience.”

Purple Hair shrugs hers on over her t-shirt, then strips the shirt off in one quick move, leaving herself in just the robe. The room ripples. Someone says “Damn,” under their breath, and the redhead rower just grins wider.

Ms. Hughes continues. “Matches can happen anywhere in the dorm: rooms, lounges, hallways, showers. If you want a challenge, sit in your room with the door open, in your robe. Or wander the halls. Someone will take the bait.”

Another girl asks, “What if we both want to challenge each other?”

“Then you settle it. Stakes must be clear if you decide to have them—winner gets something, loser honors it. No takebacks. If you can’t agree, the match doesn’t happen.”

Kelly leans close, whispers, “So basically, we’re living in a 24/7 gladiator pit.”

Lisa snorts. “With laundry service.”

The rules are repeated, rehashed, and finally posted on the lounge bulletin board in giant neon marker. The meeting breaks up in a flurry of green. Girls clutch their robes, some holding them close like a secret, others already slipping them on over their shorts, testing the way the fabric flares with every step.

In the hallways after, it’s a different world. Girls in Renner green stalk the corridors, looking for eye contact. Some stand in doorways, arms crossed, daring anyone to meet their gaze. In the rec room, two girls in robes are already circling each other, feinting like boxers. It’s not fighting, not yet, but it’s something.

Lisa watches, trying to imagine herself in the middle. She remembers wrestling at sleepovers—how good it felt to win, the rush she felt from the competition, how even losing was just another excuse to keep going. Never like this, though. Never with this much skin. Never with the stakes so nakedly exposed.

Back in the room, Kelly is already planning. “We should practice,” she says, stripping down and putting on her robe. She does a little spin, the hem fluttering around her thighs and raising just enough to show her cheeks. “Who do you think will challenge first? The rower, or the goth?”

Lisa says nothing, just sits on her bed and stares at the fabric. It looks even more see-through in the bright daylight.

Kelly snaps her fingers. “Hey. You okay?”

Lisa blinks, comes back to herself. “Yeah. Just thinking.”

“About what?”

Lisa shrugs. “About how this is actually happening.”

Kelly’s face softens, just for a second. “You’ll do fine. I can tell.”

They sit in silence for a minute. Outside, voices echo in the stairwell, urgent and loud. Someone yells, “Bring it on!” followed by wild cheers.

Kelly says, “I kind of want to watch.”

Lisa does, too. But she also wants to be ready. She stands, looks at herself in the mirror, then—before she can think about it—steps into her own robe. The fabric is so light it feels like nothing, but when she moves, she can see the shape of her own body, outlined for the world.

She catches Kelly staring. Not in a mean way. Just measuring.

Lisa grins. “What?”

Kelly shakes her head, smiling. “You’re going to crush it.”

The rest of the day is a blur of rumors and speculation. Some girls lock themselves in their rooms, others parade up and down the hall, flaunting their readiness. Lisa takes her time. She tries the robe on, then off, then on again. She learns to walk in it, how to best show off her body, learns how to keep her hands from shaking when she knots the sash tight around her waist or just get comfortable with it hanging open.

Night falls. The hallway is lit by cheap fluorescents, everything green-tinted and ghostly. Lisa stands by her door, listening to the sounds from the lounge—shouts, laughter, the occasional thump.

She thinks about tomorrow. About what it will feel like to step into the ring, or whatever passes for one here. About the crowd watching, about the moment when there are no more rules except the ones she can enforce herself.

She looks down at her hands, still trembling, still not sure if she’s terrified or just alive for the first time.

She decides it doesn’t matter.

Lisa closes her door, turns off the light, and dreams of victory.

[femfitefan]

Chapter 3: First Encounters

Lisa wakes with a jolt, one instant of sun slicing her eyelids and her heart pounding the way it did before swim meets. For a minute she thinks she’s late—then remembers, it’s Saturday, no classes, but today there’s something bigger: the first Renner match. The dorm is hushed and expectant. The hallway is empty except for the green and gold shimmer of the challenge roster taped to the wall. Someone’s written “FIGHT NIGHT” in neon marker across the top. Underneath:

Rodriguez vs. Chen, 10:00AM, Lounge.

She showers with deliberate slowness, keeps her robe on as she creeps toward the lounge, not wanting to be the first or the last. The air is thick with shampoo, body spray, and tension. When she enters, she nearly turns around and leaves: the room is full, every girl perched on a couch arm or beanbag or cross-legged on the thin mats spread like an arena at the center.

At the focal point stand the two combatants. Lisa knows Jenna Rodriguez only from whispers and a glimpse at orientation—a legend of the upperclass, all cheekbones and cutting eyes, ex-gymnast, now a sort of predator-in-residence. Tina Chen is quieter, an honors student and resident TA, but built with a core strength that makes even stillness look dangerous. They stand ten feet apart, both in Renner green, bare legs and arms smooth and ready. Neither smiles. Neither speaks.

Lisa ducks behind a battered corduroy couch and claims a spot on the floor. There’s a group of first-years to her left, whispering, giggling nervously. On her right, two seniors lounge with the ease of girls who’ve seen this before; one’s already popping the tab on a Red Bull. Lisa pretends to stretch, but really, she’s scouting for escape. She can’t leave now—not without looking like a coward.

Jenna is first to shed her robe. She drops it with a flick, revealing skin the color of brown sugar and a body cut from years of hard training. Every muscle is defined, but there’s no bulk—she’s compact, all spring and coil. She paces the mats, eyes locked on Tina, who simply unties her belt and lets her robe slide to the floor. Tina is paler, lean but with a swimmer’s build, and her nipples are already stiff in the cool morning air. Neither seems remotely embarrassed by their nudity.

Someone wolf-whistles, then catches a glare from Ms. Hughes, who sits in a plastic chair at the far wall, arms folded.

“Begin,” says Ms. Hughes. It’s not loud, but it silences the room.

Jenna moves instantly—two steps, a fake, then a low sweep at Tina’s ankles. Tina hops it and circles, arms up, almost lazy.

Jenna: “Let’s see if that brain can save you when you’re pinned.”

Tina: “Muscles aren’t everything.” Flat, clinical.

They circle, feint, test the range. Jenna makes the first real attack, a gymnast’s vault straight at Tina’s midsection, arms extended. They collide with a thud, chest to chest, then tumble as a tangle of arms and legs. Jenna’s hair whips into Tina’s face. Tina grabs a fistful and wrenches, forcing Jenna onto her back, then tries to mount her. Jenna bridges up, hips snapping, and they roll again—now Jenna on top, pinning Tina by the wrists.

It’s immediate, brutal, and there’s none of the fake sportsmanship Lisa remembers from school wrestling. Tina hisses, arches her back, and manages to twist one wrist free. She jabs at Jenna’s ribs, finds a grip on her hair, pulls back hard. Jenna lets out a bark of pain but bites it off, then retaliates—she yanks Tina’s wrist up, twisting until Tina’s arm is stretched over her own head, exposing her chest. Jenna uses her free hand to rake nails down Tina’s side. The sound makes Lisa flinch.

The first-years behind her gasp. One girl mutters, “Holy shit,” under her breath. Lisa’s pulse is a hummingbird; her palms are damp against her knees. She knows she should look away, that she’s not supposed to enjoy this, but she can’t.

They break apart, both breathing hard. Jenna paces, shaking out her arm. Tina cracks her knuckles, face unreadable.

Jenna: “That all you got?”

Tina doesn’t answer, just lunges—this time catching Jenna’s shoulder and spinning her into a half-nelson. Jenna fights it, twisting, but Tina’s got leverage and uses it, driving Jenna toward the ground. Jenna plants a foot and shoves backward; they crash into the mat together. Tina lands on top, legs scissoring Jenna’s midsection, squeezing. Jenna grits her teeth, face going red, but manages to slip her arm between Tina’s thighs and break the hold. For a split second, Jenna’s face is buried in Tina’s belly. She turns her head and sinks her teeth into the skin just above Tina’s hip. Not enough to break skin, but enough to shock.

Tina yelps and recoils. Jenna pushes up, breathing hard, eyes wild.

A new tactic: Jenna goes for the hair again, fisting it at the scalp and using the grip to steer Tina’s head. Tina tries to pry her hands free, but Jenna’s got both hands now, yanking side to side. Tina counters by going for the eyes, not clawing but pushing hard on Jenna’s brow ridge, trying to blind her. For a second, it’s just a snarl of arms, fingers, and gasping.

The audience has gone silent except for the breathing—theirs and the fighters. Lisa feels every sound: the slap of skin on mat, the hiss of breath, the tiny grunts of effort. Someone to her left is biting her lip, eyes wide, hand jammed between her own thighs.

They roll, and now Jenna is on top again, straddling Tina’s chest. Jenna grinds her hips down, pinning Tina’s arms under her knees. For a second, Jenna leans back and flexes, showing off. Tina uses the moment: she bucks her hips and twists, sending Jenna sprawling to the side. They scramble, but this time, Tina is faster; she hooks Jenna’s leg and pulls, flipping her onto her stomach.

Tina climbs onto Jenna’s back, looping her arms under Jenna’s armpits for a full nelson. She cranks up, arching Jenna’s back, and you can hear the strain in Jenna’s throat as she tries to shout but only manages a choking sound.

“Submit?” Tina asks, voice level.

Jenna shakes her head, wild-eyed.

So Tina clamps tighter, using her thighs to trap Jenna’s hips and her arms to torque Jenna’s shoulders. Jenna thrashes, then goes limp for a half second, lulling Tina into loosening up. Jenna whips her head back, smashing into Tina’s chin. Tina loses her grip. Jenna rolls, and now it’s a scramble for control—knees, elbows, sweat-slicked skin sliding over skin.

Somewhere in the melee, Jenna grabs for Tina’s breast and squeezes, hard. Tina yelps and tries to twist away, but Jenna keeps her grip, pinning Tina by the nipple. It’s brutal and mean, and the crowd responds with a mix of shocked gasps and low groans. Lisa feels a hot flush climb her neck, can’t tear her eyes away.

Tina retaliates by clawing at Jenna’s thigh, leaving red welts. They separate, both panting, faces flushed and wild.

Jenna: “Hurts, doesn’t it?”

Tina: “Not as much as losing will.”

They circle again, slower now. Sweat slicks both bodies, hair plastered to their faces. They close, clinch, and this time Tina goes for a trip, but Jenna’s ready; she reverses, wraps her arms around Tina’s waist, and lifts. For an instant, Tina is airborne—then Jenna slams her down, sprawling on top. Jenna hooks Tina’s legs with her own and starts to work her way up, inch by inch, until she’s fully mounted.

Tina twists, but Jenna grabs her hair and yanks her head up, then slaps her, open palm, across the face. Tina’s eyes flash, but she’s pinned—Jenna’s thighs clamped tight around her ribs, hands immobilizing her wrists.

“Submit,” Jenna pants, voice raw.

Tina bares her teeth. “No.”

Jenna shifts tactics. She leans down, mouth close to Tina’s ear, and whispers something no one can hear. Tina’s face goes blank for a second—then she bucks hard, but Jenna anticipates and rides it, never losing her grip.

This time, Jenna uses her full weight to pin Tina’s arms above her head, then slides up so she’s straddling Tina’s face, daring her to breathe, to fight. The move is obscene, and the crowd is dead silent. Lisa feels her own breath catch, thighs pressed tight together, unsure if she’s disgusted or desperately, humiliatingly turned on.

Tina holds out for a full thirty seconds, then, when Jenna shifts her weight, Tina tries a last-ditch escape—arch, twist, then clamp down with her teeth on the soft skin of Jenna’s inner thigh.

Jenna screams, jerks away, and in the chaos Tina manages to get free. They break, scramble, both slower now, legs shaking. Tina moves first, diving for Jenna’s knees, trying to force her down. Jenna lets herself fall backward, uses Tina’s momentum, and wraps her legs around Tina’s neck. She locks her ankles, squeezing. It’s a classic submission, but with a twist: Jenna grabs both of Tina’s hands, holds them tight, and forces Tina’s head deeper between her thighs.

Tina resists, face turning red, but the hold is perfect. There’s nothing to do but tap.

“Submit?” Jenna demands, voice sharp.

Tina hesitates, then slaps the mat, hard. “Submit.”

Jenna releases and rolls away, chest heaving, hair a halo of sweat. She stumbles to her feet and raises both fists, grinning like a maniac.

Ms. Hughes stands and nods, once. “Winner: Rodriguez.”

The room erupts—shouts, applause, laughter. Girls cluster around Jenna, slapping her back, some hugging her in the nude, not caring who sees. Tina sits up, rubs her neck, but smiles. The crowd parts to give her room, respect.

Lisa doesn’t move. She’s frozen, every muscle clenched, the heat between her legs impossible to ignore. She knows the others see it, that this is what they came for, but still. She can’t remember the last time she felt this alive.

Kelly appears at her side, breathless. “Holy shit, did you see that?”

Lisa nods, not trusting her voice.

Kelly grins. “You’d kill out there. Just saying.”

Lisa shakes her head, but she can’t help smiling. Her heart is still racing.

Jenna, now wrapped in her robe and holding court on the mat, locks eyes with Lisa across the room. For a second, there’s no one else. Jenna gives her a tiny, knowing nod, then returns to her admirers.

Lisa stands, legs weak, and edges out of the lounge. She makes it halfway to her room before she hears the next pair being called, voices echoing down the hall.

She knows she’ll be back.

-----

Lisa spends the rest of the morning orbiting her room. She showers again—hot, then cold—hoping to numb the afterglow of the fight. It doesn’t help. Her body is electric, skin hypersensitive, and the memory of the mat burns her mind in looping highlights: Jenna’s thighs, Tina’s blank surrender, the collective hush of sixty girls leaning in.

Kelly lounges on her bed, texting furiously. “Another match tonight,” she says, not looking up. “Apparently Amy’s up against Sarah. The psych grad versus the math machine. Could get ugly.”

Lisa’s stomach drops. “In the lounge?”

“Hallway,” Kelly grins. “Old-school. Word is, no rules except the basics. You want in?”

Lisa shakes her head, but doesn’t mean it. “Maybe.”

She tells herself she won’t go. That she’ll focus on homework, or maybe a walk outside the dorm. But when the first shout echoes down the hall, she’s already at the door, bare feet on linoleum, green robe knotted tight.

It starts at the far end, by the vending machines. Sarah Kim stands motionless, arms folded, back pressed to the cinderblock wall. She’s in her robe, hair up, face as blank as a chessboard. Amy Johnson approaches, barefoot and businesslike, a notepad in one hand and her robe askew. Amy is taller, pale, and moves like she’s late for a seminar.

The air is different than in the lounge. Tighter, closer, full of caffeine and the kind of anticipation that tastes like metal. Girls line the walls, shoulder to shoulder, the heat of bodies building until it’s humid as a locker room. Lisa keeps to the back at first, but every passing second draws her in, until she’s pressed between two upperclassmen who don’t seem to notice her at all.

Amy drops the notepad, lets her robe slide to her elbows, and smirks. “Interesting timing,” she says. “Testing my reflexes after study hours?”

Sarah doesn’t answer. She just steps forward, unties her sash, and lets the robe puddle at her feet. For a heartbeat, she’s statuesque: smooth skin, sinew, and perfect, geometric muscle. The crowd murmurs approval.

Amy shrugs her robe off. Her body is less defined, more willowy, but her green eyes burn with a private dare. She flexes her hands, cracks her knuckles, and then—they close the distance, silent.

The first contact is an afterthought. Sarah grabs Amy’s wrist, torques it, and spins her into the lockers. Amy hits with a clang, uses the rebound to pivot, and shoves Sarah back. Their arms tangle, hands like claws, and the sound of skin slapping skin ricochets down the hall.

Amy: “You telegraphed that grab. Left shoulder—always the left.”

Sarah says nothing, just sweeps Amy’s legs, sending her sprawling. Amy rolls, comes up crouched, and this time she feints—then dives for Sarah’s thighs, trying to force a takedown. Sarah sidesteps, grabs Amy by the hair, and yanks her off balance. Amy winces, but instead of pulling away, she hooks her arm behind Sarah’s knee, collapsing both to the floor. They tumble, then scramble, neither gaining a clear advantage.

There’s a ring of girls now, maybe twenty deep. Someone’s filming on a phone. Lisa, trapped at the edge, feels the air grow hotter, the press of hips and thighs and knees against her own. To her left, a girl is openly palming her breast through her shirt, breathing hard. To her right, two others are whispering bets, eyes glazed.

On the ground, Amy and Sarah are pure motion: hair, arms, nails, bare skin colliding. Sarah tries to pin, but Amy worms her way free, using her elbows and knees to gouge space. Amy manages to get behind Sarah, wraps her arm around Sarah’s neck, not quite choking but enough to turn her face red.

Sarah’s response is instant. She jams her thumb into the soft flesh of Amy’s inner arm, forcing the grip loose, then slams her elbow back into Amy’s ribs. Amy grunts, but tightens her grip, pulling Sarah down with her. It’s ugly and desperate, nothing like the gymnasts’ grace from before. This is ground-and-pound, grit and sweat, teeth bared.

Amy: “That’s more like it.”

Sarah responds by grabbing a handful of Amy’s breast, squeezing hard, twisting the nipple until Amy hisses in pain. There’s a ripple through the crowd—arousal, shock, or both. Lisa feels her own pulse in her fingertips. She’s never seen anything like this. No referees, no boundaries, just raw animal will.

Amy bites Sarah’s shoulder, hard. Not enough to draw blood, but enough to make Sarah’s whole body jolt. Sarah retaliates with a slap, open-handed, leaving a red print across Amy’s cheek. They break apart, both on their knees, gasping.

Amy: “You’re faster than I thought.”

Sarah: “You’re weaker than you pretend.” Voice flat, even.

Amy smirks. “Psychology isn’t about pretending. It’s about control.”

Sarah doesn’t respond, just launches forward, shoulder low. She drives Amy into the wall again, this time pinning her with an arm across the throat. Amy lunges for Sarah’s shoulder, fingers aiming to grip and twist, but Sarah anticipates the move. She ducks just in time, shifting her weight and countering with a swift elbow to Amy’s side. The crowd gasps as the impact sends a ripple through the two fighters, their bodies colliding with a force that echoes in the confined hallway. but Sarah weathers it, digging in, expression unchanged. Amy’s hands slide down Sarah’s body, searching for a soft spot. She finds it, between Sarah’s thighs, and rakes her nails upward. Sarah flinches, loses leverage, and Amy uses the opening to spin out, flipping Sarah over her own hip. They crash to the tile, Amy on top, straddling Sarah’s waist.

Amy goes for the pin, classic wrestling style, but Sarah is ready—she jams a finger into Amy’s armpit, then snakes her leg around Amy’s back. The move is so technical, so elegant, Lisa almost laughs. Instead, she moans, just softly, and hopes no one hears.

They roll again, now both slick with sweat. Amy’s hair hangs in her face, wild and red and beautiful; Sarah’s braid is coming undone, strands whipped out like a cat’s tail.

Amy: “You’re not going to win this, you know.”

Sarah: “I already am.”

Amy’s eyes narrow. She seizes Sarah’s face, fingers splaying across her jaw, then slides her hand down to Sarah’s collarbone, applying pressure just enough to elicit a gasp. The noise is raw, echoing through the charged air. Sarah retaliates, grabbing both of Amy’s wrists and wrenching them behind her back, then uses her legs to scissor Amy’s torso, compressing ribs. Amy gasps, arches, but can’t break free.

They’re moving down the hallway now, inch by inch, the crowd shifting with them. The corridor narrows by the bathroom door, the tile floor colder and harder. Lisa edges closer, pressed by the tide of bodies. She can smell sweat and shampoo and something darker—arousal, thick as fog.

Amy pulls a trick: she slams Sarah’s head against the tile, then bites her ear, savage and sudden. Sarah jerks, and for a split second Amy gets the upper hand. She twists, straddles Sarah’s chest, and shoves her head back, exposing her throat. Amy leans in, tongue flicking at the sweat-beaded skin, and whispers, “Submit?”

Sarah’s face is unreadable. She doesn’t answer. Instead, she twists her neck, slips out from under Amy’s grip, then grabs Amy’s hips and flips her—fast, almost violent. They hit the wall, bounce, and now Sarah is behind Amy, one arm across Amy’s chest, the other wrapped around her head. It’s not quite a choke, but it’s close.

Amy bucks, tries to grab Sarah’s hair, but Sarah tucks her chin and squeezes tighter. Amy’s feet scrabble for purchase, but the tile is too slick. She slams back with her head, hoping to stun Sarah, but Sarah rides it, unyielding. The silence is total; the entire dorm has stopped breathing.

Amy is fading, skin going pale, eyes wild.

Sarah: “Submit.”

Amy: “Not… yet.”

But her voice is fading. She tries one last maneuver—kicking back, catching Sarah’s shin, hoping to break the hold. It almost works. Sarah wobbles, loosens for a half second, and Amy slips down, landing hard on her tailbone. The impact is sharp enough to make Amy yelp, and for a second, both girls are still.

Then Sarah moves, cat-quick, pinning Amy’s arms to the ground. She leans over, hair falling across Amy’s face, lips almost touching Amy’s ear. “Now?”

