As the bell clanged to end the third round, my body convulsing on the mat just as the referee stepped in to separate us, his intervention amplified by the timely ring of the bell. She released the figure-four headscissor with a frustrated snarl, her thighs uncoiling from my neck like a serpent relinquishing its prey, her face twisted in annoyance at the interruption.
I slumped bonelessly to the canvas, my chest heaving in ragged, labored breaths that made my breasts rise and fall dramatically under the strained top, but the timing of the bell had saved me from an immediate submission—barely, granting me a reprieve that few in the crowd expected. The arena buzzed with disbelief and excitement, the electric tension palpable as fans whispered about my unbelievable resilience; my towering frame and fighter's spirit had carried me through three grueling rounds of unrelenting torment, absorbing her expert mat work without fully breaking, a feat that spoke to my elite conditioning and unyielding pride.
As I crawled to my corner on all fours, my micro-skirt twisted and hiked up indecently, the lacy thong still wedged high from the repeated yanks, digging uncomfortably into my most sensitive areas and exposing the flushed, sweat-glistened curves of my ass cheeks to the flashing cameras and jeering spectators. Sweat poured down my body in rivulets, mixing with tears that streaked my already ruined makeup into a chaotic mask of smeared red lipstick and black mascara, my blonde hair matted and disheveled like a fallen goddess stripped of her glory, clinging to my neck and face.
In my corner, I slumped onto the stool with a groan, my ample breasts rising and falling erratically under the strappy cropped top, nipples still pert from the unwanted arousal that betrayed my body's responses throughout the fight. My team fanned my flushed face vigorously and poured cool water over my head, the droplets cascading down my cleavage and thighs, trying to revive me as I muttered defiantly between gasps, my voice hoarse but laced with stubborn confidence.
"I... I can still knock her out. Just... one good knee, that's all I need. She's tiring—I felt it in that last knee." The referee approached cautiously, leaning in close to assess my glassy, unfocused eyes and trembling limbs, his expression concerned amid the roar of the crowd.
"Ditcheva, you good to continue? You look done out there—tapped pretty hard." My head snapped up with a spark of fire, my sultry gaze hardening with misplaced confidence despite the humiliation etched on my features and the visible quiver in my legs. "I'm fine," I snarled, pushing away the stool and standing on wobbly legs that threatened to buckle, my micro-skirt fluttering teasingly as I adjusted my thong with a wince, the lace chafing against my swollen, dampened folds and sending another unwelcome shiver through my core. "She's tiny—I tower over her. One clean strike, and she's out. I got this." The ref nodded reluctantly, his brow furrowed, signaling for the fourth round to begin as the crowd erupted in a mix of cheers for the underdog's grit and jeers anticipating more spectacle, eager for the erotic drama to unfold further, the no-decision clause pushing us toward a climactic end.
Round 4
The bell rang for the fourth round, and I lumbered forward with renewed but delusional vigor, my long legs propelling me across the mat in a bid to close the distance and unleash my vaunted Muay Thai strikes, my movements slower now, weighed down by cumulative fatigue. I towered over her imposingly, my 5'8" frame casting a long shadow on the compact Japanese fighter under the bright lights, and fired off a series of jabs and hooks, aiming to use my 70-inch reach to keep her at bay and set up my devastating knees.
But the toll of the previous rounds was evident in every labored swing—my strikes were weak, telegraphed, and sluggish, like a once-mighty wave reduced to a ripple on a calm sea, my arms heavy as lead from the endless grappling.
One jab sailed harmlessly over her head as she ducked with effortless grace, her judo-honed footwork making her a phantom in the ring, dodging with the precision of someone who had drilled escapes since childhood. I followed with a knee strike to the body, my signature move that had felled lesser opponents with bone-crushing force, but it glanced off her raised arms weakly, barely eliciting a flinch or disrupting her balance. "Come on, you jealous bitch," I taunted breathlessly, my voice cracking with exhaustion and desperation, but she just smirked coldly, her dark eyes gleaming with predatory patience, circling like a shark sensing blood in the water.
She remained patient, her compact muscles coiling with the unshakeable discipline of her sumo roots, waiting for the opening that my fatigue inevitably provided, her breathing steady and controlled compared to my ragged pants. As I overcommitted to a wild hook that missed entirely, my body twisting awkwardly and causing my micro-skirt to flip up once more, exposing the twisted thong nestled between my jiggling ass cheeks in a humiliating display, she exploded inward with explosive speed.
She shot low for a textbook wrestling takedown, her arms wrapping around my thighs in a double-leg grip, lifting me off my feet with surprising sumo-derived power despite the size difference, her core engaging like a piston. My world tilted dizzyingly as I was slammed onto the canvas with a resounding thud that reverberated through the ring, my curves undulating sensually from the impact, breasts straining against the thin top and threatening to spill free with the force, my legs splaying wide in a vulnerable display that drew wolf whistles and cheers from the audience.
The lacy thong rode up even higher in the fall, the strings pulling taut in an accidental wedgie that made me yelp in humiliated discomfort, the fabric digging deeper into my folds and outlining my unwilling arousal transparently through the sweat-soaked lace, chafing with every squirm. The impact jarred my bones, leaving me winded and exposed.
Pinned beneath her unyielding mount, I bucked and writhed in futile resistance, my sexy form twisting like a trapped siren in the throes of ecstasy—hips grinding upward in desperate bridges that arched my back provocatively, thighs flexing enticingly with veins popping from the strain, but her wrestling expertise turned every escape attempt into further domination, her weight distributed perfectly to smother any leverage.
