Round Two –
The second round opened with my desperate, frantic aggression, my micro-skirt swishing seductively with each step as I circled the ring, my breasts heaving as I tried to shake off the first round's dominance.
I barreled forward, aiming to use my size and Muay Thai clinch to bully her into range, firing off a sharp knee to the body that grazed her side and elicited a brief grunt, but she sidestepped with sumo-rooted stability and countered with a leg sweep, tripping me onto my hands and knees, my ass high in the air like a provocative offering, lacy thong string taut between my cheeks like an invitation to humiliation.
Panic surged through me as she pounced immediately, wrapping her legs around my waist in a body scissors, her thighs like silken vices crushing the air from my lungs, our bodies pressed intimately close, sweat mingling as her hips rocked against my lower back in a rhythmic, dominating grind that made me whimper in shame, my core clenching involuntarily. This was too close, too personal—I felt exposed, vulnerable, my outfit turning every hold into something erotic and degrading.
I grunted in frustration, trying to pry them apart with my arms, my nails digging into her skin, but her core strength was deceptive—her hundred-eight-pound frame packed with explosive, sensual power from years of judo and wrestling that made my curves feel soft and yielding in comparison. Transitioning seamlessly with fluid grace, she rolled me into a guard position, my back hitting the mat with a soft thud. I flailed wildly, attempting a reversal with a submission threat of my own, wrapping my long legs around her in a body triangle to squeeze back, but she locked in an armbar, hyperextending my elbow until I screamed in pain, my voice a mix of agony and shame echoing off the arena walls, my body arching like a bow in a display of sensual vulnerability, breasts thrusting upward enticingly, nearly bursting from the strappy top as veins stood out on my neck.
The pain was excruciating, blending with a shameful heat that made me question my own body's reactions.
"Submit, you jealous-hating dog!" she hissed through clenched teeth, twisting harder with expert leverage, but I shook my head defiantly, tears welling in my eyes from the erotic torment that blurred the line between pain and pleasure. She released the hold reluctantly to avoid an early finish, shifting to a mount position, her hips grinding down on my pelvis in a dominant, almost intimate pin, our sweat-slicked bodies sliding against each other as she rained elbow strikes to the body that thudded like drumbeats against my toned abs, each one making me gasp sharply and my thong dampen further with unwilling arousal, my nipples pebbling harder under the thin fabric. The crowd chanted her name in rhythmic unison as she dominated, her holds a masterclass in control laced with vengeful sensuality, each transition showcasing her submission grappling prowess.
She snaked into a triangle choke, her legs wrapping around my neck and arm like a noose, pulling my head down into the warm, musky crook of her thigh. My face pressed against her shorts, my cheeks flushing with deep embarrassment as I gasped for air, my body arching in a futile bridge that only thrust my exposed thong-clad mound upward, the lace fabric translucent with sweat, revealing the outline of my swollen lips in humiliating detail. I couldn't breathe, couldn't think—the crowd's cheers felt like mockery.
She cinched it tighter, my vision tunneling from the pressure, my makeup-streaked face contorted in ecstasy-like surrender as stars danced in my eyes. But she wasn't done; releasing the triangle with a calculated mercy, she transitioned to a side control, pinning my arm behind my back in a kimura hold, twisting my shoulder to the brink of dislocation while her free hand pressed down on my breast, squeezing through the top in a humiliating grope that drew shocked cheers from the audience, my nipple hardening under the assault as I moaned in protest, my body trembling. I whimpered pathetically, my body writhing sensually beneath the weight, legs kicking wildly in vain, but she held firm, her knee driving into my side for added pressure, whispering taunts like "Regret your sexy little outfit yet, bitch?" In the heated struggle, her hand hooked the back of my thong for leverage, yanking it upward in a deliberate wedgie that dug the lace deep between my cheeks and folds, the fabric chafing erotically and exposing more of my ass as I yelped in shock and humiliation, the crowd roaring at the sight, cameras zooming in for close-ups.
The pain was sharp, intimate, making me feel like a toy in her hands.
Desperate and fueled by adrenaline, I bucked my hips in an explosive reversal attempt, managing to scramble to my feet briefly and land a solid body shot with my knee that winded her momentarily, forcing a rare step back from the Japanese champion. For a second, hope flickered—I could turn this around. But she recovered swiftly, grabbing the thong again for another sharp wedgie, pulling it taut to disrupt my balance and cause a pained gasp before shooting in for a takedown, wrapping her arms around my waist in a clinch, her face pressing against my heaving breasts as she lifted and slammed me down in a suplex, my thong-clad ass slapping the mat with a smack that echoed my shame through the arena. On the ground again, she mounted once more, this time in a schoolgirl pin, her crotch hovering over my face as she ground down, smothering me with her thighs in a facesit hold variation, my muffled protests vibrating against her shorts, my tongue accidentally brushing the fabric in my frantic struggles.
The erotic humiliation was palpable—my legs flailing helplessly, my thong twisted uncomfortably from the wedgies, exposing glimpses of my most intimate areas, my body slick and trembling with unwanted desire, sweat pooling beneath me.