Amy doesn’t answer. Instead, she clamps her teeth onto Sarah’s shoulder, biting deep. Sarah hisses, but doesn’t release. She tightens the pin, pressing her full weight onto Amy’s wrists, and slowly, inexorably, slides her body up, trapping Amy’s arms between their chests.

Amy struggles, but it’s over. She can’t move, can’t even twist. Sarah’s entire body is a vice.

Amy breathes, “Submit.”

Sarah releases, then rolls away, arms limp at her sides.

The crowd erupts—not with cheers, but with the sound of release: exhalations, laughter, the slap of skin against skin as several girls finish themselves in the aftermath. Lisa feels the orgasm in the air, a shudder running from her scalp to her toes. She wants to scream, to run, to fight someone herself.

Amy sits up, rubbing her wrists, and looks at Sarah with something like respect.

Amy: “Exceptional technique adaptation.”

Sarah, still breathing hard, just nods.

The hallway empties fast, girls scattering to their rooms, to the showers, to the next match. Lisa stays, knees trembling, hands shaking. She locks eyes with Sarah, who looks through her—no malice, just assessment. Amy walks past, brushing Lisa’s arm, her skin electric.

Back in her room, Kelly is already waiting, robe off, sprawled on the bed and smiling like a shark, pausing as she masturbates just long enough to ask, “Did you watch?”

Lisa doesn’t answer, but the flush on her face is enough.

Kelly grins. “You’ll be up next, you know. They’ll come for you.”

Lisa nods, heart pounding.

She’s ready.

[sinclairfan]

That time of year....

[femfitefan]

Chapter 4: Lisa's Decision

Saturday in Renner Hall, and Lisa wakes up with her sheets twisted between her legs, a patch of drool on her pillow, and a pulse in her pussy so insistent it might be Morse code. She stretches, scratches at the base of her skull, and checks the time: not even 7AM. Already, muffled thuds and the clang of the elevator bounce off the cinderblock walls. There’s no sleep left, so she hauls herself out of bed, every inch of skin alert, buzzing, alive.

Her body wants. She’s spent two days as a watcher, a lurker, a nobody. She’s told herself a hundred times it was research, preparation. But this morning, there’s no pretending. She wants in.

Kelly is asleep—sprawled on her back, covers kicked to the floor, one hand cupping her own breast through her t-shirt. Lisa watches the subtle rise and fall of Kelly’s chest, the twitch at the corner of her lip, and feels an answering twitch between her own legs. She turns away, pretending not to care, and digs through her top drawer. The green robe stares back, daring her, but she’s not ready for that—she needs one last round as an outsider before the jump.

She strips down, tosses her sleep shorts into the hamper, and shimmies into a ribbed halter top she stole from her old swim captain and a black thong so tiny it might as well be a dental floss sample. She spends ten seconds in front of the mirror, fussing with her hair, biting her lip, sucking in her cheeks to see what the bones do under stress. The effect is stark: athletic, sure, but more than that—predatory.

She opens the door and steps into the hallway, skin prickling from neck to ankle. Every sound is amplified, every scent loaded: cleaning fluid and coffee and something sharper, a sour-sweet blend of girl sweat and the ghost of someone else’s perfume. Half the dorm must still be asleep, but Lisa catches the flick of motion at the end of the hall—someone’s already in the rec room, or maybe the lounge.

She stalks the corridor, trying to look casual, but she knows what she’s doing. She walks slow, hips swinging more than usual, just to feel the drag of the thong, the stretch across her ass. The first open door she passes belongs to two upperclass girls, both in pajamas and wet hair, arguing over a playlist. One of them—tall, with a towel draped across her shoulders—stares openly at Lisa as she walks by, eyes raking over her legs. Lisa feels herself flush, but doesn’t speed up.

She passes the communal bathroom, pauses. The sound of running water and low voices. She edges inside, finds a row of steam-fogged sinks, and in the back corner, the showers: two figures, shadows behind the glass, moving in a way that’s not quite fighting, not quite fucking, but close enough to blur the lines.

She pushes the door open, lets the steam envelope her, and watches. One girl is slammed against the tile, back arched, arms pinwheeling for grip. The other has her by the hair, face inches away, hissing something that gets lost in the hiss of the spray. The shower floor is slick with water and hair, and when they tumble to the ground, their bodies slide over each other like seals on a rock. One claws at the other’s thigh, leaving pink tracks. The other retaliates with a slap that echoes off the tile.

A third girl, perched on the edge of the shower bench, is watching with her knees apart, fingers tucked beneath the waistband of her boxers. She catches Lisa’s eye and gives a slow, dirty grin, then slides her hand deeper, knuckles flexing.

Lisa stands rooted, transfixed, the heat from the steam nothing compared to the burn beneath her ribs. She watches until the fight in the shower devolves into a tangle of arms and shouts, then backs out, heartbeat racing. In the mirror, her cheeks are mottled, her halter clinging to damp skin.

She moves down the hall. At the next open door, she sees the aftermath of a struggle—bedsheets on the floor, a green robe draped over a desk chair, and two girls sprawled on top of each other, one pinning the other with a lazy arm across the chest. Both are naked, except for ankle socks, and neither looks inclined to get up soon. A fourth girl, sitting cross-legged on the desk, watches them with an expression halfway between envy and hunger.

Lisa keeps going. She wants more.

Second floor: louder, messier. The lounge is packed, bodies draped over every surface. Three matches are happening at once, the floor cleared for a makeshift ring, four beanbags pushed together in the center. A circle of girls lines the perimeter, some yelling encouragement, others catcalling or trading bets.

In the first match, a tiny brunette is locked in a headscissors by a taller girl with a sleeve of tattoos. The brunette’s face is buried in the other girl’s crotch, arms flailing, but her legs are locked tight around the opponent’s ankles. For a second, it’s a stalemate, then the tattooed girl flexes and the brunette goes limp, tapping the mat twice. The circle erupts in cheers and groans, some girls booing, others clapping. The winner peels the loser off her legs, then slaps her ass as they leave the ring, leaving a red mark.

Second match: two blondes, almost twins, rolling across the mat in a tangle of limbs and curses. They go straight for the hair, then the breasts, then the nipples. No finesse, just pure aggression. One of them bites the other’s thigh, and when the bitten girl yelps, a half-dozen voices in the crowd scream, “Harder!” Lisa watches, entranced, her hand unconsciously squeezing the muscle above her knee. The bitten girl fights back with a forearm to the jaw, and in the scuffle her green robe slips, revealing a full breast, hard nipple glistening with sweat. The match ends with both girls in a heap, neither submitting, both panting, both smiling. The crowd likes it best when nobody wins.

Third match is less even: a powerlifter type against a slender girl with a gymnast’s build. The gymnast is quick, dodging every advance, but when the powerlifter finally gets her in a bear hug, she lifts the smaller girl clean off the ground and slams her onto the mat. The circle whoops and hollers, some girls thrusting their hips in time with the impact. The gymnast twists, tries to wriggle free, but the powerlifter sits on her chest and pins her wrists. “Submit?” she asks, voice gruff.

The gymnast shakes her head, grins. “Make me.”

So the powerlifter bounces on her chest until she can’t breathe, then slips her thigh up to the gymnast’s throat, cutting off air. The tap comes fast. “Submit,” the gymnast gasps, and the crowd goes wild as the powerlifter moves her pussy over the gymnasts face and starts to grind her way to a victory orgasm.

Lisa is soaking, literally—her halter is stuck to her skin, her thong a wet ribbon. She wants to stay and watch forever, but the ache is too much. She moves to the kitchen, finds the fridge, chugs a bottle of water in three gulps. Her hands shake as she sets it down.

She finds herself outside, on the quad, wind cool against her thighs, nipples standing hard under her top. A group of girls in sweats jog past, one whistling at Lisa’s outfit, the rest giggling in her wake. Lisa watches them go, eyes lingering on the way their muscles move under the fabric, the easy confidence of girls who know they’re being watched.

She looks up at the third floor. A window is open, and two girls are framed against the sky, locked in a slow-motion brawl, hair whipping around their faces, arms tight around each other’s waists. One of them is topless, the other wears only a bra, and neither seems bothered by the audience below. Lisa wonders what it would feel like to be up there, on display, the world watching as she fought and clawed for every inch of dominance.

She heads back inside, dizzy with need. The main lounge is emptier now, but a few girls linger, sprawled on the couches, legs splayed, hands tucked under shirts or down the front of their shorts. One girl is openly masturbating, eyes locked on the TV, which plays a loop of the morning’s matches. The sound is off, but the images are enough: slow-mo slams, thighs locked in holds, faces twisted in effort and release.

Lisa leans against the wall, lets herself watch. She slides her hand down her stomach, stops just above the waistband of her thong. She wants to touch herself, here, in front of everyone, but she holds back. Not yet. Not until she’s earned it.

She heads for the stairwell, but before she gets there, a girl steps out of the elevator—Redhead Rower, naked except for a towel around her shoulders and two bruises blooming across her ribs. The redhead locks eyes with Lisa, nods in approval, then pushes past, hip-checking Lisa against the wall. The contact is electric, a jolt straight to her core.

Lisa doesn’t move for a full minute. Her breathing is shallow, her legs barely able to hold her up. When she finally pushes off the wall, she knows what she has to do.

She sprints back to her room, slams the door, and fumbles for the green robe. She strips off her halter and thong, stands naked in the middle of the room, and shivers in anticipation. She slides the robe on—it’s softer than she expected, a cool whisper against her raw, flushed skin.

Kelly is awake now, sitting cross-legged on her bed, hair a mess, eyes heavy-lidded. She watches Lisa with open hunger, then grins. “Finally,” Kelly says. “I was starting to think you didn’t have it in you.”

Lisa ties the sash, tight. Her body is primed. She’s ready to fight, to claw, to scream her way to the top. She’s never wanted anything more.

She opens the door, steps into the hall, and this time she doesn’t hesitate.

She’s not a watcher anymore.

She wants to catfight.

-----

It’s quieter in her room than she expected. After the morning’s chaos, the silence feels unnatural, as if she’s stepped out of a hurricane and into a sensory-deprivation tank. Her breathing is the only sound: fast, ragged, and just a bit too loud. The green robe hangs over her desk chair, a flag of surrender or maybe conquest, depending how you see it.

Lisa sits on her bed, robe in her lap, stroking the fabric like it might bite. It’s lighter than anything she’s worn—so light, she can feel every thread on her palm. The thought of wearing it in public, with nothing underneath, makes her stomach twist, but it’s not a bad feeling. Not anymore.

She pulls off her halter, tosses it onto the heap by the foot of her bed. Next, the thong, which leaves a damp stripe down her thigh as she slides it off. She wipes it away with the back of her hand, then rubs the green material between her fingers. She takes a deep breath. Her nipples tighten, and she shivers in the cool air. Her skin is hypersensitive, every hair standing up in anticipation.

Kelly is still sprawled on her bed, awake now, phone in hand, pretending not to watch. But Lisa can feel the weight of Kelly’s gaze, every time she shifts or stands or bends over. It’s not judgmental—more like she’s being appraised, measured, assessed for value.

Lisa slips the robe over her shoulders, lets it fall, and is shocked at how much it reveals. The hem barely reaches mid-thigh, and with every step it sways open, exposing the curve of her hip, the shadow at the juncture of her thighs, the pale line of her belly. She ties the sash, but it’s a joke—the material parts at the faintest breeze.

She spins once in front of the mirror, watching the robe flare out and settle. Her legs are strong, tanned, toned. Her arms look longer, leaner, her collarbones sharp and prominent above the delicate triangle of the robe’s neckline. She looks nothing like herself and exactly like herself, all at once.

“Not bad,” Kelly says, grinning. “You sure you want to start with the robe? You could go out in even less and nobody would blink.”

Lisa shrugs, feigning nonchalance. “Rules are rules.”

“Suit yourself. But if I were you, I’d leave it open. More intimidating.”

Lisa rolls her eyes, but when she turns back to the mirror, she undoes the sash and lets the robe hang loose. Kelly is right—it looks better this way. Dangerous. She ties it again, tighter, her fingers shaking a little. She doesn’t care if Kelly sees.

She walks to the door, pauses. Her hand hovers above the knob. She thinks about all the matches she’s watched—how the girls at the center of the action never look scared, even when they’re on the verge of losing. How they stare each other down, how they bare their teeth and their bodies and dare the world to look away.

She wonders if she can do that. If she can become that.

She glances at Kelly. For a second, neither of them says anything. Then Kelly, soft for once, says, “You’ll be great. Trust me.”

Lisa almost laughs, but the urge fades. She opens the door, slowly, and leaves it ajar. The hall outside is empty, but she knows it won’t be for long.

The air is colder out here, and she feels the heat of her own body radiating against the chill. She sits back on her bed, legs crossed, and waits. She doesn’t pretend to read or scroll her phone. She just sits, robe hiked up, skin prickling, eyes on the door. Every sound from the hallway—footsteps, voices, the distant shriek of a win or a loss—sends a shock of anticipation down her spine.

She’s never felt more exposed, or more powerful.

She waits.

She wants.

She’s ready.

------

Lisa waits, counting heartbeats, pretending the open book on her lap is worth more than the pounding in her chest. The hallway beyond is a river of white noise—footsteps, laughter, the occasional shriek—but none of it slows or stops for her. She shifts, uncrosses and recrosses her legs, feels the silk of the robe slide against bare skin. Every time she breathes, she catches a whiff of sweat and arousal, her own and others', and it does nothing to settle her nerves.

Minutes crawl. She reads the same paragraph in her bio textbook three times and still can’t remember a word of it. Her door is wide enough for anyone to see in, and she can’t decide if she wants to be discovered or left alone forever. She pictures the next girl who walks by: Will she laugh? Will she sneer, or size her up, or maybe just strip off her own robe and step inside without a word?

The question is answered by a soft, deliberate knock. Lisa's heart skips as she glances toward the door then realizes it didn’t come from the door but from Kelly’s bed. Lisa looks over to see Kelly, propped up on her elbows, a playful smirk dancing on her lips. The robe slips off one shoulder, revealing the taut line of her stomach, breasts clearly visible and nipples rock hard, exuding a relaxed confidence. Bare feet dangle off the edge of her bed, ready for action at a moment’s notice. Her golden ponytail catches the light, glinting like a blade, and her smile is sharp enough to cut through the tension in the air.

“Well, well,” Kelly says, letting her eyes wander the length of Lisa’s body. “Look who finally decided to join the club.”

Lisa sets her book aside, tries to match the bravado. “Took you long enough.”

Kelly snorts, pushes off the frame, and saunters to the center of the room. “You know, I thought you’d never actually do it. All that swimmer discipline, but zero initiative.”

Lisa fights a smile. “Maybe I was waiting for a worthy opponent.”

Kelly makes a low, appreciative noise. “Cute. Very cute. But if you’re going to throw down, you need to back it up.” She glances at the door, then back to Lisa, eyes narrow and bright. “What’s your game?”

Lisa shrugs, but inside, she’s vibrating. “I guess we see who’s better.”

Kelly grins, all teeth. “Now you’re talking.” She walks over and closes the door with a gentle click, and locks it. “You want to make it interesting?”

Lisa raises an eyebrow. “Like what?”

Kelly moves closer, circling the beds until she’s looming over Lisa, just outside arm’s reach. “Loser does laundry for a week. Winner gets bragging rights. And, you know, whatever else.”

Lisa hesitates for half a second, but the thought of Kelly rooting through her dirty underwear, or worse, lording the win over her for days, is intolerable. “Deal,” she says.

“Good girl,” Kelly purrs, and steps back, feet planted, arms loose at her sides. “You want to do this right, or just jump me?”

Lisa stands, robe swishing around her legs, and faces Kelly in the center of the room. She squares her shoulders, sets her feet. “Rules?”

Kelly cocks her head. “Same as always. First to tap out or say uncle. No permanent marks.” She smirks. “Unless you want a few.”

Lisa’s heart is in her throat, but she nods. She flexes her hands, notices her knuckles are white. She’s never been this nervous before a race, not even finals.

Kelly lets the silence stretch. Then both girls let their robes fall to the floor, bodies now naked and primed to fight.  They circle each other, slow and easy, looking for an opening. For a second, Lisa forgets to breathe.

Kelly feints left, then pounces, hands going straight for Lisa’s waist. Lisa reacts on instinct, twisting away and bringing her own arms up, catching Kelly’s wrist and yanking. The move surprises Kelly, who stumbles and nearly loses her balance. Lisa seizes the moment, hooks Kelly’s ankle, and tries to sweep her legs.

It’s not pretty, but it works: Kelly goes down, landing on her ass with a yelp. Lisa follows, pinning her by the shoulders. For a second, she feels a spike of pure triumph. She’s on top, in control.

Kelly laughs, even as she strains against Lisa’s grip. “Not bad, swimmer. But you’re gonna have to do better.” She bucks her hips, and the motion nearly throws Lisa off. Lisa clamps down harder, using her whole weight to keep Kelly pinned.

They grapple on the floor, limbs entwined, the remnants of their discarded robes forgotten in the heat of the moment. Lisa's heart races as she feels the slickness of sweat and adrenaline mixing with the coolness of the hardwood beneath them. Kelly twists, trying to gain leverage, but Lisa digs her heels into the ground, anchoring herself. The air is thick with exertion, punctuated by grunts and the scuffling of bodies against the floor. Each movement sends shockwaves of energy coursing through them, a primal dance of competition and desire. Kelly is slippery, all muscle and intent; she uses her gymnast flexibility to twist free, wriggling out from under Lisa and flipping them both over. Now Kelly is on top, straddling Lisa’s waist, her knees digging into Lisa’s ribs.

“Now what?” Kelly teases, hair falling in her face.

Lisa doesn’t hesitate. She grabs Kelly’s waist, yanking hard, and pulls Kelly down until they’re chest-to-chest. The move catches Kelly off-guard, and for a split second their faces are inches apart, breathing each other’s air. Lisa uses the distraction to wriggle her leg between Kelly’s, then pushes up, trying to unseat her.

Kelly grunts, grabs Lisa’s wrist, and twists it behind her back. The pain is sharp, but Lisa grits her teeth and leans into it, using the leverage to spin them both across the floor. They hit the carpet with a dull thud, neither letting go.

The fight turns scrappy, mean. Kelly digs her nails into Lisa’s thigh, and Lisa retaliates by grabbing a fistful of Kelly’s hair and yanking. For a second, it’s just hair and skin and sweat, neither willing to give an inch. Kelly manages to roll Lisa onto her stomach, pins her arm behind her back, and leans in, lips nearly at Lisa’s ear.

“Submit?” Kelly whispers, voice hot.

Lisa growls, twists her body, and with a burst of energy, bucks Kelly off. She scrambles to her knees, robe gaping open, and tackles Kelly around the middle. They tumble again, this time with Lisa landing on top, pinning Kelly’s arms with her knees.

“Not even close,” Lisa says, breathing hard.

Kelly looks up, eyes bright with excitement and something else. “You sure?”

Lisa is, but she doesn’t say it. Instead, she grinds down, using her thighs to trap Kelly’s arms, her hands to pin Kelly’s shoulders. It’s the most control she’s ever felt, her body electric with effort and adrenaline.

Kelly twists, tries to get purchase, but Lisa holds firm. For a few glorious seconds, neither moves, both waiting to see who blinks first. Sweat drips down Lisa’s back, her heart hammering.

Kelly grins, then bucks again, nearly sending Lisa flying. But Lisa hangs on, gritting her teeth, determined not to lose.

The match stretches, neither girl willing to surrender. They exchange holds, bites, slaps, each escalating the stakes. Their bodies intertwine, slick with sweat, as they grapple fiercely, limbs entwined in a chaotic dance. The air is thick with the sound of their heavy breathing, punctuated by the occasional grunt of effort. Flashes of bare skin glisten under the dim light, a testament to their physicality and determination. Each movement sends waves of energy and even arousal rippling through them, a raw exhibition of strength and will, as they push against each other, neither willing to yield.

Finally, after what feels like hours but is probably only minutes, Lisa gets Kelly in a tight headlock, pinning her to the carpet. Kelly resists, kicking and thrashing, but the hold is solid.

“Uncle?” Lisa asks, tightening her grip.

Kelly resists, eyes fierce. “Fuck you.”

Lisa smiles, uses her leverage to twist Kelly’s head just a little more. “Say it.”

Kelly groans, then spits out. “Okay, okay. You win. Uncle.”

Lisa releases, flops onto her back, and lets out a long, shuddering breath. She can’t believe it. She won.

Kelly rolls onto her side, brushing hair out of her face. “Damn, swimmer. Didn’t think you had it in you.”

Lisa grins, giddy with victory. “Maybe you should stop underestimating me.”

Kelly sits up, nipples hard and pussy clearly wet, and pokes Lisa in the ribs. “Next time, I want a rematch. Double or nothing.”

Lisa nods, already looking forward to it. “Anytime. We share a room. Easy enough for us to get our hands on each other.”