The Japanese champion transitioned smoothly into side control with fluid motion, her knee pressing firmly into my ribs while her hands pinned my arms to the mat, grinding her smaller frame against my curvaceous one in an intimate, humiliating press that made our sweat-slicked skin slide together erotically. Sweat mingled between us in glistening trails, our bodies entangled in a dance of power, as she whispered taunts in her accented English, "Still think you can knock me out, prissy dog? Feel how weak you are now—your strikes are nothing." I groaned deeply, my face flushing deeper beneath the smeared makeup, trying to shrimp away with my long legs in a last-ditch escape, but she anticipated it flawlessly, hooking her arm under my knee and spreading me wider in a grapevine hold, the position forcing my micro-skirt to bunch uselessly at my waist and exposing the full erotic vulnerability of my thong-clad mound to the leering crowd, the lace translucent and clinging.
Unable to land any meaningful offense from my compromised position, my attempts to strike from the bottom were pathetic and ineffective—weak elbows and palms that she deflected effortlessly with her free arm, her judo background allowing her to maintain control without a scratch or hint of fatigue. She rained down controlled ground-and-pound, short elbows and palms thudding against my guarded torso and shoulders in rhythmic succession, not drawing blood but sapping my remaining strength methodically, each impact making my body quiver uncontrollably and my breasts heave provocatively, my whimpers growing more humbled and desperate. My confidence crumbled into humbled whimpers, my once-cocky taunts reduced to breathless pleas like "Get off me... please... I can't breathe," as the erotic friction of our entangled bodies sent unwanted shivers through my core, my nipples hardening visibly against the fabric and my thong dampening further with shameful betrayal, the chafing from the wedgies adding layers of discomfort.
She, sensing the end drawing near like a predator closing in, flowed into her submission arsenal with masterful precision, her movements a seamless blend of technique and intent. She snaked her legs around my waist in a body scissor, her thighs—honed from years of sumo and judo—squeezing like velvet vices, compressing my midsection and forcing out erotic gasps that echoed through the arena, my ribs creaking under the pressure. My hands clawed weakly at her legs, nails scraping harmlessly against smooth, unyielding skin, but the hold only tightened, my body arching in a sensual bow that thrust my chest upward dramatically, the strappy top barely containing my bouncing breasts as I gasped for air.
Transitioning seamlessly with expert flow, she rolled us into a guard and locked in an arm-triangle choke, her slender arms encircling my neck and shoulder like a constricting coil, pulling my head down into the warm, musky curve of her armpit with unescapable leverage. My face pressed intimately against her sports bra, my smeared lips parting in muffled protests that vibrated against the fabric, my tongue brushing it accidentally in my frantic, weakening struggles, amplifying the humiliating intimacy as the crowd cheered the dominant display.
The choke cinched tighter with deliberate pressure, her hips grinding down for added leverage and control, spreading my legs even wider in the process and causing another sharp wedgie as the thong twisted painfully, the lace chafing my swollen womanhood and drawing a mortified moan from me that mixed agony with unwilling arousal. I thrashed weakly, my curvaceous form convulsing in erotic agony—legs kicking futilely in the air, ass flexing as the thong dug deeper, exposing glimpses of my bare cheeks and the glistening outline of my arousal—but her mat expertise was unassailable, her holds a fortress of technique that no amount of size could breach.; both had defended strikes impeccably, with my height allowing me to block standing blows and absorb impacts without cuts, and her speed evading any real damage from my weakened attempts. But on the ground, she was queen, her submissions a symphony of control that humbled me completely, turning my advantages into liabilities and exposing every vulnerability.
Vision tunneling from the relentless pressure, my struggles slowed to sensual twitches and spasms, my body going limp as unconsciousness crept in like a dark veil, my limbs slackening against the mat. My eyes fluttered shut, makeup a total ruin of streaks and smudges that made me look like a broken doll, tears welling anew as my last whisper escaped in a faint, defeated rasp, "No... I can't... please..." before my head lolled to the side, my body stilling completely in surrender. The referee rushed in, waving off the fight as she released the hold with a triumphant exhale, standing over my unconscious form with arms raised in victory, the crowd erupting in thunderous applause for the undefeated champion's 17th win. But she wasn't done fulfilling her vow. With a sadistic grin, she leaned down, yanking off my strappy cropped top to bare my heaving breasts fully, then ripping away the micro-skirt and thong in one swift motion, stripping me naked in the ring amid gasps and cheers. I lay there, utterly humiliated and exposed—body battered and slick with sweat, pride shattered beyond repair—my nude form captured on every camera as medics swarmed, covering me with a towel too late.
The defeat went viral, memes of my stripping, sobs, and final collapse cementing me as the "prissy dog" who got stripped of dignity and broken over four agonizing rounds, my press conference boasts backfiring spectacularly as fans mocked my charity donation and naked promise. How I endured such total domination was baffling; my height, reach, and devastating striking potential let me weather the storm longer than most, landing occasional knees and body shots that kept her cautious and extended the fight, but in the end, her superior wrestling, judo throws, sumo balance, and submission grappling turned my advantages into liabilities, fulfilling her vow gloriously and sexily in MMA history, a cautionary tale of hubris meeting unbreakable skill. From my haze of defeat, I knew my career would never be the same.