I thrashed with all my remaining strength, managing to bridge and escape just as the bell rang, surviving the prolonged torment by sheer willpower and my towering frame's resilience, which allowed me to absorb the ground and pound without tapping earlier. I staggered to my corner like a wounded animal, thong wedged painfully high from the repeated yanks, my body trembling with exhaustion, arousal, and profound regret for my sexy outfit choice, tears mixing with sweat on my smudged face, the crowd's jeers ringing in my ears like a cacophony of judgment. It was a miracle I lasted this long against her relentless grappling, my own striking prowess buying me precious seconds but ultimately outmatched by her submission expertise, each moment extending the agony and building toward an inevitable climax. How much more could I take? My pride screamed to fight on, but my body whispered surrender.
Round Three –
I emerged for the third round, but hopelessly disheveled, my body on full erotic display—breasts bouncing freely with each labored breath, threatening to spill out of the strappy top, ass cheeks jiggling with each hesitant step, the thin thong fabric clinging transparently to my sweat-soaked skin from the wedgies, outlining every curve of my womanhood and the embarrassing dampness between my thighs that spoke volumes of my body's betrayal. The crowd went wild at the sight, catcalls and whistles echoing through the arena as I tried to maintain some semblance of composure, cupping my breasts and ass in vain attempts at modesty, but Seika's eyes gleamed with predatory hunger, ready to fulfill her vow completely and exploit my regretful choice with unyielding ferocity. The special clause hung over the fight like a shadow—no decision possible, only submission or knockout would end it, per the agreed-upon Japan's rules that both had signed off on, turning the bout into a war of attrition where my confidence now felt like a noose.
My legs felt heavy, my makeup a mess, but I told myself I could still win—one good strike, that's all.
She wasted no time, darting in with a barrage of strikes—a teep kick to my exposed midriff that doubled me over like a folding chair, my breasts nearly spilling from the top as I gasped in shock.
I staggered, my legs wobbling from the cumulative damage, but I fired back with a desperate knee aimed at her head, my Muay Thai roots shining through as the strike clipped her shoulder, forcing her to weave away momentarily.
Undeterred, she closed the distance again, landing a hook that snapped my head sideways, sending me stumbling into the ropes. I, already battered and weary, tried to cover up defensively, unleashing a desperate flurry of strikes with my long limbs to create space, even clipping her with another knee to the ribs that drew a grunt and forced a brief retreat, my height allowing me to tag the smaller fighter from range despite the exhaustion weighing me down. For a moment, I felt a spark—maybe I could wear her down.
But she slipped inside undeterred, her sumo balance keeping her grounded as she clinched and kneed my thighs repeatedly, the impacts leaving a patchwork of red marks on my creamy skin without breaking it, forcing me to dance awkwardly on my toes, my ass flexing enticingly with each evasion, the lace chafing my sensitive areas with every shift and sending unwanted sparks of arousal through my core. I groaned, trying to push her away with my longer reach, landing a glancing elbow that grazed her cheek, but she absorbed it without flinching, spinning me around with judo precision and pressing me against the cage in a humiliating grind. Her hands roamed over my hips possessively, groping my ass cheeks as she whispered taunts like "Sexy now, dog? Everyone sees your slutty ass; tap or get knocked out, no escape," her breath hot against my ear, the clause echoing in the words.
I whimpered, bucking against the cage in futile resistance, my body sliding slickly against hers, but her wrestling control turned it into further domination, kneeing my inner thighs again to weaken my base. The intimacy was mortifying, her touch making me feel owned.
She dragged me to the center by the arm, battering me around the ring like a ragdoll—punching me senseless with overhand rights that made my head loll back and forth, my blonde hair whipping wildly in sweaty strands, breasts jiggling wildly in hypnotic motion as I absorbed the blow, my defense holding just enough due to my reach.
I rallied weakly, throwing a spinning back fist that missed but followed with a body kick that thumped into her side, drawing a hiss from the champion and buying a second of space. But she countered with a leg trip, sending me to the mat where she mounted swiftly, pinning my arms with her knees in a crucifix hold, leaving me spread and helpless, my legs splaying wide in vulnerability, micro-skirt flipped up to expose my thong fully. From there, she unleashed ground-and-pound, short palms and elbows thudding into my guarded torso, each strike sapping my will, making my curves quiver sensually as I writhed, the erotic friction building unwanted heat between my thighs.
Transitioning with expert flow, she locked in a figure-four headscissor, her legs wrapping around my neck like iron cables, squeezing while her hands reached down to smudge my makeup deliberately—fingers dragging across my cheeks, smearing lipstick and mascara into a messy, clownish ruin, even forcing a thumb into my mouth for added degradation as tears streamed down my face in rivulets. "Look at you now, pretty girl—regret proving me wrong? Submit or pass out, your choice," she mocked, grinding her hips for added humiliation, the pressure making my face turn red, my body convulsing sensually, legs spreading wide in the hold, thong barely holding as glimpses of my bare womanhood flashed to the delight of the crowd. I screamed in agony and shame, my voice breaking into hysterical sobs, on her thigh, my cries echoing through the arena, makeup a destroyed mess, body exposed and broken—but just as the referee moved to intervene, the bell clanged sharply, saving me from official submission by mere seconds. She released with a frustrated growl, standing over me as I curled up, weeping, the clause ensuring the fight continued despite my plea, my confidence shattered but my body refusing to quit yet. I crawled to my corner, gasping, wondering how I'd survive another round.