They sit in the aftermath, bodies marked with bruises and glistening from exertion, the air heavy with the mingled scents of sweat, adrenaline, and a strange sense of triumph. Silence envelops them for a moment, both girls catching their breath and processing the intensity of the match. Finally, Kelly, her grin wide and playful, breaks the quiet. “Guess you’re off the hook for laundry duty now, huh?”

Lisa chuckles, shaking her head in disbelief at her own victory. Her naked chest heaving as she tries to catch her breath. “Yep. That’s all you for now.”

They lay on the floor together, limbs tangled, hearts still racing.

Lisa closes her eyes, letting the heat of the fight settle into her bones. She’s never felt so alive, or so sure of herself.  She feels her pussy throbbing with need and before long realizes that Kelly’s is softly moaning as she fingers herself.  Lisa let’s that last inhibition drop and plunges her fingers into her own soaking wet pussy.  It doesn’t take long for both girls to explode in long, intense orgasms, by far the most intense either has ever felt.

Eventually they slowly disentangle and Lisa gets up and plops down on her bed feeling thoroughly satisfied both with the fight and its aftermath.  She can’t wait for round two.

[sinclairfan]

Are Kelly and Lisa friends now?.....I liked it better when they were at each others' throats.....

Good premise, though....

[femfitefan]

Chapter 5: The Re-Match

Lisa wakes up in stages. First the ache, the special soreness deep in her triceps and thighs, a mosaic of tiny bruises on her hips and ribs. Next, the sun, sharp enough to laser through her eyelids and paint patterns across her vision. And last, the memory: Kelly, naked, twisted beneath her, breath hot on Lisa’s neck, the sharp sweet afterburn of coming so hard it left her boneless.

She lies there, savoring it, for as long as she can.

The clock reads 7:06. It’s Sunday. Outside, the dorm is dead quiet, but inside, every inch of Lisa hums.

Across the room, Kelly is a lump under the covers. At some point in the night, she migrated to the far side of her bed, one arm dangling to the floor, the other tucked under her pillow. The sheet is tangled around her waist, leaving her back and legs exposed—white lines crisscrossing where Lisa’s nails dug in, faint purple at the base of Kelly’s spine. Lisa stares at her for a long minute. Even asleep, Kelly radiates restless energy.

Lisa stretches, feeling each bruise. She runs her hands over her own ribs, finds a ridge of tender flesh just below her right breast. A souvenir from the last fall, she guesses. She smiles, wide and unguarded, then glances again at Kelly’s back, at the ridged calves and the lean, elastic muscle in the thighs. Swimmer’s build versus gymnast’s. The thought makes her pulse skip.

Kelly stirs, groans, then peels herself up on one elbow. Her face is a wreck—hair stuck to her cheek, mascara smeared to the edges of her eyes, but she grins when she sees Lisa. For a second, neither says a word.

Then: “You hit harder than you look,” Kelly says. Her voice is soft but clear, just above a whisper.

Lisa shrugs, sits up in bed. She makes no move to cover herself, and neither does Kelly. The air is cold, nipples hard, but Lisa welcomes it. She’s not hiding anymore.

They hold the silence, a standoff that’s more challenge than greeting. Lisa watches the way Kelly studies her, eyes tracing the length of her arms, the slope of her shoulders, the faint shadow between her legs. There’s no embarrassment—just hunger, and maybe a little respect.

Kelly swings her legs off the mattress, stretches. The motion pulls the sheet away, exposing the rest of her body. Even at rest, Kelly is coiled tight, every muscle visible under the skin. There’s a scar on her left knee—old, silvery, puckered—and Lisa wonders if that’s where the ACL gave out. Kelly catches her staring, lifts her chin.

“You want a rematch?” Kelly asks, casual but direct. She plants both feet on the carpet, leans forward. The morning light is unkind—there’s nothing left to hide. Lisa feels her own cheeks flush, but she doesn’t back down.

“Maybe I just want to see if it was a fluke,” Lisa says.

Kelly laughs, low. “You think you got lucky?”

Lisa doesn’t answer, just stands. She’s naked, goosebumped, hands balled at her sides.

Kelly stands too, and now they’re both on the carpet, maybe six feet apart. The room is a mess—sheets on the floor, two bottles of water, someone’s phone face down and probably dead. The only clear space is the four-by-six rug in the center. It’s all the ring they need.

Kelly moves first, a slow, circling step. Lisa mirrors. They size each other up, the way girls do in the water before a sprint: arms loose, knees bent, both waiting for the other to make the first mistake.

This time, Lisa goes first. She fakes a lunge at Kelly’s left shoulder, then shifts and reaches for the wrist. Kelly anticipates, snaps her arm away, and they circle again. Lisa feels sweat starting on her palms, the pulse in her throat, the raw animal thrill of anticipation.

“You’re not going to win the same way twice,” Kelly says. Her voice is sharp, but her eyes are bright, almost giddy.

Lisa grins, and in one fast movement, she closes the distance, gets both hands on Kelly’s shoulders. The contact is electric—skin on skin, heat and tension. Kelly is slippery, but Lisa’s grip is strong. She plants her feet, digs in, and for a second, they’re locked.

Kelly doesn’t hesitate. She slips one hand under Lisa’s elbow, leverages up, tries to break the grip. It almost works, but Lisa tightens, fingers digging in, and they stand there, straining, each girl trying to muscle the other off balance.

Lisa’s stronger, but Kelly is quick. She pivots, drops her weight, and Lisa’s right hand slides up to Kelly’s neck, thumb pressed against the line of her jaw. Kelly hisses, then uses the opening to hook her foot behind Lisa’s calf. Lisa feels the move coming, but it’s too late: Kelly sweeps the leg, and they both go down, hitting the rug with a soft, wet thud.

They land tangled, Lisa on top, but Kelly already moving, twisting, wriggling out from underneath. The carpet scrapes Lisa’s knees, but she ignores it. She scrambles for leverage, gets an arm around Kelly’s waist, but Kelly bends double, rolling them both across the rug.

Lisa laughs, breathless, the ache in her thighs instantly forgotten. The room disappears; it’s just her and Kelly, skin and sweat and the heat of the fight.

Kelly grins up at her, teeth bared, eyes wild. “You sure you’re awake enough for this?”

Lisa pins her wrists, leans in, and answers with her body.

The rematch is on.

-----

The first few seconds are pure instinct. Lisa and Kelly wrestle for grip, neither wanting to overcommit, both hoping the other will blink. Lisa goes for control, pinning Kelly’s wrists to the carpet. Kelly twists, tries to break free, but Lisa’s heavier, more used to the grind.

But Kelly has tricks.

She brings her knees up, tucks tight, and in a single flex, pops both wrists loose. Lisa grabs again, but Kelly’s already out, wriggling backward, feet digging into the rug for leverage. They reset, hands up, circling.

Lisa lunges, grabs for a shoulder, gets a hand full of smooth, sweat-slick skin. Kelly meets her, forehead to forehead, both straining. They’re close enough to smell each other—shampoo, sleep, and the tang of old adrenaline.

“Not bad for a freshman,” Kelly says, lips curling.

Lisa grins. “Good enough to kick your ass.”

Kelly drops low, tries to shoot for the hips, but Lisa sprawls, brings her weight down, and forces Kelly to the rug. It should be over. Lisa’s got top position, one knee jammed into Kelly’s ribs, arms tight around her waist. But Kelly doesn’t give. She squirms, shoves, tries to lever Lisa off with her forearm.

Lisa adjusts, goes for a chokehold. Kelly blocks it, writhes again, and Lisa’s left arm slips up, exposing her side. Kelly takes it, catches Lisa’s wrist, twists hard, and nearly reverses.

They struggle, sweat already running in the shallow valley of Lisa’s lower back. The carpet scours her knees, burns across her shins. Every time she moves, her skin drags raw. She loves it.

They break, roll apart. Both are gasping.

Lisa tries to laugh, but it comes out half-growl. “That all you got?”

Kelly spits hair from her mouth. “Just getting started.”

Lisa goes on the offensive. She rushes, fakes left, then switches and wraps her arms around Kelly’s torso. It’s a bear hug, tight and mean. She lifts, just a couple inches, then drops Kelly onto the rug. The impact shakes the room.

But Kelly’s already moving. She tucks and rolls, wraps her legs around Lisa’s thigh, and yanks. Lisa’s balance goes, and she hits the ground hard, shoulder first. Her vision goes white for a split second.

Then Kelly is on her, clamped to Lisa’s back like a limpet. She hooks her ankles around Lisa’s waist, hands searching for a choke. Lisa tucks her chin, fights off the grip, then claws Kelly’s arms, digging for a fingerhold.

She finds one, peels Kelly’s hand back, and throws an elbow. Kelly dodges, gets her face pressed into Lisa’s shoulder blade, and bites—not hard enough to break skin, but enough to leave a mark.

Lisa twists, gets her hips under, and bucks, trying to shake Kelly off. Kelly’s grip is vice-tight, but Lisa is strong, and after three hard shakes she manages to pry Kelly’s legs open. She scrambles up, spins, and faces Kelly on her hands and knees.

They stare each other down, both panting, both grinning like idiots.

Lisa tries another attack, but Kelly sidesteps, grabs Lisa’s ankle, and sweeps. Lisa loses her footing and slams to the rug, flat on her back. Kelly dives, pins Lisa’s shoulders with both hands, straddles her hips, and sits, hard.

“Pinned,” Kelly says, eyes sparkling.

Lisa arches, tries to buck her off, but Kelly shifts her weight, stays locked. For a second, Lisa is genuinely trapped. Her heart hammers.

Kelly leans down, mouth to Lisa’s ear. “Submit?”

Lisa shakes her head, laughs, then uses both arms to push up, tries to roll Kelly off. Kelly holds her ground, but Lisa isn’t giving up. She bridges again, rocks her hips, and the motion nearly unseats Kelly.

Kelly grabs Lisa’s wrists, pins them above her head. With both arms stretched out, Lisa is vulnerable. Kelly leans forward, presses her chest to Lisa’s, and for a second it’s less fight, more something else.

“Give up?” Kelly teases, but her voice trembles.

Lisa grits her teeth, waits for the right second, then bucks as hard as she can. Kelly’s grip slips, and Lisa twists, brings her knees up, and reverses. Now Lisa is on top, pressing down with everything she’s got.

Kelly’s legs wrap around Lisa’s waist. She tries to pull Lisa down, but Lisa braces, holds steady.

“Better,” Kelly says, smiling through her sweat.

“Watch this,” Lisa says.

She slides up, pins Kelly’s arms with her knees, and leans in, hands free to do whatever she wants. She grabs Kelly’s wrists, then lets go, knowing she doesn’t need them. For the first time, Lisa feels totally in control.

But Kelly’s not finished. She arches her back, flexes her abs, and in a wild, gymnastic move, bridges up, throwing Lisa off balance. Lisa’s hands hit the carpet, and Kelly rolls out from underneath, ending up behind Lisa, legs scissored around Lisa’s torso.

The pressure is intense, crushing. Lisa gasps, tries to twist free, but Kelly’s thighs are like steel bands. Lisa grabs at Kelly’s calves, but the more she pulls, the tighter Kelly holds.

Lisa’s head starts to spin. She grits her teeth, plants her hands, and shoves backward, hoping to smash Kelly into the floor. The impact works—Kelly loosens just enough for Lisa to roll over and break the hold.

They separate, both lying on the rug, chests heaving, bodies shining with sweat. Kelly’s hair is a rat’s nest; Lisa’s is plastered to her forehead. Neither girl is even close to quitting.

“You’re stronger than you look,” Kelly pants.

“You’re slipperier than you look,” Lisa replies.

They laugh, and the tension cracks for a second. But only a second.

Kelly lunges, grabs a handful of Lisa’s hair, and yanks. Lisa yelps, but retaliates by grabbing Kelly’s left breast and squeezing, hard. Kelly gasps, lets go of the hair, and tries to pry Lisa’s hand off her chest. Lisa clamps down harder, and Kelly’s eyes go wide.

It turns dirty, fast. Kelly slaps Lisa’s side, then grabs a fistful of Lisa’s ass, digging her nails in. Lisa bites her lip, doesn’t let go. They roll, knees and elbows scraping the rug, hands searching for anything to hold or hurt.

At one point, Lisa gets her fingers between Kelly’s legs, grabs, and pulls. Kelly shrieks, grabs Lisa’s wrist, but Lisa holds tight, using it as leverage to flip Kelly onto her stomach. Kelly kicks, catches Lisa’s shin, but Lisa doesn’t let go. She uses the grip to twist Kelly’s hips, then climbs onto her back.

Kelly’s face is mashed to the rug, but she’s still laughing. “You’re evil,” she says, voice muffled.

Lisa laughs too. “You started it.”

She tries to pin Kelly’s wrists again, but Kelly tucks her arms under, making them impossible to grab. Lisa improvises—she wraps her arm around Kelly’s neck, not a choke, but enough to control her head.

Kelly kicks again, and this time the heel catches Lisa between the legs. Not hard, but enough to shock. Lisa yelps, loses focus, and Kelly spins, reverses, and now they’re face to face, both on their knees.

They freeze, breathing hard, sweat dripping down their bodies, every muscle on fire.

“You want to call it a draw?” Kelly asks, but she’s grinning, daring Lisa to say yes.

Lisa shakes her head, smiling. “Not until one of us taps.”

Kelly nods, respects that. “Fine.”

She pounces.

They collide, arms locked, legs tangled. This time, there’s no technique, just brute force. Lisa grabs Kelly’s hair again, yanks her head back. Kelly claws at Lisa’s ribs, then grabs both of Lisa’s breasts, twisting the nipples until Lisa screams.

Lisa fights back with a slap to Kelly’s face, and the sound is shockingly loud. Kelly’s cheek blooms red, but she only laughs, then grabs Lisa’s wrist and bites down on the web of skin between thumb and forefinger.

They tumble, crash to the carpet, roll to the base of the bed. The motion knocks over a water bottle, which rolls away unnoticed.

Kelly gets Lisa in a headlock, squeezes, but Lisa slides her hand between Kelly’s thighs and hooks her fingers inside, pulling. Kelly howls, the headlock loosens, and Lisa wriggles free, then tackles Kelly around the waist.

They hit the floor, roll again, then land with Lisa on her back and Kelly straddling her chest. Both are shaking with effort, hair in their faces, bodies covered in sweat.

Neither lets up.

Kelly pins Lisa’s wrists, then uses her knees to clamp Lisa’s arms to the floor. Lisa thrashes, trying to throw Kelly off, but the leverage is perfect.

“Submit?” Kelly pants, voice rough.

Lisa grins up at her, then bucks, trying to dislodge. Kelly holds, tight as ever.

Lisa tries another trick: she slides her knees up, hooks Kelly’s back with her feet, and bridges, nearly throwing Kelly forward onto her face. But Kelly rides it, keeps her balance, and shifts her weight back.

For a second, they’re locked. Both trembling, both desperate to win.

Lisa sees the moment in Kelly’s eyes: she’s going to try something, one last push.

So Lisa does too.

She brings her hands up, slips a finger between Kelly’s legs, and pinches, hard.

Kelly gasps, her grip goes slack, and Lisa shoves upward, freeing one arm. She brings it up, wraps it around Kelly’s back, and flips her, the move rough and sudden. Kelly lands on her side, the air knocked from her lungs.

Lisa follows, lands on top, pins Kelly’s arms to her chest.

They freeze, staring at each other, bodies shivering with adrenaline and effort.

Neither says a word.

The fight isn’t over, but it’s close.

-----

Kelly makes her move first.

She baits Lisa with a lazy wrist, lets Lisa think she has it, then snaps her hips, wraps her leg around Lisa’s, and twists. The leverage is perfect—one second Lisa is on top, the next she’s flat on her back, Kelly perched above, knees on either side of Lisa’s ribs.

Lisa bucks, desperate, but Kelly rides it, shifts her weight, and pins Lisa’s wrists to the mat.

For a second, Lisa is still. The shock is total—how did Kelly reverse so fast?

Then comes the frustration, the white-hot surge of panic. She bridges, tries to throw Kelly over her head, but Kelly leans back, shifting her center of gravity, and Lisa’s power fizzles out. She tries to twist her hips, but Kelly clamps her thighs, locking Lisa in place.

“Give up?” Kelly asks, barely winded.

Lisa bares her teeth, tries to wrench an arm free, but the grip is too strong. Her shoulder strains, the muscles in her neck scream, but nothing moves. She tries to get a leg under Kelly, maybe to sweep, but Kelly blocks every angle.

Lisa hears her own breathing, ragged, the sweat pooling at her temples. She hates this—hates losing—but at the same time, she respects it. Kelly is good.

She tries a final move, tucking her chin and bucking hard, hoping to unseat Kelly’s balance. But Kelly was ready. She leans in, uses her full weight, and now Lisa’s wrists are pinned above her head, her own chest forced up and back. It’s humiliating—she’s exposed, vulnerable, powerless.

And, god help her, it turns her on.

Kelly drops her voice, just for Lisa: “Ready to say uncle?”

Lisa fights, grits her teeth, and gives it one last, furious attempt. She bridges, twists, arches her back. For half a second, she feels something shift—but Kelly is a rock. She doesn’t move. She just tightens the hold, pins Lisa’s wrists even harder, and presses her hips down, grinding Lisa into the carpet.

The panic crests, then crashes. Lisa goes limp, chest heaving, vision swimming in the fluorescent light.

She nods, barely, but it’s enough.

Kelly holds her for a second longer, just to make it sting. Then, gently, she lets go, rolls off, and flops to her back on the rug.

They both just lie there, side by side, arms splayed, sweat cooling in the air. Neither says anything for a long time.

Lisa blinks at the ceiling, every nerve in her body lit up, half in pain, half in pleasure. She’s never felt so defeated—and never wanted to win so badly.

Finally, Kelly props herself on one elbow, grins down at Lisa.

“Not bad for round two,” she says.

Lisa doesn’t trust herself to speak, so she just nods. Her whole body aches, but the pain is good—earned, even.

Kelly extends a hand. “Rematch?”

Lisa laughs, takes it, lets Kelly pull her upright. She’s still shaky, but alive in a way she’s never been before.

“Same time tomorrow?” Kelly asks, brushing a strand of hair from her face.

Lisa nods, then grins. “Next time, I’m not going easy on you.”

Kelly barks a laugh, sharp and pure. “That’s the spirit.”

They sit in silence, side by side on the rug. The sun climbs higher, painting harsh angles across the mess of sheets and bottles and bodies.

Lisa thinks about the other rooms in the building, the girls waking up, the fights already underway or waiting to start. She wonders how many of them are like her and Kelly—hungry, competitive, unable to let it go.

She decides it doesn’t matter.

All she wants is to be ready for the next round.

She glances at Kelly, who’s already looking back, eyes bright and wild and unafraid.

Lisa grins.

She can’t wait.

[Thommy1982]

What a great story that is. So much possibilities for fights. Would love to read more of idt

[sinclairfan]

Would love to see a "third wheel" get jealous of the bond forming between Kelly and Lisa....

[femfitefan]

Chapter 6: Rising Confidence

Lisa wakes before her alarm, her head buzzing with the same savage clarity she gets before finals. She stretches, feeling every muscle in her back pop, and lets her eyes adjust to the green light slanting through the blinds. It’s a little after six, but the floor is already alive—she hears footfalls in the hall, the shriek of a shower door, the low thud of something heavy hitting the wall. Nothing new, but today it vibrates different.

She sits on the edge of her bed, swings her feet down, and waits to see if the ache in her thighs will fade. It doesn’t. The bruises have gone yellow at the edges, and her right breast still bears the fresh, angry red of Kelly’s nails. Lisa touches it, not to soothe but to check: still raised, still raw, still hers.

She wants to see.

She wants to watch.

Kelly snores on, dead to the world, one hand splayed out on her pillow and the other cupping her breast. Lisa glances over, then stands, not bothering to cover up. The room is a mess: yesterday’s energy drinks stacked by the window, two Renner robes balled in a heap, a crusted-over bowl of cereal molding on the desk. She loves it. She opens her top drawer, roots for her favorite black thong, and pulls it on. That’s all. She picks up her halter top, thinks about it, then tosses it back onto her chair.

She checks herself in the mirror. Her chest is still dotted with the aftermath of battle, three parallel scratch marks raked down the outside of her left boob and a pair of bite marks—faint but visible—on the inside of her right thigh. Her nipples are hard, even before the chill of the room gets to them. She rolls her shoulders, stands tall, and for the first time since coming here, she feels like she owns the air around her.

She doesn’t put on the robe. Not today. Not until she’s sure.

She opens the door, steps into the hallway, and the wall of sound hits her full-on. There’s music thumping from someone’s bluetooth speaker, the heavy bass vibrating through the cinderblock. There’s laughter, and shouting, and a sound like wet slapping, which she later realizes is the bare feet of a girl sprinting down the corridor, pursued by another girl wielding a towel like a whip. Neither of them is dressed—one in just gym shorts, the other in nothing but a sports bra—and neither notices Lisa standing in the doorway, arms crossed, body on display.

She walks, slow, letting the rhythm of the dorm seep into her. She passes an open door on the left and glances in: two girls, one with purple hair and one with an undercut, are on the floor, wrestling over a deck of cards. The game’s clearly over—what matters now is the pin, the win, the show. Purple Hair has Undercut’s face buried in the carpet, her knee in the small of her back, and is crowing like she just won gold. Lisa watches as Purple Hair grabs a handful of Undercut’s hair and twists, not enough to hurt but enough to make Undercut gasp, then pins both of her wrists behind her head.

The crowd—maybe five other girls, in various states of dress—cheers. One girl, sitting on the bed, fingers herself through the waistband of her leggings, eyes never leaving the struggle on the floor. Lisa stares, takes it in, then moves on.

The next room over, more of the same. This time it’s not a fight, just two girls naked and tangled together on the twin XL, biting and licking and clawing as though they’re the only ones left on earth. Lisa tries to look away, but can’t—she’s transfixed by the way the girls use their bodies, the way they take pleasure in being seen. The window’s wide open, and Lisa wonders if anyone outside can catch a glimpse.

She keeps going, heart pounding. The hallway is a gauntlet: every few steps, another match, another contest, another game. She sees a girl with a sleeve of tattoos pinning a smaller girl to the linoleum, her thigh pressing down on the girl’s ribs. She sees two blondes in matching Renner robes slap-fighting, their sashes long since lost, robes falling open as they trade blows across each other’s faces. She sees a group of upperclass girls lounging on beanbags in the rec room, legs spread, robes open, not bothering to cover up as they watch the fights play out in front of them. Some of the watchers are openly masturbating, their hands lost in the folds of their robes, eyes glassy with arousal or envy or both.

Lisa wants to join in, but today is for watching.

She moves to the stairwell, peeks down the railing, and catches sight of the action below. There’s a knot of girls at the first landing, three of them locked in what looks like a three-way brawl, bodies twisting, limbs everywhere, hands grabbing for anything that will give leverage or pain or both. A fourth girl stands at the edge, filming with her phone, her free hand cupped between her legs. Lisa descends, barefoot, each step cold and jarring, and sits on the bottom step to watch.

One of the fighters, a thickset girl with a mohawk, is bleeding from the nose. She doesn’t seem to notice. She’s got her arms wrapped around another girl’s waist, lifting her bodily off the ground and slamming her to the tile. The third girl, smaller but wiry, pounces on Mohawk’s back, wrapping her in a chokehold. The struggle goes on for a full minute, nobody submitting, all three grunting, yelping, and swearing in equal measure. Eventually, the smallest girl locks her legs around Mohawk’s hips, bites her shoulder, and forces the tap. All three collapse, panting, sweaty, and satisfied.

Lisa feels the heat in her own body, the pulse between her legs. She rubs at her scratch marks, tracing the lines absentmindedly. She stays there a few minutes, then pushes up and keeps going.

The showers are next. She knows the code by heart. Inside, the air is thick with steam and the smell of coconut shampoo. The floor is slick. The first two stalls are occupied, feet and legs visible beneath the doors, but it’s the third stall that holds her attention. There’s a crowd of girls gathered, half-naked and eager, watching the glassy blur of two figures locked in a desperate, furious tangle.

Lisa joins the crowd, elbowing her way to the front. The glass is fogged, but she can see enough: the taller girl has the shorter one in a headlock, face jammed against the wall. The shorter girl’s nails are digging furrows down the taller girl’s back, pink lines visible even through the condensation. The taller girl bites the other’s ear—hard, enough to draw a yelp—then slams her against the tile, grinding her chest into the shorter girl’s face.

The crowd is loving it. A chant starts: “Finish her! Finish her!” The taller girl gets one hand between the shorter girl’s thighs and grabs, not subtle, not gentle. The shorter girl screams, kicks, but can’t break free. Finally, the taller girl twists her wrist and the shorter girl taps the wall twice, submission. The taller girl lets go, steps back, and the loser collapses to her knees, panting.

But the winner isn’t done. She pushes the loser’s head between her own legs and holds it there, grinding her hips into the girl’s face as the crowd hoots and whistles. The loser fights at first, but then her hands go slack, and she just stays there, face buried in the taller girl’s pussy, licking and sucking as though it’s the only way she can breathe. The winner throws her head back, moans, and lets it happen.

Lisa feels her nipples stiffen, her own thighs clenching. She wants to touch herself, but she waits. She watches, savoring every detail: the tremor in the loser’s hands, the way the winner’s knees go weak as the orgasm hits, the roar of approval from the assembled girls.

She’s so lost in it that she doesn’t notice Sarah Kim until Sarah is standing right next to her, watching the same fight, arms folded, expression unreadable. Sarah’s hair is slicked back in a high ponytail, black as oil, and her green robe is open at the chest, exposing sharp collarbones and perfect, unmarked skin. Lisa looks at her, and Sarah looks right back.

For a long moment, neither says anything. Then Sarah leans in, voice low.

“You like watching, huh?”

Lisa shrugs. “I like to learn.”

Sarah’s lips twitch, almost a smile. “You learn more by doing.”

Lisa meets her gaze, unblinking. “Maybe. But sometimes it’s good to see how the pros do it.”

Sarah glances at the fight—now over, both girls slumped to the shower floor as the crowd disperses. Then she looks back at Lisa.

“I hear you’re not bad.”

Lisa smirks. “Better than you?”

Sarah steps closer, so close that her robe brushes Lisa’s bare arm. “Prove it. Lounge. One hour.”

Lisa can’t tell if her heart is racing from fear or excitement. She doesn’t care.

“Yeah,” she says. “I’ll be there.”

Sarah nods, once, then turns on her heel and walks away, bare feet silent on the tile. The crowd parts for her, eyes following her all the way down the hall.

Lisa stands there, adrenaline crackling through her. She watches the end of the shower match—winner still pressing her pussy to the loser’s mouth, both of them panting, water and sweat and cum mixing on the tile. She wonders if her fight will look the same.

She hopes it does.

She heads back to her room, the heat in her chest slowly spreading lower. She knows she should eat, or stretch, or maybe rest, but all she wants to do is fight. She climbs onto her bed, legs apart, and touches herself, slow and easy at first, then rougher as the memory of the shower fight rewinds in her mind.

She cums in under a minute, hard, back arching as the pulse runs through her. Then she breathes, resets, and lies there, letting the air cool the sweat on her skin.

An hour.

She’s ready.

------

Lisa waits until the last possible second to head down. She wants Sarah to sweat, or at least wonder if she’ll show. But when Lisa slips into the lounge, barefoot, she sees Sarah is already waiting, kneeling at the far end of the mats, green robe folded into a perfect square. She’s the only one not fidgeting. Her hands rest easy on her thighs, her hair is pulled back tight, and she watches the door like she saw Lisa coming before she even rounded the corner.

Lisa walks slow, letting her heels click on the tile. She’s wearing her own robe now, but nothing underneath. It flares open as she moves, flashing the skin of her hips, her scratch marks, the faint purple ring around her biceps. She’s aware of her own body in a way she never was before Renner—every bruise a history, every mark a badge.

There’s a crowd, more than she expected. Girls perched on couches and window sills, some wrapped in towels, others in nothing but boy shorts or thongs. Three phones are out already, cameras pointed dead center. Kelly’s there, too, in the back, leaning against the vending machine, arms crossed and mouth tight with something between pride and jealousy. Lisa glances at her, gets a wink, then looks away.

She steps onto the mats, feels the warmth where other bodies have just fought, and waits for Sarah to stand. For a second, nothing happens.

Then Sarah is up, fast, robe slipping off her shoulders and onto the mat. Underneath, she’s all sharp angles and clean lines. Her breasts are small, her stomach corded, her thighs knotted with the kind of strength you only get from years of training. Her nipples are the color of ripe cherries. Her skin glows in the ugly lounge lighting. She doesn’t try to hide any of it.

Lisa shrugs off her robe, letting it pool at her feet. For the first time, she doesn’t feel a twinge of shame. She’s bigger than Sarah, maybe two inches taller and a full ten pounds heavier. But Sarah’s confidence is a weapon; she stands loose, eyes locked, already dissecting Lisa’s weaknesses.

They face each other, just close enough to touch, and wait for the room to settle. The noise drops out.

Kelly calls out, “Stakes?”

Sarah doesn’t look away. “Winner gets bragging rights. Loser does laundry. Three days.”

Lisa nods. “Deal.”

She feels her heart hit the wall of her chest, then steady. This is real. This is happening.

Ms. Hughes sits cross-legged on a beanbag, acting as referee but only in the sense that she’ll stop things before blood is drawn. She flicks her hand: Go.

Sarah moves first—no pretense, just a lightning-fast dive for Lisa’s legs. Lisa expects it, hops back, and brings her own hands up to guard. Sarah is in close, aiming for a trip, but Lisa plants her feet and shoves hard. The force knocks Sarah off-balance for a second, but she recovers, circling, eyes never leaving Lisa’s face.

They circle, feint, test each other. Lisa waits for the second move, remembers what Kelly told her: don’t overcommit, let them come to you. Sarah fakes left, then lunges for Lisa’s waist. Lisa gets her arms around Sarah’s neck, but Sarah slips low, ducking under and wrapping both hands behind Lisa’s knees. She yanks, and Lisa almost goes down, but catches herself on one hand and scurries backward, ass scraping the mat. The crowd hoots, loving the scramble.

Sarah doesn’t let up. She’s on Lisa instantly, grabbing for a wrist, twisting it up behind Lisa’s back. The move is brutal—Sarah’s grip is dry, clinical, and she’s using her whole body weight to torque Lisa’s shoulder. Lisa grits her teeth, tries to roll, but Sarah’s already transitioning, climbing onto Lisa’s back and squeezing her ribs with her thighs.

It hurts. Lisa knows how to breathe through it, but the pressure makes her vision gray out at the edges. She tries to twist, to shake Sarah off, but Sarah is sticky, arms snaking under Lisa’s chin, not choking, but close.

For a full minute, Lisa can’t get free. She bucks, wriggles, even tries to grab Sarah’s hair, but Sarah anticipates every move, neutralizing each attack with cold efficiency.

Lisa hears Kelly shout, “Breathe! Use your weight!”

She does, dropping hard onto her back, using her size to try to squash Sarah. It works—Sarah grunts, loosens her hold, and Lisa rolls out from under, both girls now on hands and knees, circling again. Lisa’s body is on fire, but her mind is clear.

They clash again, this time upright. Lisa catches Sarah’s arm, tries to whip her over, but Sarah reverses, twists Lisa’s wrist, and brings her to the mat. Lisa lands face-down, Sarah straddling her lower back, both hands wrenched behind her. The pain is sharp, but Lisa remembers the match she watched in the stairwell, the way the smaller girl slipped out of a full mount by rolling and using her legs for leverage.

She tries it, pushing her knees up under herself, then rolling hard to the left. It throws Sarah off for a second, enough to get one hand free, then both. Lisa reverses, ends up on top, pinning Sarah’s shoulders with her knees. It’s not a good hold, but it’s a hold.

“Submit?” Lisa tries, her voice a dare.

Sarah just laughs, bucking her hips and throwing Lisa forward, but Lisa hangs on, grabs Sarah’s wrists, and tries to lock them above Sarah’s head. The move exposes Lisa’s chest, and Sarah takes advantage, raking her nails down the center, leaving red welts in a perfect line. The sensation is electric—half pain, half sex. Lisa flinches, loses grip, and Sarah is out from under her, on her feet and circling again.

The crowd is louder now. Someone’s chanting, “Sarah! Sarah!” but others root for Lisa, shouting her name, her room number, anything.

They clash again. This time, Lisa is faster. She lets Sarah come to her, absorbs the rush, and uses Sarah’s momentum to trip her. Sarah lands hard, but rolls with it, ends up on her back, legs up. She tries to scissor Lisa’s waist, but Lisa stays outside, using her reach to keep Sarah at bay.

They’re both sweating now, bodies shining, hair plastered to faces. Lisa wipes her brow, stares Sarah down.

Sarah smiles. “You’re learning.”

Lisa grins. “From the best.”

Sarah shifts, feints a grab, but Lisa doesn’t take the bait. Instead, she backs off, waits, then pounces when Sarah tries to stand. She wraps Sarah from behind, gets her in a loose bear hug, and brings her to the ground. The grip isn’t strong, but Lisa uses her legs to tangle Sarah’s, immobilizing her for a second.

Sarah fights dirty, elbowing Lisa in the ribs, then clawing at Lisa’s thigh. Lisa grits her teeth, ignores the sting, and tightens her grip.

For a long time, neither can gain an advantage. They roll, grapple, trade holds. At one point, Sarah nearly gets Lisa in a choke, but Lisa rips her way out, leaving a trail of hair in Sarah’s hand.

Finally, after what feels like forever, Lisa sees an opening. Sarah is on her side, reaching for Lisa’s wrist, and Lisa sweeps Sarah’s leg with her foot, tipping her off-balance. In one fluid motion, Lisa mounts Sarah’s chest, pins her arms above her head, and sits, full weight, on Sarah’s torso.

Sarah arches, tries to bridge, but Lisa is ready—she brings her knees up to trap Sarah’s shoulders, then leans in, using her hands to hold Sarah’s wrists tight.

It’s over. Sarah tries once more to break free, but Lisa holds, unyielding.

“Submit?” Lisa says, voice shaking with adrenaline.

Sarah breathes hard, eyes bright. “Yeah,” she says. “You got me.”

The room explodes—shouts, clapping, even a few wild howls. Kelly pumps a fist in the air, face lit with wild pride.

Lisa lets go, rolls off, and lies on her back, staring at the ceiling, heart slamming in her chest.

Sarah sits up, wipes sweat from her face, and gives Lisa a long, searching look. Then she stands, retrieves her robe, and nods at Lisa—short, respectful, final.

Lisa stays on the mat a minute longer, letting it sink in. She won. She beat Sarah Kim. She feels every bruise, every ache, every scratch and bite. She’s never felt so alive.

She stands, lets the room see her, then picks up her robe and leaves, head high, hands still trembling with victory.

------

Three days of bruises and glory and Lisa still walks like she just won a gold medal. Every girl on the floor knows her name. Some of them catcall when she passes, others just stare, trying to see what makes her special. The losers from her old matches now nod at her, like old rivals in a new league.

But victory doesn’t mean comfort. The aches are real—her ribs throb when she laughs, her neck pulls if she turns too fast. She loves it, even the pain. It reminds her she’s alive, that every day is a new fight.

She’s coming back from the showers, hair damp, nothing but a towel and her green slippers, when she spots Jenna Rodriguez waiting by the hallway vending machine. Jenna’s skin is still dewy from steam, her black hair trailing like a whip down her back. Her towel looks painted on—barely enough to cover, clinging to every muscle and bone.

Jenna looks Lisa up and down, eyes lingering just a little too long on Lisa’s bare shoulders. Then, without preamble, she grins. “So you beat Kim. Impressive.”

Lisa shrugs, tries to play it cool. “Had to get lucky sometime.”

“Luck isn’t enough.” Jenna leans back, crossing her arms, the towel slipping even lower. “You ready to see what a real fighter can do?”

Lisa stops in her tracks. The air in the hallway goes heavy. She glances up and down—two girls have poked their heads out of their rooms, sensing a show.

“I’m always ready,” Lisa says, louder than she means to.

Jenna’s smile sharpens. She turns, walks toward the wide landing by the laundry room, hips swaying like a dare. Lisa follows, towel clutched at her chest. By the time they reach the open space, five more girls have emerged, some in robes, some naked from the waist up, all buzzing with anticipation.

Jenna drops her towel in one smooth move. She’s completely nude, muscles taut, every inch of her a living flex. She shakes out her hair, glances at Lisa with open challenge.

Lisa hesitates for half a second, then lets her own towel fall. She stands tall, not bothering to hide her scars or the fresh yellow-green blooms on her thighs. Her nipples go hard from the draft, but she doesn’t flinch.

They size each other up. For a moment, the noise dies—everyone waiting for the first move.

Jenna breaks it. “Stakes?”

Lisa thinks, then: “I could use some extra cash $50?”

The crowd whoops, loving the escalation. Jenna nods. “Fine.”

“Deal.”

No ref, no warning. Jenna lunges, a blur of tan and black hair. Lisa braces, but Jenna’s speed is unreal—she ducks low, grabs Lisa’s left leg, and yanks, sending Lisa tumbling backward. Lisa hits the floor hard, breath knocked out, but she’s ready. She rolls, tries to scissor Jenna’s waist, but Jenna dances out of reach, laughing.

“Gotta be faster,” Jenna says, circling.

Lisa pushes up to her knees, arms up, heart racing. She waits, lets Jenna come to her.

Jenna fakes right, then spins left, catching Lisa around the middle. Lisa grabs for Jenna’s arms, but they’re slippery, and Jenna’s already behind her, hooking an ankle between Lisa’s knees, twisting them both down. The floor burns Lisa’s thigh, but she doesn’t care—she’s in the fight now, fully alive.

They roll, tangle, bodies slamming into the wall. Lisa gets her hands on Jenna’s wrist and tries to torque it, but Jenna laughs, slips free, and in a blink has Lisa’s own arm twisted behind her back.

The pressure is sharp, makes Lisa wince, but she won’t tap, not this fast. She jerks forward, gets her weight under her, and manages to stand, dragging Jenna with her.

The crowd is getting louder, girls shouting encouragement and dirty jokes in equal measure.

Jenna climbs Lisa’s back like a gymnast mounting a bar, wraps her legs around Lisa’s waist, and tries to pull her down. Lisa reaches behind, grabs a handful of Jenna’s hair, and yanks. Jenna grunts, lets go with one arm, and slaps Lisa’s breast—hard, the smack echoing down the hall.

Lisa yelps, almost laughs. “That all you got?”

Jenna growls, twisting the arm harder. Lisa drops to her knees, uses the sudden movement to throw Jenna over her shoulder, and for a second she’s free, breathing, weightless.

Jenna recovers instantly, pops to her feet, and charges again. This time Lisa meets her head-on, both of them colliding chest-to-chest, hands scrabbling for holds. Jenna grabs Lisa’s ass, digs her nails in, tries to lift, but Lisa holds ground, wraps Jenna in a bear hug, and squeezes.

They grunt, sweat slick on their skin, muscles straining. Jenna slips her hands under Lisa’s chin, pushes back, and they topple to the ground, rolling.

Jenna gets the mount, legs straddling Lisa’s hips. She leans in, presses her chest into Lisa’s face, smothering her. Lisa writhes, tries to buck her off, but Jenna’s balance is perfect—she rides the motion, then pins Lisa’s wrists above her head.

“Rookie mistake,” Jenna whispers, then shifts her weight, slamming her pussy into Lisa’s mouth.

The crowd howls, some girls laughing, others touching themselves. Lisa struggles, kicks, but the hold is unbreakable. She’s suffocating on Jenna’s skin, the scent, the taste, the total dominance. Finally, she gets a hand free, claws at Jenna’s ribcage, and manages to roll them both sideways. The momentum dislodges Jenna just enough to breathe.

Lisa gasps, then spins, trapping Jenna’s legs with her own, squeezing tight. She grabs Jenna’s ankle, tries to torque it, but Jenna is ready—she reverses, gets her foot on Lisa’s hip, and pushes off, sending Lisa sprawling.

They separate, both panting, bodies marked with the fresh red of the fight.

Jenna stalks closer. “You’re getting better,” she says, voice low. “But not good enough.”

Lisa grins, even through the ache. “Let’s see.”

They go again. This time, Lisa surprises her—she dives low, sweeps Jenna’s foot, and brings her down hard. The tile stings, but Lisa gets the mount, pins Jenna’s arms with her knees, and for a glorious second, she’s in control.

Jenna glares up. “What now?”

Lisa doesn’t hesitate—she leans in, grabs Jenna’s wrists, and bends them back, trying for a submission. But Jenna’s wrists are iron. She twists, wriggles her hips, and gets one knee between Lisa’s thighs. In a snap, she flips them both, and now Jenna is back on top, hair wild around her face.

She goes for a choke, hands tight on Lisa’s throat. Not enough to hurt, but enough to send a thrill of fear. Lisa’s eyes go wide, but she fights, digging her nails into Jenna’s sides, trying to pry her off.

Jenna lets up, grins, then shifts, catches Lisa’s right arm, and slides her legs around it, locking it in place.

Arm bar.

The pressure is instant, brutal. Lisa grits her teeth, tries to twist out, but the pain is real—her elbow feels like it’s about to pop.

“Tap,” Jenna says, soft but clear.

Lisa fights it, eyes watering, but finally, she slaps the floor.

The crowd erupts, some cheering, others booing, but everyone satisfied.

Jenna holds the pose a second longer, then lets go, rolling off and sitting next to Lisa.

“Not bad,” Jenna says, rubbing her own forearm where Lisa’s nails left marks. “But you telegraph your moves.”

Lisa blinks away the tears, then laughs, the sound sharp in her bruised throat. “Maybe you’re just too good.”

Jenna grins. “Maybe. But you’re learning.” She offers Lisa a hand, helps her to her feet.

Lisa takes it, feeling the heat of Jenna’s grip, the respect in the gesture.

The crowd disperses, some girls already replaying the match on their phones, others slipping off to settle their own bets or needs. Jenna wraps her towel back around her, then leans in close.

“Let's try training together.  6AM tomorrow.  I'll make your life hell."

Lisa smiles, chest swelling with something like pride. “You're on.”

They walk away together, bodies marked by war, hearts already hungry for the next round.

------

Jenna’s gym is hell.

Six AM, every day for a week, Lisa drags herself from bed, stuffs her feet in battered Nikes, and follows Jenna down to the basement mats. The sessions are brutal—twisting drills, breakfalls, submission holds with names Lisa can’t pronounce. Jenna does not go easy. Every mistake gets punished with a pin, a lock, or a quick, hard slap across the ribs.

Lisa loves it.

She learns to fall without flinching, to lock her ankles for leverage, to spot feints before they’re halfway executed. Jenna is ruthless, but when Lisa lands a clean counter or slips a hold, the smile she gives is real, full of pride. The pain is constant, but so is the sense of progress. Every day, Lisa emerges with fresh marks—elbow burns, wrist bruises, deep blue along her triceps. The other girls in the dorm notice.

Word travels. Lisa becomes a topic: the first-year who never backs down, who trains with the queen of the upperclassmen and comes back for more.

By the weekend, it’s a badge of honor just to spar with her. Girls challenge her in the halls, in the lounge, once even on the quad lawn in front of the dining hall. Most of the time she wins, sometimes she loses, but every time she gets better. Even Kelly, her original rival, starts to look at her with something like awe.

It’s on a Thursday night, with the lounge stuffed full of bodies and the smell of popcorn thick in the air, that Lisa gets her next real challenge.

She’s sprawled on a beanbag, half-watching a re-run of someone else’s fight, when she sees Tina Chen standing by the edge of the ring, arms folded, eyes locked on her.

Tina’s reputation is different from Jenna’s—colder, more cerebral. She never raises her voice, never boasts. She just wins. Her record is nearly perfect, and when she does lose, she takes it like data—something to improve on, not an insult.

Lisa knows she’s being watched. She sits up, wipes sweat from her brow, and meets Tina’s gaze. For a second, neither girl speaks.

Then Tina says, “You’ve gotten better.”

Lisa shrugs, smiling. “Good teacher.”

Tina nods. “Let’s see how much you’ve learned.”

The room falls silent. Even the upperclassmen perk up, sensing something different. Tina steps forward, pale robe hanging open at her sides, and faces Lisa dead-on.

Lisa stands, stretching out the aches, and joins her in the center. They’re about the same size, though Tina is wiry where Lisa is dense. Tina’s hair is short and slicked back, exposing the sharp planes of her face.

“Stakes?” Lisa asks, keeping her voice even.

Tina thinks, then: ““Winner gets to give the loser ten swats on the ass.””

The crowd loves it—something new, something mean.

Kelly edges forward from the back row, arms folded, eyes wide. She gives Lisa a tiny nod, then settles in to watch.

Lisa and Tina drop their robes at the same time. Both naked, both marked with old bruises and fresh ones. Lisa feels her own heartbeat ramp up. This is a real fight.

There’s no ref, but everyone knows the rules.

They circle, slow at first, testing the air, waiting for a slip. Tina moves with absolute control—each step measured, each shift of weight calculated. Lisa mirrors her, trying to think two moves ahead, like Jenna taught.

Tina goes for the first grab—a single-leg sweep, quick and precise. Lisa hops back, then counters with a hook behind Tina’s knee, but Tina anticipates, slips out, and the two reset, neither gaining ground.

It’s a chess match. Every move gets countered. Tina grabs for Lisa’s arm; Lisa spins out, twisting Tina’s wrist. Tina retaliates with a judo toss, but Lisa rolls and lands on her feet. The crowd is dead silent, nobody wants to miss a second.

After two minutes of this, they finally lock up, hands at each other’s necks and shoulders, breathing hard. Tina slips her fingers behind Lisa’s elbow, tries to twist her arm up, but Lisa plants her feet, muscles against it, and then pivots, using Tina’s own momentum to throw her onto the mat. For a second, Lisa is on top, knees pinning Tina’s arms, but Tina is slippery—she wriggles out, bridges up, and reverses.

They break apart, both panting, sweat beading on their chests.

“Predictable,” Tina murmurs, not unkindly. “You still telegraph.”

Lisa grins. “Noted.”

They go again, faster now. Tina grabs Lisa’s wrist, pulls her forward, and tries to trip her, but Lisa stays balanced, then sweeps Tina’s other leg, sending her to her knees. Lisa goes for a chokehold, arms locking around Tina’s neck, but Tina ducks and rolls, breaking free.

This time, Tina changes it up. Instead of attacking, she waits, baiting Lisa. Lisa circles, trying to find an opening, then fakes a lunge for Tina’s waist. Tina bites, goes low, and Lisa snags her in a headlock. She tightens, squeezing, but Tina slides her hand between Lisa’s thighs, grabs, and yanks. The pain is sudden and sharp, and Lisa has to let go.

They reset. The crowd is buzzing, girls whispering bets and side-remarks. Lisa glances at Kelly, who mouths: “You got this.”

They lock up again, this time with Tina going for a double-leg takedown. Lisa blocks, but only just, and they crash to the mat, rolling, locked together. Tina tries to get an arm bar; Lisa slips out, then goes for a body lock, trying to crush Tina’s ribs. Tina fights dirty—digging her nails into Lisa’s hip, biting her shoulder when she gets close enough.

Lisa returns the favor, grabbing at Tina’s ass, digging her nails in, then rolling to pin Tina beneath her. She’s on top, straddling Tina’s waist, hands holding down Tina’s wrists.

Tina glares up. “You’re learning,” she says.

Lisa grins, then tries to shift up, going for a smother. But Tina anticipates, brings her knees up, and launches Lisa off balance. They break, both sweating, chests heaving, muscles shaking from the effort.

It goes like this for half an hour. Neither can get the submission. Each time someone gets close, the other slips out, reverses, adapts. It’s brutal, elegant, exhausting.

At the twenty-minute mark, both girls are trembling. The crowd is still glued, nobody leaving, everyone on the edge of their seats.

Finally, in a burst of energy, Tina feints a low grab, then swings up, catching Lisa in the throat. It stuns her, just for a second, and Tina capitalizes—she wraps around Lisa’s back, legs locking at the waist, arms sliding around Lisa’s neck.

The choke is tight. Lisa sees stars, her world narrowing to the feel of Tina’s skin, the pressure on her windpipe, the roar of blood in her ears. She fights, claws at Tina’s hands, but Tina’s grip is perfect.

Just as Lisa’s vision goes white, she remembers Jenna’s words: “If you’re caught, go limp. Make them think they’ve got you.”

Lisa lets her body sag, stops fighting for a split second. Tina, sensing victory, loosens just a hair—and Lisa explodes upward, driving herself backwards, slamming Tina into the mat.

The impact jars Tina’s grip, and Lisa twists, breaking free. Both collapse, gasping, chests burning.

Neither can stand. They lie side by side, sweat mixing, barely able to breathe.

Tina turns her head, blinking away tears. “Draw?”

Lisa laughs, the sound raw and broken. “Draw.”

They shake hands, then help each other up, bodies shaking.

The room erupts. Girls crowd forward, clapping, shouting, some hugging each other, some just sitting stunned.

Kelly pushes through, offers Lisa a bottle of water and a grin.

“That was insane,” Kelly says, eyes bright. “You were amazing.”

Lisa sips the water, then wipes her mouth. “We both were.”

Tina stands, wraps her robe around herself, then bows, just a little. “You learn fast. Next time, I’ll have to surprise you.”

Lisa nods, pride swelling in her chest. “You can try.”

The crowd disperses, but the talk will last for days. Lisa knows she’s made it now—she’s one of the legends, the girls who fight and never quit.

Back in their room, Kelly collapses onto her bed, the thrill of the match still coursing through her veins. The vivid images of Lisa and Tina’s fierce struggle replay in her mind, igniting a fire within her. Unable to resist the urge, she slips her hand beneath her shorts, her breath quickening as she recalls the intensity of their grappling, the sweat glistening on their bodies, the raw power of their movements. Each memory fuels her desire, and she surrenders to the heat building inside her, lost in the sensations that envelop her.

Lisa stands by the window lost in her own thoughts, looking out at the dark campus, her body marked and aching, her mind already turning to the next fight.

She wonders who will challenge her next.

She can’t wait to find out.

[sinclairfan]

Lisa is leaving her friend Kelly in the dust....

[CuriousCombat]

Even if it was mostly AI, really need to appreciate your efforts for the ideas, the themes, the plot, the prompts and the edits that went along with it.

Looking forward to more of this story with many different characters and fights.

[femfitefan]

Thanks for the comments.  Much appreciated.  It's been a lot of fun working with the AI to develop this story.  I have a few other ideas in mind that I might try too.  For now, here's the next chapter.

Chapter 7: The Rachel Challenge

Lisa can’t remember what any of her professors said all afternoon. Physics slides past her like mist; her hand doodles on the edge of her notebook, drawing the same two bodies tangled together in a submission hold, over and over. By mid-afternoon, her skin itches for the heat and noise of the dorm. She stares at the clock until the second hand bleeds into the next hour, then bolts from the lecture hall and walks the five blocks back to Renner Hall.

As soon as she’s inside, the old tension kicks back in—anticipation, hunger, something just shy of panic. Lisa knows she should study, shower, maybe eat. Instead, she throws her backpack onto her bed, peels off her jeans and the blue t-shirt that’s stuck to her back, and grabs a bottle of water. She glances at herself in the mirror: hair wild, eyes dark, still wearing the green thong she stole from Kelly three nights ago. It’s barely legal, even in a place like this, the outline of her pussy slightly visible through the thin material. She grins, bares her teeth, and leaves the rest behind.

The ritual is always the same. Walk the dorm. See what’s out there. Remind yourself you’re not the only animal in the cage.

Tonight, it’s barely six and already the halls thrum with noise. Shouts, laughter, the slam of doors, the muted percussion of bodies hitting walls and floors. Lisa walks barefoot, feeling the cool tile on her arches, her skin prickling with every new sound. She rounds the first corner and nearly slips on a puddle of water; above it, taped to the wall in Sharpie, a sign reads “Slippery When Sexy.” Someone’s already set the mood.

She passes the rec room, glances in. The air reeks of popcorn and sweat and vape; girls are draped over beanbags, not watching the muted TV but watching the window, where two girls are locked in a push-up contest, counting out loud, arms shaking, faces twisted in a mockery of pain. There’s no ref, no prize, just the need to win, even at something that doesn’t matter. Lisa nods to herself and moves on.

Halfway down the next hall, she hears the squelch of something viscous and the unfiltered whoop of an audience. She slows, then stops at an open door. Inside, two girls have covered the floor with a clear tarp, the kind you use for painting, and are wrestling in a pool of baby oil. Both are nearly identical—same build, same short-cropped hair, same wicked grins—but one is wearing a white sports bra that’s already see-through, and the other is completely topless, dark nipples glistening with every roll. The action is a blur: elbows, thighs, a blur of green thong as one girl locks the other in a schoolyard headlock and smears her face against the plastic. They grunt, they curse, they bite at each other’s arms, sliding in and out of holds with a precision that says this is not their first round.

On the beds, three other girls watch, two openly fingering themselves, one with a hand down the front of her jeans, never looking away. No one says anything to Lisa as she leans in the doorway, arms folded, eyes locked on the fight. The struggle on the floor is pure, feral, the way bodies move when they stop pretending to be human. There are no points, no pins, no ref. Just the first girl to tap, or pass out, or cum—whichever comes first.

Lisa feels the urge to step in, to test herself, but she’s not here for that tonight. She lingers a minute longer, the image of oiled flesh etched behind her eyelids, then moves on.

The sound of screaming—real, not the fake kind—draws her to a room at the far end of the hall. She finds the door wide open. Two girls, both petite, neither over five-foot-two, stand in the center, nose to nose, faces inches apart. One is in a towel, the other is naked except for a pair of polka-dot panties, and both are shaking with pure, righteous fury.

“You’re a cheating fucking bitch,” Towel hisses, spitting the words.

“And you’re a limp-wristed baby who never won a fair match in your life,” Polka-Dot fires back.

Within seconds, the fight goes atomic. Towel launches first, grabbing hair, yanking Polka-Dot’s head sideways with enough force to make her knees buckle. Polka-Dot retaliates with a slap that rings out louder than the shouting. Towel loses her wrap instantly; her breasts bounce free, small and taut, and both girls tumble to the floor, shrieking, hands locked in each other’s hair, legs scissoring for any angle of attack.

No audience here, just the two of them and the relentless thump of bodies against the floor. Lisa watches, riveted, as fingernails rake down bare backs, as teeth sink into shoulders, as the fight rolls back and forth with the rhythm of an angry ocean. There’s nothing elegant in it, nothing sportsmanlike; it’s dirty, mean, honest in a way that makes Lisa’s skin tingle.

They roll, they snarl, they spit curses, but neither girl gives an inch. Even when Towel winds up face-down with Polka-Dot astride her back, wrenching her arm behind her, she refuses to tap. Lisa wonders if either of them will survive the semester, then wonders if she wants them to.

She stays until Polka-Dot finally gets a fistful of Towel’s hair and slams her cheek to the ground, whispering something in her ear that makes the girl go limp, panting. The moment Towel surrenders, Polka-Dot lets go and stands, blood trickling down her forearm from a shallow scratch, chest heaving. She sees Lisa in the doorway, gives a little mock salute, then sits on the nearest bed and grins as Towel gathers herself, not crying but close.

Lisa gives a nod and moves on, feeling the heat in her own face, the residual fury and want that lingers in the air.

The last stop is always the stairwell, but tonight there’s a crowd in the hallway outside. Lisa edges closer, recognizing a few faces from earlier matches. In the middle of the hall, two girls—both upperclassmen, both built like swimmers—stand chest to chest, their arms at their sides, glaring daggers at each other. At first, Lisa can’t tell what the fight is about. Then she sees it: the way they’re squared off, the identical bruises on their torsos, the red outlines on their chests.

It’s a titfight.

Lisa has never seen one in person. She’s heard about them, but always in the context of some desperate, catty humiliation ritual. This is different. Both girls look like they want to win, not for the audience, but for themselves.

The rules are unspoken: hands behind backs, no grappling, just pure, head-on impact until one girl backs down. The first contact is shockingly loud, a wet “clop” that echoes off the cinderblock walls. The taller girl grits her teeth, steps forward, and slams her chest into the other’s, hard enough to make both sets of breasts ripple and bounce.

The shorter girl snarls, takes a half-step back, then launches herself forward, meeting the impact head-on. They trade hits, over and over, each one louder, more desperate. Within a minute, both are red from neck to sternum, and the shorter girl’s nipples are swollen, angry, but neither shows any sign of quitting.

Lisa watches, spellbound. She feels the pulse of her own heartbeat in her breasts, her skin alive with the borrowed ache of every impact. She wants to know what it feels like, wants to try, but for now she’s content to spectate.

After seventeen minutes—an eternity—the taller girl finally hisses, turns, and walks away, hands pressed to her own chest. The victor raises her arms in silent triumph, face twisted in pain but smiling. The crowd hoots, claps, then disperses, a few girls rubbing their own chests in sympathy or envy.

As Lisa turns to leave, she sees Rachel Simmons, watching her with arms folded. Rachel stands at the end of the hall, a formidable presence clad in a sheer light green robe that clings to her athletic frame, accentuating her toned muscles and powerful legs. The fabric barely reaches mid-thigh, hinting at the strength beneath, and it sways slightly as she shifts her weight, revealing glimpses of her sculpted arms and broad shoulders. Her short dark hair frames a sharp jawline, and her piercing eyes radiate an intensity that could cut through glass. She exudes an aura of confidence, every movement precise and deliberate, reminiscent of a predator stalking its prey. Whispers of her reputation swirl around her—an undefeated junior who has sent more than one girl packing before the semester’s end. Rachel's posture is relaxed, but there's an undercurrent of tension, a promise of power that hangs in the air, making it clear she is not to be underestimated.

Lisa feels her skin go tight. She stands her ground, waiting for Rachel to make the first move.

Rachel walks over, stops three feet away. She looks Lisa up and down, taking in the sweat-damp skin, the wild hair, the green thong.

“Thought you’d be at the gym,” Rachel says, voice flat, unimpressed.

“Needed a break,” Lisa replies, matching the deadpan.

Rachel smirks. “Heard you drew with Chen last night.”

Lisa shrugs. “Did my best.”

Rachel’s eyes narrow, just a hair. “Your best is good. But I hear you’re not a closer.”

Lisa grins, lets the barb hit without flinching. “Why don’t you test it?”

The offer hangs between them, heavier than the air.

Rachel glances at the crowd, which is already starting to form a loose circle around them. Rachel steps forward, closing the distance until their noses almost touch, their breasts pressing together, a palpable tension crackling between them. “One hour. Main lounge. Winner takes… whatever she wants.”

Lisa nods, not trusting herself to speak.

Rachel turns and leaves, the challenge set.

Lisa stands there for a moment, letting her body catch up to her mind. She feels every bruise, every scrape, every pulse of blood under her skin. She knows she should be scared, but all she feels is a wild, reckless joy.  She barely notices as the girls around her scatter with excitement to tell the others of the pending match up.

She heads back to her room, time to get ready. There’s a fight to win, and she wants it more than anything.

-----

The hour stretches and snaps. Lisa spends most of it pacing her room in nothing but her thong and a Renner robe, hands jittery, stomach a hive of wasps. She thinks about Jenna, about Sarah, about every girl she’s seen go up against Rachel Simmons and come away broken or, worse, just forgotten. Rachel never gloats, never celebrates. She just wins and moves on.

Lisa knows what to expect, but the not-knowing is what eats at her. Rachel is a mystery box—sometimes technical, sometimes cruel, always a half-step ahead. Lisa stands in front of the mirror, studies the muscle in her own legs, the fading bruises on her ribs, the set of her jaw. She wants to see confidence, but all she sees is a tangle of nerves and ambition.

At 7:55, Kelly pops her head in. She’s already in her own robe, hair up, face flushed with the anticipation of battle even if she’s not fighting tonight.

“You ready?” Kelly asks, voice soft for once.

Lisa grins, her heart thumping. “I don’t think I’ve ever been less ready.”

Kelly grins back, then leans in, kisses Lisa on the cheek. “You’ll be fine. Kick her ass.”

Lisa snorts, then takes a last swig of water, ties her robe, and follows Kelly down the corridor. The noise grows with every step—first a low buzz, then the ripple of laughter and shouts, and finally the electric hush that says everyone is waiting for something big.

The lounge is packed. Girls line the walls, perched on armrests and coffee tables, knees bouncing, hands fidgeting with the edges of their own robes. A few are in pajamas or nothing at all. The air is humid with expectation and something more primal. Lisa feels her skin bloom with goosebumps as every head in the room turns to track her entrance.

Rachel is already at the center, sitting cross-legged on the mats, calm as a Sunday priest. Her dark hair is slicked back, her body outlined perfectly in the harsh overhead light. She’s a full head taller than most of the room, and twice as solid. Next to her, Ms. Hughes stands with a clipboard, the glint of a stopwatch hanging from her lanyard. Official.

Kelly slips away to join a knot of girls near the back. Lisa feels the weight of every eye on her as she crosses the mat. Her bare feet stick to the rubber; her heart pounds so hard it drowns out the chatter.

Rachel stands, rolls her shoulders, then nods to Lisa. The look is not hostile, not friendly—just intent. Rachel speaks first, her voice carrying to every corner of the lounge.

“Stakes?” Rachel asks, one eyebrow raised.

Lisa feels her mouth go dry. She wants to sound tough, but can only manage, “What did you have in mind?”

Rachel’s mouth curves into a shark’s smile. “Loser eats the winner. In front of everyone.”

The room erupts in whistles, claps, a few scattered yelps. Ms. Hughes raises a hand, but doesn’t bother to shush the crowd. The rules have always been flexible here.

Lisa’s face goes hot, but she squares up, stares Rachel down. “Winner’s choice of position?” she says, deadpan.

Rachel grins wider. “Always.”

Ms. Hughes steps forward, clipboard held like a badge. “You know the rules. No biting, no eye gouges, no permanent marks. Submission only. If either of you loses consciousness, I step in. Any questions?”

Neither answers.

“Then get ready.”

Lisa unties her robe, lets it fall to her ankles. She feels the breeze on her skin, the eyes crawling over her body. She forces herself to stand tall, to be seen. Rachel does the same, her own robe sliding away to reveal a body honed by years of competitive violence. Her muscles are more defined than Lisa’s; her shoulders look like they were designed for war.

There’s a moment of silence as both stand naked, sizing each other up. The difference is obvious, but so is the similarity: both want this, maybe more than anything.

Ms. Hughes holds up a hand. “On my mark.”

The crowd goes absolutely still.

“Three. Two. One. Go.”

-----

The moment Ms. Hughes drops her hand, Rachel is on Lisa like a missile. There’s no dance, no circling, just a blur of muscle and intent. Rachel shoots low, grabs for Lisa’s thighs, and drives her backward. The first impact is bone-deep, a full-body shock that rattles Lisa’s teeth and leaves her flat on her ass, staring up at the ceiling.

The crowd goes feral. Someone screams “FUCK HER UP, SIMMONS!” and a half-dozen others hoot approval. Rachel doesn’t gloat—she’s already moving, shifting her weight to pin Lisa’s legs, hands scrambling for purchase. Lisa’s instinct is to bridge up, twist, but Rachel anticipates, clamps a hand around Lisa’s wrist, and wrenches it behind her back. Pain flares in Lisa’s shoulder; she tastes metal.

“Submit?” Rachel asks, voice low.

Lisa snarls, twists her hips, and manages to slip out just enough to break the hold. Rachel lets go—not because she has to, but because she wants Lisa to fight back.

Lisa plants her feet, pushes off, and launches herself into Rachel’s chest. They tumble, rolling across the mat in a tangle of limbs. Rachel is heavier, but Lisa is slippery, the sweat already making her impossible to grip. For a split second, Lisa gets on top, tries to straddle Rachel’s torso, but Rachel laughs, grabs a handful of Lisa’s hair, and yanks her forward.

Lisa grits her teeth, ignores the sting, and drives her forearm into Rachel’s throat. Rachel grunts, then retaliates by clamping a hand over Lisa’s breast and squeezing, hard. The pain is nuclear, a direct line to the part of Lisa that refuses to break.

“Dirty,” Lisa hisses.

Rachel grins. “Only way to win.”

They roll, Rachel using her legs to trap Lisa’s waist, then squeezing tight, ribs to granite. Lisa gasps, tries to pry the legs open, but Rachel’s grip is relentless. The crowd is losing it now—girls chanting, some openly fingering themselves, others just staring, hungry.

Rachel shifts, using her full weight to press Lisa’s shoulders to the mat. She leans in, mouth close to Lisa’s ear. “Ready to quit?”

Lisa spits a wordless “No,” then bucks with everything she has. For a glorious half-second, she manages to reverse, rolls Rachel to her side, then uses a move Tina taught her—digging her elbow into Rachel’s hip, using the leverage to slip free.

She’s loose. On her feet. Heart pounding, lungs burning, but alive.

Rachel gets up slower, studying Lisa with an expression halfway between respect and murder. She wipes sweat from her brow, then advances, arms loose, eyes locked on Lisa’s.

“Nice move,” Rachel says. “Chen’s, right?”

Lisa shrugs. “I learn fast.”

Rachel doesn’t reply. She fakes left, then launches a straight tackle, catching Lisa midsection and driving her back. They collide, but this time Lisa is ready—she drops, slides low, and tries to scissor Rachel’s legs.

For a second, she thinks it’ll work, but Rachel is a rock. She grabs Lisa’s arm, pivots, and uses Lisa’s own momentum to throw her to the mat. Lisa lands hard, ribs screaming, but she rolls and is back on her knees before Rachel can pounce.

The next minute is a blur: attacks, reversals, bodies slamming together, the taste of sweat and adrenaline in the air. Each time Lisa thinks she’s got an edge, Rachel takes it away. Each time Rachel gets close to finishing, Lisa slips out, refusing to die.

Their bodies are covered in bruises now—Lisa’s chest is already red and swollen from Rachel’s last squeeze, and Rachel has scratch marks down her thigh where Lisa clawed for freedom. They grunt, they snarl, they pant, but neither gives an inch.

Then, finally, Rachel adjusts her grip. Instead of going for a classic hold, she shifts, grabs Lisa’s chin, and forces her head back. The move exposes Lisa’s throat, makes it hard to breathe. Rachel pins Lisa’s shoulder with one hand, the other twisted in Lisa’s hair.

Lisa feels her vision start to gray. She tries to buck, but Rachel is immovable.

The crowd is silent now, waiting for the tap.

But Lisa won’t tap. She forces her left arm up, finds Rachel’s body, and sinks her fingers into the soft flesh between Rachel’s legs. Rachel grunts, loosening her grip for just a moment, and Lisa seizes the chance to twist her body, scraping her nails against Rachel’s skin. Rachel hisses, her face contorting with surprise, but that only fuels her grin.

“You’re a fucking psycho,” she says, trying to regain control as she wipes sweat from her brow.

“Better than a quitter,” Lisa replies, her voice gravelly and defiant.

Rachel circles, slower now, one hand pressed to her nose. Lisa kneels, chest heaving, arms shaking with effort. They lock eyes—pure, unfiltered rage in the look.

Then Rachel moves.

It’s not flashy. No tricks, no show. She just bull-rushes, wraps Lisa up in a bear hug, lifts her clean off the ground, and slams her to the mat. The impact stuns Lisa; for a split second, everything is sound and light.

When she comes to, Rachel is straddling her chest, both hands pinning Lisa’s arms above her head. Rachel’s thighs are like iron bands, squeezing Lisa’s ribs until every breath is a battle.

“Last chance,” Rachel says, voice barely above a whisper.

Lisa looks up, sees the sweat on Rachel’s face, the cut of her jaw, the steady focus in her eyes. She shakes her head, refuses to surrender.

Rachel nods, almost gentle. “Okay.”

She lets go of Lisa’s wrists, shifts her weight, and instead pins Lisa’s arms with her knees. Now Lisa is immobilized, her entire body exposed, nothing left but to wait for the end.

Rachel brings her hand down, slow, almost tender, and covers Lisa’s mouth and nose. Not enough to choke, but enough to let Lisa know she could, if she wanted. Lisa breathes through her nose, feels the heat of Rachel’s palm, and knows it’s over.

The crowd is a wall of silence.

Rachel leans in, her voice so low only Lisa can hear. “Submit?”

Lisa grins, blood on her teeth. “Never.”

Rachel laughs, then shifts her grip, lets Lisa breathe.

They stay there, locked together, sweat mingling, bodies shaking.

In the quiet, Lisa feels something like pride bloom in her chest.

She might lose, but she’ll never be beaten.

-----

Rachel waits for Lisa to catch her breath, then peels her off the mat and brings the fight to its feet again. Lisa can’t feel her right arm below the elbow, but she rolls her shoulder, shrugs off the pain, and sets her jaw. The crowd is back, noise rising like a tide: some chanting her name, some Rachel’s, some just howling for violence.

Rachel feints left, and Lisa goes for it—she knows it’s a trick, but her body obeys the old rules of the pool, always reacting to the fastest threat. She leaves her side open for a split-second, and Rachel pounces, driving Lisa backwards until her spine slams the edge of the lounge’s old vinyl couch. The shock brings tears to Lisa’s eyes, but she won’t give Rachel the satisfaction of a scream.

Rachel doesn’t break the clinch. Instead, she grinds her hips into Lisa’s, using the advantage of her height and weight to lever Lisa’s body against the couch. It’s more than pain; it’s pure humiliation, every girl in the room seeing Lisa pinned and helpless. Some in the crowd moan, some jeer, a few girls grind against the arms of the furniture, the rhythm of the match infecting the entire lounge.

Lisa claws for purchase, finds Rachel’s hair, and yanks. Rachel only laughs, then slaps Lisa across the face—a quick, precise snap that leaves Lisa’s ears ringing and her vision full of stars.

“Had enough?” Rachel purrs, her lips so close Lisa can feel the heat of her words.

Lisa spits on the floor, makes herself smile. “You wish.”

Rachel grins, then hooks Lisa’s leg with her own, uses the leverage to pull Lisa off-balance, and throws her over her hip. For a second, Lisa is airborne, then she crashes to the mat, the force of it knocking every last bit of breath out of her lungs. She lands hard on her back, staring up at the ceiling, the world a corona of pain.

She hears Ms. Hughes’s voice, distant: “You okay, Madison?”

Lisa croaks, “Fine.”

Rachel straddles her, not the playful grind of Kelly’s earlier wins, but a full-body press, pinning Lisa to the mat, her breasts pressing into Lisa’s face, her thighs clamped around Lisa’s ribs. Rachel’s pussy is already dripping, the scent and heat undeniable. Rachel leans down, smears sweat and sex across Lisa’s cheek, and taunts, “You ready for dessert?”

The crowd laughs, but the sound fades as Rachel shifts her hold, sliding up Lisa’s chest until her thighs frame Lisa’s face, sealing her in.

Lisa can’t breathe, but she knows this is the last act. She fights, brings her hands up to Rachel’s ass and claws at it, digs her nails in, bites at the soft skin of Rachel’s thigh. Rachel moans, hips rolling, grinding her pussy down onto Lisa’s mouth.

Lisa tries to twist away, but Rachel grabs the back of Lisa’s head, forces her in. The wetness is overwhelming, thick, sweet, salty. Rachel is already close, and she uses Lisa’s face like a toy, riding her until the first tremor of orgasm. The crowd goes wild, girls screaming, hands clapping, some slapping each other on the back or on the ass.

Lisa taps the mat, once, twice, three times. Submission.

Rachel keeps her in place, grinding, grinding, until the tremor becomes a quake. Rachel’s whole body tenses, thighs like vices, her pussy drenching Lisa’s chin, her lips, her tongue. Rachel howls, a full-throated cry, and only then does she let up, sliding off of Lisa and letting her gasp for breath.

Ms. Hughes steps in, breathless herself, clipboard forgotten. “Winner: Simmons.”

The crowd explodes. Money changes hands, girls shriek and laugh, some collapse in relief or disappointment. Rachel stands, arms raised, naked and triumphant, sweat and sex gleaming on her body. Lisa lies on the mat, vision swimming, chest heaving, every nerve raw.

Rachel leans down, pulls Lisa up by the hair, whispers in her ear: “You fought like hell. I almost respect you now. Almost.”

Lisa glares, blood and saliva mixing on her teeth. “Next time I’ll finish it.”

Rachel barks a laugh, then turns to the crowd, soaking in the attention.

Ms. Hughes moves to help, but Kelly is already there. She wraps Lisa in a towel, helps her up, half-carries her back to the room. They walk slow, each step a new ache, but Lisa’s head is high. She can hear the lounge still buzzing, the legend already growing.

In the shower, Kelly helps wash the blood and sweat and Rachel’s fluids from Lisa’s skin. Kelly says nothing at first, just runs her fingers gently over Lisa’s bruises, inspects the split lip and the new gash on her thigh.

“You okay?” Kelly finally asks, voice small.

Lisa nods. “Better than okay. I want a rematch.”

Kelly laughs, then kisses Lisa’s bruised shoulder. “You’re an idiot.”

Lisa closes her eyes, lets the water run hot and red down her body. She thinks of the fight, the pain, the humiliation, and the thrill. She wants more. She’ll always want more.

There’s another round. There’s always another round.

She opens her eyes, sees her own reflection in the fogged mirror: wild hair, battered skin, but smiling.

She’s never looked better.

[femfitefan]

Chapter 8: Defeat and Consequences

Lisa keeps the robe in her closet for three days. The first morning, she stares at it for five full minutes, thumb hooked in the sleeve, heart hammering like the first time she saw blood in the pool. The second morning, she almost puts it on, just to see how it fits after the bruises. The third, she doesn’t even touch it.

Instead, she dresses in borrowed sweats and a t-shirt too thin to hide the claw marks on her arms. She walks the halls with her shoulders hunched and her chin down, a swimmer’s lats compressed into the shape of defeat. Girls glance up when she passes. Some nod, most don’t. The ones who were in the lounge that night let their eyes linger just a second longer, tracing the lines of her body as if to confirm the damage. One whispers something—Lisa doesn’t catch the words, but the wet slap of laughter that follows rings in her ears for hours.

She thinks about transferring. She thinks about moving to the north quad, or switching to an all-male dorm just to escape the sightlines. Instead, she stalks the periphery, lurking in the study lounge and the common kitchen and the edges of every crowd. Watching is safe. Watching is anonymous.

Watching is also a fucking drug.

At 9PM, the dorm pulses with the afterglow of pasta night and the anticipation of the evening’s matches. Lisa doesn’t mean to end up by the stairwell, but her feet take her there anyway. On the landing between first and second, she finds a circle of girls gathered around two combatants. Both are sophomores—Lisa recognizes the one with the nose ring from a chem lab. The other is blonde, built like a gymnast, already sweating through her blue sports bra.

The fight is raw. No show, no style, just desperation. The first girl, Nose Ring, knows she’s weaker and uses leverage, not strength. Every time Gymnast pushes, she lets herself get thrown, then coils and snaps back, trying to catch her opponent off-guard. It works, for a while. The match swings back and forth, neither able to get a true advantage.

Then, just as Gymnast gets Nose Ring in a headlock, Nose Ring pivots, grabs a fistful of hair, and yanks. Hard. The rules in Renner say “no hair pulling,” but nobody ever calls it. The crowd hisses and then goes silent as Gymnast’s neck twists, her face contorting in pain. Nose Ring follows up by jamming an elbow into the space between Gymnast’s ribs, then shoving her face-first into the cinderblock wall.

The impact is ugly—a sharp, wet sound followed by a half-sob, half-growl. Gymnast stumbles, hands flying to her nose, but Nose Ring pounces, wraps both arms around her from behind, and uses her full body weight to drag Gymnast to the floor. In five seconds flat, she’s on top, knees on Gymnast’s arms, hands pressed to her throat.

“Submit,” Nose Ring pants, the word more spit than air.

Gymnast struggles, kicks her legs, but the hold is locked. She taps the tile twice, barely audible. Nose Ring holds on a second longer than she should, then stands, arms raised, face a gleaming mask of sweat and triumph.

Lisa doesn’t move. Her whole body is a tuning fork, vibrating with the violence, the risk, the raw need. She traces the steps in her mind—what worked, what failed, what hurt the most—and wonders how long it would take to learn the same tricks. Her hands twitch, fingers remembering the shape of Rachel’s wrist, the impossible pressure of Rachel’s thighs around her ribs.

The crowd breaks up. Nose Ring limps away, clutching her own side. Gymnast stays down for a minute, then climbs to her feet, dazed, blood pooling at the corner of her mouth. She doesn’t see Lisa watching, but Lisa wishes she would. There’s something noble in surviving, even if you lose. Maybe especially if you lose.

She drifts upstairs, drawn by the sound of shouting in the shower room. This is the other theater of war in Renner Hall: glass tiles, fogged mirrors, hot water beating down like a referee’s whistle. The room smells like shampoo and desperation, and tonight it’s packed. Three girls are crammed into one stall, two of them locked in a standoff while the third acts as ring girl, towel slung over her shoulder, eyes wide as a ferret’s.

The fighters are both seniors—Lisa recognizes the winner of last year’s spring tourney by the constellation of old scars on her chest. The other, a rail-thin girl with platinum hair, has a reputation for dirty play. The moment Lisa enters, she sees why: Platinum Hair has Winner in a choke from behind, both arms wrapped tight, hands knotted together in a perfect gable grip. Winner is bent at the waist, water streaming down her back, her mouth open in a silent scream.

The crowd loves it. Girls in towels cluster at the threshold, betting on how long until Winner passes out.

But then Winner shifts—just a subtle motion, a twist of the hip, a drop of the left shoulder—and suddenly the choke loosens. With a quick flick of her wrist, Winner breaks free from Platinum Hair's grip. Platinum Hair stumbles back, disoriented and gasping. Winner seizes the moment, lunging forward to wrap her arms around Platinum’s waist, lifting her off the ground before slamming her down onto the floor with a thud. The impact echoes through the shower room, and the crowd gasps collectively, eyes wide with anticipation. Water splashes around them as Platinum Hair kicks out, trying to regain control, but Winner maintains her hold, pinning her down. The tension is palpable, and Lisa can’t tear her gaze away from the fierce struggle unfolding before her.

Winner forces Platinum down, pressing her head against the slick, cold floor. She plants her foot on the small of Platinum’s back, then drops, straddling the girl’s face, pinning her with the full weight of her ass and thighs.

Platinum flails, arms and legs kicking, but Winner just grinds down, hands gripping the shower rod for leverage. The noise is obscene: the slap of skin, the whimper of breathless rage, the shouts of approval from the girls in the peanut gallery. Winner rides Platinum for a full minute, then lifts herself just enough to let the girl breathe.

“You done?” Winner asks, voice rough.

Platinum gurgles a yes.

The crowd erupts. Towel Girl rushes in, offers the victor a clean towel, then helps Platinum to her feet. Lisa feels her own face burning, her thighs trembling. She hates herself for loving it, but she does—she wants to be that strong, that mean, that fucking alive.

After the crowd disperses, Lisa lingers in the empty shower, replaying the match in her head. She mimics the gable grip, the way the wrists align, the tension in the forearms. She tries the hip twist, then the face plant, her own body pressing against the slick glass as she experiments with leverage and weight.

When she finally returns to her room, the green robe is still there, hanging like a dare.

She doesn’t put it on.

But she doesn’t close the closet, either.

------

On the fourth day, Lisa makes an appointment. It’s an act of surrender, she knows, but also strategy. Ms. Hughes is the only staff member in Renner Hall who isn’t a ghost. She’s everywhere, always observing, always ready with a clipboard and a half-smile that says I know exactly what you did.

The office is in the basement, next to the rec room. Lisa waits in the hallway until the clock hits the exact minute, then knocks once and steps inside.

The space is a paradox: neat as a hospital, but alive with weird energy. Diplomas from Brown and Boston College line the walls, each one perfectly aligned. On the far shelf, a cluster of trophies—wrestling, judo, even one for “Renner Hall Floor Hockey MVP.” But it’s the photos that catch Lisa off-guard. Four of them, black and white, blown up to eight-by-twelve and hung in plain sight. All feature Ms. Hughes, younger but unmistakable, wrestling in some long-gone gymnasium. In two, she’s nude, pinning her opponent with a grip so brutal it’s almost obscene.

Lisa glances at the photos, then at Ms. Hughes, who sits behind her desk in a crisp blue blazer and nothing else visible beneath it. Her hair is severe, her expression unreadable.

“You made good time,” Ms. Hughes says, motioning to the chair opposite. “Sit.”

Lisa does. The seat is cold.

For a moment, neither speaks. Ms. Hughes waits, hands folded. The only sound is the hum of the old air vent and Lisa’s own breathing, too shallow, too fast.

Finally, Lisa says, “I wanted to ask you something. About… losing.”

Ms. Hughes doesn’t smile, but her eyes go soft. “Go ahead.”

Lisa searches for the right words. “It’s just—after that last match, it’s like everyone can see it. The way I lost. The humiliation. They all saw. I can’t get it out of my head.”

Ms. Hughes leans forward, elbows on the desk. “You want to know how to face them again.”

Lisa nods.

There’s a pause. Ms. Hughes opens a drawer, pulls out two small glasses and a bottle of water. She pours, slides one across the desk.

“Do you know why they keep those pictures up?” she asks, nodding at the wall.

Lisa shrugs. “To scare people?”

Ms. Hughes laughs—low, honest. “No. It’s to remind me.” She lifts her glass, but doesn’t drink. “I used to think losing was the worst thing in the world. I was the best on my floor, city champ by junior year. When I got to college, I thought I’d kill every match. Then I got paired with a girl from Budapest. First round, she put me down in under two minutes. She didn’t just pin me. She made it a lesson.”

Lisa stares at her, waiting for the punchline.

Ms. Hughes meets her gaze, unflinching. “She used my own move against me. And then, when I was stuck, she humiliated me. Sat on my face, pinned my arms, and made me submit in front of a thousand people. The crowd laughed. It was the worst thing that ever happened to me.”

Lisa tries to picture it: Ms. Hughes, strong as steel, forced to quit in front of a crowd.

“What did you do?” Lisa asks.

“I lost my mind for a week. Hid in my room, almost transferred. I started running at night so I wouldn’t see anyone. Then one day I ran into my old coach in the cafeteria. I asked him the same thing you’re asking me: How do you come back from that?”

Ms. Hughes pauses, as if weighing how much to share.

“He told me, ‘Everyone loses. Some people just take longer to learn what it means.’”

She sits back, sips her water. Her fingers, long and elegant, trace an old scar on her forearm—white and slightly raised.

Lisa watches the motion, noting how the words and the memory seem to change the room. The air gets thicker. She’s hyperaware of the way Ms. Hughes’s nipples harden under the thin fabric, the way her breathing grows heavier as she relives the humiliation.

“So what do I do?” Lisa asks. The question comes out smaller than she intends.

Ms. Hughes looks at her, really looks at her. “You fight again. But this time, you remember what it feels like. And you use it. If you’re lucky, you’ll lose even worse before you win for real. If you’re unlucky, you’ll only ever win, and you’ll never know what you’re really made of.”

Lisa nods, absorbing it.

Ms. Hughes continues. “Everyone saw you lose. But they also saw you refuse to quit. That’s the part that matters. If you want to come back, do it on your terms. Use what you learned. Don’t hide.”

Lisa feels the words settle somewhere deep, like a hook in her stomach. She glances at the photos again, at the naked intensity on Ms. Hughes’s face. She wonders if, in that moment, being humiliated was as powerful as winning.

“Do you miss it?” Lisa asks, then instantly regrets it.

But Ms. Hughes doesn’t flinch. “Every fucking day,” she says. “That’s why I run this dorm. That’s why I keep those trophies and scars in plain view. Because the only thing worse than losing is not playing at all.”

Lisa stands, glass untouched. She’s not sure if she’s lighter or heavier, but something in her posture is different.

At the door, Ms. Hughes calls out, “Next time, try a leg trap when you’re on your back. Rachel’s strong, but she doesn’t always watch her ankles.”

Lisa smiles, real for the first time in a week. “Thanks.”

Ms. Hughes nods, then adds: “Also, don’t be afraid to use your teeth. Just not on my watch.”

Lisa leaves, the advice—both technical and otherwise—lodging in her brain. She’s already planning her next move.

-----

Lisa limps back to her room just after midnight. The hallways are quiet, but the walls still pulse with the echoes of fights finished hours ago—faint shouts, the thud of bare feet, the slow hiss of a shower still running somewhere down the line.

She closes the door behind her, leans against it, and breathes. Her body is a catalog of damage: bruises turning sunset colors along her ribs, a crescent-shaped bite mark on her left shoulder, the thin red scar on her hip where Rachel’s nails had gone too deep. Every ache is a flashback, every pulse of pain a reminder.

She sits on her bed, legs folded underneath her, and lets her mind replay the match. Not just the loss, but every moment—each failed escape, each time she could have shifted, twisted, bitten, but didn’t. She sees the second Rachel started to slip, the tiny hesitation before the final hold, and wonders what would’ve happened if she’d tried something—anything—different.

The window is cracked, and the cool air makes her skin prickle. Somewhere outside, a pair of girls argue in the dark, their voices rising. Lisa wonders if they’re getting ready to fight, or just winding each other up for the thrill of it.

She drags herself upright, walks to the closet, and opens it. The green robe hangs in the exact spot she left it, creased from disuse, but still holding its shape. She runs her fingers over the sleeve, feels the old softness of the cotton, the worn edge where the sash has frayed. She thinks about Ms. Hughes’s story—the photo on the wall, the naked defeat, the way scars can be as much a trophy as a medal.

She doesn’t put the robe on, but she doesn’t close the closet, either. It can watch her, like a patient witness.

She drops to the floor and starts with ten push-ups. The first three are easy. By number six, her arms start to shake. She bites her lip and finishes the set, then flips onto her back for crunches. Her abs burn, every rep a fresh stripe of agony, but she keeps going. When her body quits, she climbs back onto her bed and grabs her pillow, then wraps it tight in both arms and legs, practicing holds—guillotine, then triangle, then the leg trap Ms. Hughes suggested.

She keeps at it for half an hour, sweat pooling in the hollow of her throat, her breath coming fast and sharp. Every time she locks the pillow tight, she imagines Rachel’s face, or Sarah’s, or even Ms. Hughes’s. The thought isn’t just about beating them. It’s about surviving, and maybe even learning to like the pain.

She finishes with a stretch, arms overhead, back arched, toes pointed. The pain is real, but so is the pleasure. She can’t wait to test herself again.

She stands, bare feet on the cool tile, and pads over to the window. Down below, two girls are jawing at each other, one in a purple robe, the other in nothing but a thong and a sports bra. They shove each other, laugh, then break apart and sprint toward the gym entrance, their trash talk echoing off the concrete.

Lisa watches until they disappear from view, then turns back to her room. She lets the robe swing open a little wider, the promise of tomorrow already tugging at her chest.

She’s not ready to fight again. Not yet.

But the next time she does, she’s going to fucking win.

[femfitefan]

Chapter 9: New Alliances

Lisa Madison wakes up with her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth, her eyes glued shut by dried sweat. She flexes her toes, then her legs, then her core, testing the wounds from last night. There’s pain everywhere, but it’s a clean pain—the kind that says you survived and have the receipts to prove it. She peels herself from the sheets, stands, and blinks at her reflection in the dirty window. Her hair is a rat’s nest. Her torso is mapped in finger-shaped bruises. Her thighs look like they’ve lost a wrestling match to a feral cat. She loves it.

Her robe is slumped across the desk chair, still creased from where she left it days ago. She ignores it. Today is about more than recovery. Today is about getting back out there and daring anyone to look away.

She pulls on her favorite thong—a cheap, acid-green scrap of fabric barely covering her pussy—and nothing else. Her breasts are unmarked for once, save for a subtle bite on the left. She admires the shape, the bounce, the arrogant uprightness of them. She shrugs, feeling the roll of muscle in her back, and steps into the hall.

First reaction: a double take from the floormate across the way, a first-year with a face like a heart attack and the sex drive of a toaster oven. The girl’s mouth pops open; her hand hovers near her own chest as if to check whether it’s a joke. Lisa smiles at her, baring teeth.

The dorm is a different world at 10 AM. Most girls are hungover, crashed on couches, or dragging themselves to class. The ones who are up are the ones who never truly go down. Lisa stalks the hall with her shoulders back and hips loose, daring anyone to comment. No one does. Not yet.

At the first open door, the sound of flesh-on-flesh slaps and gutter-rough laughter bleeds out onto the tile. Lisa slows, then leans in the doorway. Inside, two bodies are locked in a sweaty, full-contact tangle. Both are thick, curvy, with skin like coffee and cream, and neither has anything on but attitude.

The combatants are familiar: Chessie who works part time at the local burger joint, and Renée, the self-proclaimed “Queen of Queso,” famed for her appetite and her devastating bear hugs. They’re evenly matched, at least in mass. Less so in style. Chessie is brutal, going for grabs and slams; Renée is a biter, her face buried in the cleft between Chessie’s breasts, her arms wrapped tight around Chessie’s back.

A third girl sits on the bed, legs crossed, phone in hand, recording. Two more perch on the desk, hooting at every reversal.

Lisa watches, arms folded under her boobs, as the fight grinds forward. The rules are unwritten but clear: no tapping, no submission, no finish until someone physically can’t keep going.

Renée gets a grip on Chessie’s breast, twists hard. Chessie howls, then retaliates by raking her nails down Renée’s ribs, digging for traction. The slap of flesh is so loud it makes the room echo. They roll, a rolling avalanche of meat and sweat, until Renée ends up on top, pinning Chessie’s arms with her knees.

Renée shifts her weight, freeing a hand to grab both of Chessie’s tits, squeezing them together like stress balls. Chessie’s face is pure agony, but she manages to reach up and claw at Renée’s ass, nails biting deep into the flesh.

Lisa’s fingers find her own thigh, tracing the lingering scratch marks. The pulse between her legs is impossible to ignore, so she doesn’t. She slides her hand under the band of her thong, rubbing circles in time with the rhythm of the fight.

The girls on the desk cheer louder, egging the fighters on.

“Harder!” one calls, and Renée obliges, twisting Chessie’s nipples until they’re white at the tips.

“Fucking bite her!” shouts another.

Chessie manages to buck Renée off, and the two tumble to the floor, where the battle turns primal. Hair, tits, thighs—nothing is off limits. Chessie pins Renée’s head between her legs, trapping her, then reaches down and claws at Renée’s pussy, fingers digging in with zero finesse. Renée squeals, tries to twist out, but Chessie’s thighs are unyielding.

Lisa lets her fingers slip inside her pussy, not caring if anyone sees. The taste in the air is pure animal.

The fighters roll again, then freeze, both panting, neither willing to let go. They’re locked, Renée’s teeth at Chessie’s nipple, Chessie’s hand wedged tight between Renée’s legs, both trembling.

Finally, it’s a war of pain thresholds. Chessie bites her own tongue, bears down, and keeps clawing at Renée’s cxnt. Renée retaliates by biting harder, her face screwed up in a snarl. Neither will give. They grind against each other, sweat and spit mixing, until the girl on the bed shouts, “Come on! Someone break!”

Renée does, finally, her body shuddering. She yelps, releases the tit, and rolls off, clutching her crotch. Chessie flops onto her back, arms spread, nipples cherry red and throbbing. The room explodes in applause and howling laughter.

Lisa finishes herself with a shudder, riding the waves as the fighters nurse their wounds. She slips her hand out, licks her fingers clean, and grins at the girl with the phone, who grins back.

She moves on, the heat still building.

Next match: the third-floor lounge. Two new girls, strangers, both with the lean builds of track stars, are circling each other in the open. No crowd this time, just the two of them and the brutal geometry of the old ratty sofa, which is covered in the stains of a thousand lost battles.

They start with slaps, then transitions to shoves, then to a dead sprint, both girls colliding midair, breasts first. Lisa has never seen anything like it. They hit, bounce, then lock arms and try to drag each other down.

It’s ugly and beautiful. Each tries to trip the other. One, the brunette, gets a fistful of her opponent’s hair and yanks. The blonde retaliates by digging her nails into the soft flesh under the brunette’s arm. They crash to the floor, then roll, then break apart, only to dive at each other again.

This fight is pure adrenaline, zero technique. Just raw want, the need to see who will break first. Lisa can’t look away. The girls shriek, curse, call each other names that would get you canceled in a campus forum. When the blonde finally pins the brunette, she sits on her face, grinding until the brunette goes limp, then stands up, hands on hips, triumphant.

Lisa’s legs tremble. The need to come again is overwhelming. She presses her thighs together, biting the inside of her cheek.

She keeps walking.

Shower room. Two girls are pressed together in the steam, their hands in each other’s hair, mouths open, eyes glazed. They’re not fighting, not really. It’s a contest to see who can make the other cum first. Lisa leans against the cool tile and watches. She likes the contrast—the heat of the bodies and the cold underfoot. The tension inside Lisa swells once more, an insistent pulse that demands release. She slips her fingers beneath the thin fabric of her thong, gasping softly as she begins to stroke herself, her breath quickening in time with the spectacle before her. The steam thickens around her, amplifying every sound—the soft moans, the slick sounds of skin against skin. Just as one girl cries out in ecstasy, the other follows suit, their bodies trembling in unison. Lisa's own orgasm crashes over her like a wave, powerful enough to send her knees wobbling, and she almost loses her balance against the cool tile. She watches, spellbound and breathless, as the victorious girl revels in her triumph, before slipping away into the shadows, heart racing and senses heightened.

Fourth match: the rec room. Kelly Thompson is wrestling a redhead twice her size. The rules are submission, but the real game is humiliation. Kelly is quick, darting in and out, peppering her opponent with slaps and taunts. The redhead is slower, but when she catches Kelly, she goes for the kill.

They roll across the carpet, Kelly ending up under the redhead, face pressed to the floor. The redhead laughs, then grinds her pussy into Kelly’s ass, hands holding Kelly’s wrists flat. Kelly fights, wriggles, kicks, but she can’t get loose.

Lisa watches as the redhead pins Kelly, then flips her, sitting on her chest and slapping her breasts back and forth. Kelly’s face is red, but she keeps smiling, keeps calling the redhead names, refusing to quit.

Finally, the redhead shifts up, sits on Kelly’s face and continues to grind until the orgasm washes over her, and the fight is over. Kelly taps out, winks at Lisa as she passes. “Next time, it’ll be you,” she says, eyes glittering and face covered in the red heads fluids.

Lisa laughs, but the words echo.

She’s still shaking when she heads back toward her room, intent on showering off the aftermath.

She makes it halfway down the hall before she runs into Tina Chen.

Tina is in shorts and a loose tank, her hair back, skin glowing with post-match endorphins. She looks Lisa up and down, taking in the thong, the wild eyes, the bruised thighs.

“You look like you finally remembered who you are,” Tina says, voice low.

Lisa shrugs. “Just needed to see how the other half lives.”

Tina nods, then leans in, voice almost a whisper. “I want to see someone take Rachel down. For real. Not just survive, but win. I think you could do it.”

Lisa laughs. “You’re joking.”

Tina shakes her head. “You fight different. She won’t see you coming. But you have to train. You have to be smarter than her. And you can’t let her know you’re coming.”

Lisa feels the pulse in her chest, the itch in her fingers. “So what are you suggesting?”

Tina glances up and down the hall, then back at Lisa. “Meet me in the gym. 2 AM. No one will be there. We start then. But if Rachel finds out, she’ll come for you before you’re ready. You have to promise.”

Lisa stares, weighing the offer. “Yeah,” she says. “I want it.”

Tina nods, then slips away, silent as a cat.

Lisa stands there, staring at her own reflection in the trophy case, her heart hammering like the first time she ever dove into the deep end.

She’s not afraid.

She’s alive.

She can’t wait.

-----

2:02 AM. Lisa stands outside the basement gym, one hand gripping the frayed sash of her green robe, the other hovering mid-air like she’s waiting for a starter pistol. The corridor is a dead vein—no light, no sound except the buzz of a dying exit sign and the faint metallic stink of the laundry machines two doors down. Her ribs are still striped with bruises, purple and fading to sick yellow, leftovers from Rachel’s last mercy. Each breath reminds her: you survived. Each ache whispers: you can do better.

She should have been asleep hours ago. She should have said no to Tina. But the hunger is back, and she doesn’t even try to pretend otherwise.

She pushes the door open.

The gym is unlit except for a single bulb over the mat, flickering like a bad memory. The rest of the space is shadows: half-assembled weights, stacked boxes, a rack of old resistance bands sagging on the wall. Tina stands in the middle of the mat, already barefoot, already stripped down to black shorts and a grey tank. She’s got her hair tied back and her arms folded, the lines of her shoulders sharp and deliberate.

Lisa crosses the floor, shivering as her bare soles hit the cold concrete. She lets the robe drop to the ground—what’s the point of modesty now?—and stands with her arms at her sides, letting Tina see the full technicolor glory of her wounds.

Tina’s eyes roam over her, precise but not cruel. She points at the biggest bruise—just under Lisa’s right breast. “That from the last match?”

Lisa nods.

“Rachel?”

Lisa nods again.

Tina grunts. “Sit.”

Lisa sits. The mat is thin, and the cold leaks through instantly.

Tina kneels beside her, not close enough to touch, but close enough that Lisa can smell the faint tang of salt on her skin.

“We start with defense. Your weakness is ground control.” Tina’s voice is flat, neutral, like reading instructions off a screen.

Lisa shrugs, trying to hide the way her chest tightens. “I thought I was supposed to go for the pin.”

Tina shakes her head. “Not when you’re fighting bigger. Or better. You have to survive before you can win.”

Lisa bites her lower lip, not sure if she’s being complimented or scolded. She watches as Tina lies back, curls her body up, and demonstrates: “If you’re underneath, you need to keep your limbs close. Like this.”

Tina tucks into a ball, feet flat, elbows tight to her ribs. She rocks side to side, never giving up a hand or a leg.

Lisa nods, tries to copy. She feels ridiculous, but Tina doesn’t mock her.

“Now. If I mount you, what do you do?”

Lisa thinks, then shrugs. “Bridge. Try to throw you off.”

Tina’s mouth twitches at the corner—a micro-smile. “Go ahead.”

Lisa climbs on top, legs straddling Tina’s waist. For a second, she’s self-conscious about the way her own breasts hang, the way her thighs look. Then Tina bucks, a single, violent jerk, and Lisa loses balance, tumbling to the side.

“Too loose,” Tina says. “Again.”

Lisa resets. This time, she tries to use her arms to brace, but Tina grabs her wrist, torques it, and in two seconds flat has Lisa face-down on the mat.

Lisa grunts, face mashed into the vinyl. She twists, tries to wriggle free, but Tina’s grip is iron.

“First lesson: don’t give up your arms.”

Lisa tries to nod, but can’t move.

Tina lets go, and Lisa scrambles up, cheeks burning.

They go again. And again. Each time, Tina demonstrates, Lisa repeats, and Tina shows her how she messed up. There’s no praise, just correction. But Lisa can feel herself getting better, even in the first twenty minutes. The muscles remember.

At one point, Tina pins Lisa’s leg with her own, uses her whole body to press Lisa’s shoulders to the mat.

“You feel that?” Tina asks, her breath close to Lisa’s ear.

Lisa does. She feels everything.

“Now escape.”

Lisa bridges, twists, uses her hips like Tina showed her. For a split second, she thinks she has it, but Tina just tightens the hold, shifts her weight, and Lisa is stuck again.

“Not enough. Try again.”

Lisa tries, and this time she gets a little more space. Tina lets her go, and Lisa flops to her back, panting.

They lie there in the silence, sweat prickling on their skin.

Tina sits up, cross-legged, eyes on Lisa. “You’re stubborn. Good. But if you really want to win, you need to stop fighting like a swimmer.”

Lisa laughs, breathless. “What am I supposed to fight like?”

Tina doesn’t answer right away. She just stands, offers Lisa a hand, and pulls her up.

“Like someone who knows they can lose. But won’t.”

Lisa nods, the words digging in somewhere deep.

Tina turns off the light. “Same time tomorrow,” she says.

Lisa gathers her robe, slips it on, and heads back up the stairs, body buzzing, every nerve alive.

She can’t wait.

------

They meet every night for a week. Always at 2 AM, always in the dark, always in silence except for the scuff of feet and the slap of skin on mat.

The first time, Tina runs Lisa through basic drills: shrimping, bridging, hip escapes. It’s humiliating how quickly Lisa is out of breath, how many times she slips and ends up sprawled on her ass. Tina never laughs, never comments, just resets the position and says, “Again.”

Tonight, Tina is already waiting when Lisa arrives, arms crossed, eyes narrowed in the gloom. There’s a rolled-up yoga mat in one hand, a battered water bottle in the other.

“Shoes off,” Tina says. “We go full contact.”

Lisa shrugs, tosses her ratty sneakers in the corner, and steps onto the mat barefoot. She’s in a sports bra and volleyball shorts, hair still damp from the shower she took to wake herself up. She’s buzzing with anticipation.

Tina kneels, and Lisa does the same. Tina demonstrates a new move: a leg trap, followed by a quick transition to the opponent’s back.

“Watch,” Tina says. She moves like liquid, no wasted motion, her hands and feet always in control. In one blur, she has Lisa’s right ankle hooked, her own leg snaking up and around, and her body twisting to put Lisa on her stomach.

“Again,” Tina says, and they reset.

Tina lets Lisa try. Lisa fumbles the first attempt, her knee slipping off the mat. “Wider,” Tina grunts, nudging Lisa’s thigh with a knuckle. “Anchor it.” Lisa tries again, following Tina’s exact form, mimicking the torque and shift of weight. Still not perfect, but better.

They repeat the drill fifteen, twenty times, until Lisa’s legs tremble and sweat drips down her temples into her eyes.

“Water,” Tina commands, and they break.

Lisa gulps water, then wipes her face on the hem of her shorts. She’s never felt so tired, or so awake.

“Next: arm drag.” Tina grabs Lisa’s wrist, pulls it across her own body, then pivots, bringing her shoulder under Lisa’s armpit. “You use their momentum. Let them come to you.”

Lisa tries. At first, it’s a disaster—she yanks too hard and loses balance, or doesn’t shift her weight fast enough. Tina corrects her, sometimes with a word, sometimes with a sharp tap to the offending limb.

“Knees wider.”

“Bend your hips. Not your back.”

“Lock tighter.”

Lisa grits her teeth, focusing through the burn in her arms and thighs.

After the fifth try, she nails it—arm drag, pivot, and suddenly Tina is behind her, the world upside-down. She feels a rush of pride, but Tina is already on to the next move.

“Again.”

Lisa starts to lose track of time. The only measure is the number of times she hits the mat, the number of times she gets it right. Tina never praises, only corrects, but Lisa begins to hear a new note in her voice—something almost impressed.

They pause for breath. Lisa is on her back, staring at the exposed pipes in the ceiling. Tina sits beside her, legs stretched out, arms resting on her knees.

“Why are you helping me?” Lisa asks, voice ragged.

Tina doesn’t look at her. “Because Rachel needs to lose.”

Lisa snorts. “You want to be the one to beat her?”

“No,” Tina says. “You do.”

Lisa laughs, but the truth of it hits like a punch. She does want it. More than anything.

Tina glances sideways, her dark eyes unreadable. “Everyone has patterns. Rachel shifts her weight to the right before she shoots for a takedown. Kelly always tries to bait with trash talk. You—” She pauses, considering. “You telegraph when you’re about to attack. Your breathing changes.”

Lisa frowns. “How do I fix it?”

“You don’t. You use it. Make her think you’ll move, then do something else.”

Lisa nods, absorbing the lesson.

They go back to drilling. This time, Tina lets Lisa set the pace, lets her experiment. The more tired Lisa gets, the less she thinks, the better she does. After an hour, her skin is slick with sweat, her muscles are on fire, and her hands are shaking, but she finally manages to trap Tina’s leg, twist, and reverse the position.

For a split second, Lisa has Tina pinned. She feels Tina’s ribcage expand, the tension in her muscles, the surprise in the way she freezes.

Then Tina bucks, throws Lisa off, and resets.

But she raises an eyebrow—a fraction of an inch, but more than Lisa has ever seen from her.

They finish with a stretch. Both lie on their backs, breathing hard.

Tina sits up first. “You’re getting better.”

Lisa grins, teeth bared. “You sure?”

Tina nods. “Tomorrow. We go full spar.”

Lisa wipes the sweat from her face. She feels like she could explode.

She wants to.

She can’t wait.

-----

After sparring, they drag themselves up the stairs, robes barely tied, skin still slick with sweat. Lisa’s legs feel like cooked spaghetti, and every step sends shockwaves through her battered calves. Tina’s face is impassive, but her knuckles are red and her hairline is beaded with sweat.

Halfway up, they hear it: a chorus of grunts, the stomp of feet, the high crack of palm on flesh. Third floor. The hallway is thick with heat and noise, the air soupy with hormones and body spray.

A mob of girls lines the corridor, some in boxers, some in sports bras, a few in nothing at all. In the center, two fighters: Kelly Thompson, body lit up like an action figure, and a brunette Lisa doesn’t recognize—short, dense, arms corded with muscle.

They’re on the floor, rolling back and forth, each trying to trap the other in a leg lock. Kelly’s flexibility is on full display—she slips out of every hold, countering with a gymnast’s precision, her abs rippling as she shoves her opponent off-balance. The brunette is no slouch, though. She clamps Kelly’s thigh, digs in, and tries to squeeze a tap.

Kelly doesn’t flinch. She grins, then flips her legs up and over, spinning her whole body so she’s on top, the brunette’s head trapped between her thighs.

The crowd goes wild.

Lisa and Tina edge closer, watching as Kelly tightens the scissor hold, her calves flexing, toes pointed, face a mask of pure glee. The brunette struggles, claws at Kelly’s thighs, but it’s no use. The pressure is brutal.

“Tap or pass out!” Kelly chirps, eyes bright.

The brunette lasts five more seconds, then slaps the floor. “Okay! Fuck! You win!”

Kelly releases the hold, then pops to her feet, bouncing on her toes. She helps the brunette up, gives her a friendly smack on the ass, then turns to the crowd and throws her arms wide, soaking in the applause.

It’s a good show. Lisa can’t help but admire Kelly’s style—how she makes every move look easy, how she’s always grinning, even when she’s losing.

Kelly spots Lisa and Tina, and her face lights up. She pushes through the crowd, robe askew, one breast completely out and not a single fuck given.

“Did you see that flip?” Kelly crows, grabbing Lisa by the shoulder. “I’ve been practicing all week!”

Lisa laughs, then winces—the touch sends a spike of pain up her arm.

“Someone’s been working hard,” Kelly teases, squeezing Lisa’s sore biceps. “Trying to catch up to me?”

“Trying,” Lisa says, but the word tastes good. She wants it.

Tina gives Kelly a quick nod, her face as blank as ever. “Good counter,” she says. Kelly beams, like a puppy given a treat.

“When you’re healed up,” Kelly says to Lisa, poking her side, “you’re next. Promise.”

Lisa smirks. “You’re on.”

The hallway starts to clear, girls peeling off to bedrooms or showers, the energy still vibrating through the walls.

The three of them walk together, robes loose, hair wild, bruises showing like medals. They don’t talk much, but the silence is easy, full of understanding and anticipation.

Behind them, another match starts up—two voices shouting, bodies thumping to the floor, laughter echoing off the cinderblock. The dorm is alive, and so are they.

Lisa glances at Tina, then at Kelly, then down at her own battered body. She feels ready. She feels dangerous.

She’s not just a survivor now.

She’s a fucking contender.

[femfitefan]

Chapter 10: The Turning Point

Lisa wears the green thong because it’s the only thing left that’s almost respectable. She’s got three others—navy, leopard print, and the white one that still smells like the first fight night—but this one is tradition. It’s the color of Renner Hall, the kind of thin, synthetic blend that does nothing to hide the shape of what’s underneath. On her it’s almost nothing, a wedge of color where her body meets itself, a letter of intent.

She rolls her hips in the mirror, admires the way the bruises have started to fade and shift, a tapestry of old yellow and fresh violet. There’s a shallow scratch on her left thigh, courtesy of Kelly, and a deeper red mark on her ribcage that still stings from Tina’s last full-contact drill. Her nipples are hard before the AC even kicks in. Her body vibrates with a want that has nothing to do with hunger.

Lisa pads into the hallway, not bothering to check if anyone is watching. At this hour, the dorm is already in gear. She sniffs the air: burnt coffee, bleach, the sharp tang of sweat. The noise is a current running under the surface, always there—a laugh, a crash, the sudden scream that might be pleasure or pain. Sometimes both.

She makes her first stop at the room with the green paper shamrock taped to the door. Inside, two blondes are in the middle of a match, toe to toe, bodies flush and mirrored except for the way their hair parts: one straight, one curly. There’s a small crowd—maybe six girls, a couple in the desk chairs, the rest sprawled on the bed or squatting on the floor. One has her hand buried in her own shorts, barely pretending not to finger herself; another just stares, glassy-eyed, a thin line of drool on her chin.

The fighters have rules, but nobody says them out loud. No clothes, no pin, no submission. Just: stand and see who lasts.

The curly blonde goes for a handful of hair first, wrenching the other’s head to the side, the force of it pulling her own body off balance. Straight-hair retaliates by grabbing a tit, squeezing hard, then pinching the nipple between two knuckles until Curly lets go. The back-and-forth is fast, ugly. They trade knees to the thigh, then to the groin. Each time a knee lands, the crowd gives a collective “ohhhh,” like they’re tasting it themselves.

Lisa feels her own thighs tighten. The sound of it—skin on skin, the wet slap of bodies—gets her blood up. She edges into the room, arms folded under her breasts, letting the crowd part for her.

Curly tries a double-handed nipple twist, but Straight-hair sees it coming, rakes her nails down Curly’s chest, and then yanks her head back so far Lisa can see the whites of her eyes. The scream is pure animal, but Curly doesn’t quit—she brings her hands up, jams a thumb into Straight-hair’s mouth, and the two stumble, locked together, neither willing to let go.

A girl on the floor cums with a shudder, her hand working under her waistband in time with the rhythm of the fight. Another rubs her own nipple, eyes glazed. Lisa feels her own pulse in her jaw, a steady drumbeat.

Eventually, both blondes hit the wall and collapse, still clinging, rolling across the carpet in a tangle of arms and hair. Someone shouts “Draw!” but neither girl even tries to stand. The crowd starts to break up, some girls muttering, others stealing glances at Lisa as she steps back into the hall.

The next noise is louder, more desperate. Lisa follows the sound: a scream, then a crash, then a staccato burst of curses in two distinct voices. She rounds the corner to find an Asian girl and a light brown-haired girl going at it, bare legs tangled and hands locked in a death grip. The Asian girl’s ponytail has half-come undone, strands plastered to her face, her back already striped with red. Brown-hair is sweating through her tank, chest heaving, nails chipped and bloody at the tips.

“Fucking bitch!” Ponytail yells, spitting the words.

“Slut!” Brown-hair counters, and grabs for a breast, twisting until the skin goes white under her fingers.

They’re not fighting for technique, just for the need to destroy. It’s personal, whatever started it. Lisa bets on a boy, or a stolen outfit, or maybe just the fact that they both want to win and can’t. The match is mostly slaps and scratches, the kind of brawl where neither expects to walk away without a trophy. Lisa finds herself rooting for both, loving the way they shriek and hiss, the pure, uncut violence of it.

The hallway is a little narrower here, and Lisa ends up with her back pressed to the cinderblock as the fight rolls closer. She’s close enough to smell the blood and sweat, to see the micro-tears along the inside of Brown-hair’s wrist as Ponytail yanks and bites at her arm. When Brown-hair finally gets Ponytail on her back, she straddles her, pins both wrists, and sits down hard, ass grinding into Ponytail’s pelvis. The sound is obscene: a gasp, then a growl, then the wet shudder of surrender.

Lisa inhales, lets it burn all the way to her toes.

She moves on, not caring if anyone saw the shiver that ran through her.

The common room is the heart of the dorm. Tonight it’s chaos. Four girls are piled in the center of the rug, a living knot of flesh and fury, legs and arms everywhere. Lisa tries to trace the origin—was this a four-way fight, or did a tag team turn into a betrayal? Did it start as a dare, or did someone just see an opening and jump in?

It doesn’t matter. All that matters is the now: four bodies, each locked on whichever part of the other they can reach, all technique gone. There’s no hierarchy, no pecking order, just the urgent need to grab, claw, and punish.

One girl has another in a headlock, mashing her face into the carpet while her own ass is clawed by a third. The fourth is biting at someone’s calf, her teeth leaving perfect indents in the skin. Hands alternate between squeezing tits, pinching nipples, and yanking on hair. When one girl tries to escape, another just drags her back in, the cycle endless.

On the couch, two naked girls are sprawled, each with a hand between their legs. One is tall, black, her head thrown back, free hand resting behind the other’s neck. The second is pale, red-headed, her breasts covered in fresh bruises, fingers working fast and deep. When they notice Lisa, the black girl gives a lazy smile, then pats the space between them.

Lisa pauses. The room is thick with sex and sweat. She peels off the thong, tosses it onto the armrest, and takes her seat between them. The leather is cool against her skin, but the heat from the other bodies makes it irrelevant.

They settle in, shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh. Lisa feels every twitch, every flex of muscle. The redhead throws her leg over Lisa’s, using the leverage to spread herself wider, the movement bold and unashamed. Lisa responds in kind, parting her own legs and letting her hand drift down, fingers already wet.

The fight on the floor is a blur—bodies rolling, voices rising. The pile breaks apart, then reforms, hands never stopping. One of the fighters locks eyes with Lisa for a split second, a challenge and a plea in the same look.

Lisa grins, then turns her attention back to the couch.

They don’t talk. There’s no need. Lisa works her clit, slow at first, then faster, letting the energy from the room flow through her. The black girl matches her rhythm, their breathing syncing up. The redhead’s hand moves with frantic urgency, her face contorting as she gets closer.

When the first orgasm hits, it’s the black girl—her whole body convulses, nails digging into the couch, a soft moan escaping her lips. Lisa goes next, the climax rolling over her like a flash flood, leaving her dizzy and raw. Redhead finishes last, but her orgasm is the loudest, a keening wail that makes everyone in the room pause for half a second before the chaos resumes.

For a minute, the three of them just sit, basking in the aftermath. Sweat dries on Lisa’s chest. The couch is sticky and perfect.

Then a girl from the hall bursts in, breathless. “Rachel and Amy. Ten PM. Right here.” She points at the rug, then the clock.

The room erupts. The fighters on the floor scramble to their feet, a new hunger in their eyes. The two on the couch peel away, laughing, wiping themselves clean on their hands. Lisa doesn’t bother to dress. She stands, stretches, and lets the air dry her skin.

She never learned their names.

She doesn’t care.

She walks back to her room, every nerve still singing, every bruise a medal.

Tonight is going to be legendary.

-----

By 9:57 the lounge is at capacity. There’s a pecking order to where you sit or stand: alpha girls in the best chairs, muscle stacked around the ends of the sofas, underclass outcasts crouched on the window ledges or flat on the rec room carpet. Lisa knows her place tonight—low profile, back to the wall, vantage perfect for the show.

She’s still sore, bruises just shy of visible, a faint honey color trailing her ribs. Lisa can feel her own skin like it’s armor, charged and sensitive. She wears a zip-up, nothing under it, and a pair of black cotton shorts that do nothing for modesty. Every time she shifts, she feels the ghosts of old holds, phantom hands pressing where she was last conquered.

The noise in the lounge is unreal. Some girls are already buzzed, a few openly drinking vodka from Solo cups, but most are stone sober, amped on pure adrenaline. There are girls in Renner robes, girls in nothing but thongs, a couple topless. The only thing more dangerous than a fight night is a fight night with stakes.

Rachel enters just after the hour. The room goes instantly quieter. She walks in slow, eyes raking the crowd like she owns every set of lungs in it. Her green robe is cinched tight, but you can see her abs ripple through the fabric, the sharp lines of her quads as she stalks toward the center mat. Her mouth is a perfect straight line. The dark hair is pulled back, a few tendrils clinging to her cheeks.

Rachel is a known quantity here, but that only makes her more electric.

Thirty seconds later, Amy Johnson slips in, hands jammed in the pockets of her own robe. Her hair is a wild, copper mess—like she stuck a fork in a socket and then decided not to care. She’s taller than Rachel by a tick, but built narrow, like a compass needle sharpened for violence. Her face is blank as a whiteboard, green eyes flicking over every detail in the room. Lisa can see Amy cataloguing everything, even now.

There’s a whisper in the crowd: “Does she even know what she’s in for?” “Heard she almost transferred after the last time.” “I bet Simmons fucks her up.” The gamblers are at it already, cash changing hands.

Rachel cracks her neck, stretches her arms out like she’s about to run a 5K, and then fixes Amy with a look that could freeze vodka. “Stakes?” she says, voice just loud enough to carry.

Amy doesn’t flinch. “Standard’s fine. Loser eats.”

A ripple of approval. Rachel’s smile is predatory. “You want to call winner’s choice of position now, or after?”

Amy shrugs, half a smirk. “After. Might surprise you.”

Lisa wants to laugh, but she’s too wired. Her own thighs are bouncing with kinetic energy, her breath shallow and hot.

Ms. Hughes appears, clipboard under one arm. “You know the rules,” she intones, but nobody is listening; the whole room is watching for the moment the robes come off.

Rachel shrugs her robe to the floor in one liquid motion. Her body is ridiculous, all muscle and hard lines, everything honed to a single point of intent. She stands with her arms loose at her sides, nothing but scars and the afterglow of a dozen victories marking her skin.

Amy is slower, almost casual as she drops her robe. Her body is all sharp angles, collarbones jutting, ribs visible in the dim light, but there’s power in the way she stands—like a lever waiting for the perfect fulcrum. She cracks her knuckles, then her neck, then steps onto the mat.

For a moment, nobody moves.

Then Ms. Hughes calls, “Go,” and the room is a vacuum, every molecule of air sucked out and replaced with tension.

They circle. Rachel is the aggressor, Amy the counterpunch. Rachel tries a quick takedown, Amy sidesteps, grabs a wrist, twists. Rachel breaks free with a snap, but Amy’s already reset, smiling this time, a tiny tell that she’s not intimidated.

Lisa leans forward, heart jackhammering in her chest. She’s not fighting tonight, but she can feel every second in her bones.

The room is silent except for the sound of feet sliding on mat, the sharp inhale each time a grip lands. Every girl here knows what comes next: blood, sweat, maybe tears, but always the raw, unscripted beauty of the fight.

Tonight, someone’s going to win, and someone’s going to eat.

Lisa can’t wait to see which is which.

-----

Rachel opens with violence, nothing held back. She lunges, grabs Amy by the upper arm, and yanks her in close—elbow to rib, then a twist, going for the quick takedown. Amy lets herself fall, absorbs the impact, and rolls to her side, legs up and ready to block.

The noise in the lounge ratchets up three notches. Every time Rachel muscles Amy, half the crowd gasps. Every time Amy wriggles free or counters, the rest cheer. Lisa feels her pulse hammer in her throat.

Rachel tries for a top mount, but Amy turtles, arms locked tight. Rachel responds with a knee to the side, not quite illegal but mean, and the crowd howls at the dirty play. Amy hisses, then snaps her head up and bites Rachel’s forearm hard enough to leave a mark. Rachel yelps, retaliates with a slap across Amy’s cheek, and the girls on the sofa in front of Lisa moan in unison.

They break, circle, both breathing hard now. Amy’s got a thin trickle of sweat already on her chest; Rachel’s hair has come loose in wild strands. Rachel feints left, then attacks right, grabs Amy’s wrist, and tries to twist her into a hammerlock.

Amy is ready. She spins, counters with a trip, and the two hit the mat together—Amy on top, just for a second. She tries to scissor Rachel’s ribs, but Rachel is a machine, powers out, grabs Amy’s hair, and slams her to the ground.

Lisa is barely breathing. Her fingers, almost without her noticing, trace the curve of her collarbone, where the bruise has just started to fade. The spot is hot, a pulse of memory and envy.

Rachel’s on top now, knees pinning Amy’s hips. Amy claws at her thighs, then claws at her ass, leaving red welts. Rachel grins, presses down, using her whole body to smother Amy. “You done yet?” Rachel taunts, voice low but carrying.

Amy just spits in her face.

The room explodes. A girl behind Lisa screams, “FUCK HER UP, RACHEL!”

Lisa leans forward, all nerves and edge, watching for the moment Amy slips out. She doesn’t—not this time. Rachel holds her, squeezing, suffocating. Amy bucks, but Rachel readjusts, bringing her weight higher, thighs around Amy’s chest, ass in Amy’s face.

Amy bites again, this time at the inside of Rachel’s thigh. Rachel squeals, loosens, and Amy manages to get an arm free. She grabs for Rachel’s ankle, yanks, but Rachel only uses the momentum to twist Amy onto her stomach, then wraps her up in a leglock that looks painful even from across the room.

Amy gasps, fists clenching, but she doesn’t tap.

Rachel grinds in, using her calves like vices, locking Amy’s lower body in place. Amy tries to pry the legs apart, but Rachel’s hold is brutal, her muscles flexing, sweat gleaming on her skin.

Lisa’s eyes flick down, trying to see the mechanics. That’s when she sees it: every time Rachel puts full pressure with her right side, her left ankle drifts too far forward, a tiny gap in the clamp, a moment of vulnerability. It happens once, then again. Amy is too busy fighting the pain to notice, but Lisa clocks it. Her own pulse spikes, the realization sending a shiver from her toes to her scalp.

“Go, Amy!” someone yells, but it’s useless.

Rachel senses the finish. She shifts, hooks both hands under Amy’s arms, and pulls them up behind her back. The stretch is obscene; Amy’s chest is mashed to the mat, her shoulders twisted up like wings.

“Submit,” Rachel says. It’s not a question.

Amy’s face is red, sweat dripping from her chin, but she shakes her head.

Rachel holds, waits, then increases the pressure. Amy’s back arches, toes curling. She lasts three seconds, maybe four, then slaps the mat three times, fast, barely audible over the crowd.

Rachel lets go, but not all the way. She slides up Amy’s body, straddles her neck, and—without hesitation—grinds her pussy into Amy’s mouth. The lounge goes silent, every girl watching.

Amy doesn’t resist. She licks, tongue working, face smeared in sweat and sex. Rachel rides her, hands in her own hair, head thrown back in perfect, ecstatic arrogance.

When Rachel cums, it’s loud, raw, a sound that rattles the windows. Her whole body seizes; Lisa can see the muscles in her thighs trembling. Amy’s mouth is drenched. Rachel grinds down until she’s spent, then stands—still slick, still wet, a conqueror in every sense.

The crowd goes wild. Girls slap the floor, jump up and down, some rush the mat to congratulate. A few losers exchange cash, grumbling but grinning.

Rachel steps off Amy, a smirk twisting her lips. She plants her foot firmly on Amy's chest, pressing down just enough to make a point. “Get up, loser,” she taunts, her voice dripping with condescension. “You really thought you could take me?”

Amy gasps, struggling beneath Rachel’s weight, her face flushed with humiliation. Rachel leans in closer, eyes gleaming with victory. “Maybe stick to fighting freshmen, huh? ”

With that, she finally lifts her foot, stepping back and crossing her arms, watching Amy with a disdainful grin as she pushes herself up from the mat.

Rachel grins, then turns to the crowd, arms raised.

Lisa just sits, heart pounding, mind spinning. She’s seen everything tonight: the violence, the weakness, the chance. The flaw in Rachel’s game, obvious as a thread waiting to be pulled.

She’s never wanted a rematch more.

-----

Lisa lets the noise of the lounge fade behind her as she drifts down the corridor, crowd energy still vibrating in her bones. Her body feels like it’s coated in oil, every nerve charged and slippery. She walks barefoot, not even caring that she left her thong on the arm of the couch.

Her room is cool, quiet, the air heavy with the scent of her own sweat and the lingering sweetness of cheap body spray. She shuts the door, presses her back to it, and just breathes for a while, letting her mind replay every second of the match: Rachel’s torque, Amy’s last-ditch effort, the way the whole crowd held its breath when Rachel nearly lost control of the hold.

She closes her eyes and sees it in perfect, high-def slow motion: the overextension, the hungry gap, the path not taken. She could have done it. She will.

She crosses to the closet, slides it open, and stares at the green robe where it hangs, untouched since her last defeat. Her fingers drift over the cheap fabric, the faded color, the patch where she once sewed up a split seam after a particularly rough match. It’s not a costume, it’s a flag.

On the wall above her desk, Tina’s notes are still thumbtacked in messy rows. Hip torque. Arm drag. Never lead with your head. Lisa reads them now like scripture, every line a new way to make pain into victory.

She doesn’t change into the robe. Not yet. Instead, she sits at her desk, rolls her shoulders, and starts scribbling, mapping out the new hold, the way she’ll bait Rachel into leaving her ankle open. She diagrams it, labels the angles, rewrites it until it’s burned into her memory.

When she’s done, she stands, goes to the mirror, and studies herself: the wild hair, the flush across her chest, the old bruises and the new smile that’s crept onto her lips.

She knows now, down to the marrow, that the next fight isn’t about who’s stronger.

It’s about who can learn the fastest, who can bleed and keep going.

She bares her teeth, grins at herself, and feels the old uncertainty peel away, replaced by something harder, sharper.

A little more healing and it will be time to start fighting again.  Tomorrow can’t come soon enough.