Lila took the selfie from the balcony of her hotel room. The downward camera angle accentuated her face and torso, her dark hair, dark eyes with a hint of Asia, her full lips were the kind that rich women pay for. Her high hard breasts - she had paid for those - jutted out over the flat vertical wall of her abs and the flare of her hips and ass. Her flawless olive skin. In the photo, she wasn’t smiling. Her mind was not on sun and sand.
Down on the beach, Bianca also posed for a photo. The angle was straight on, so her natural breasts - while a match for Lila’s - were less emphasized under her more modest top. Her eyes were heavy-lidded. She had a slight overbite that gave her the kind of erotic mouth a man thought immediately of kissing and then pictured descending his cockshaft. With an arm tilted across her head and a hand in her hair, she casually but deliberately displayed her fingernails. They were long and lacquered and filed into knife-points. She wasn’t smiling either.
Lila and Bianca had never met. Each of them knew all about the other, though. They’d watched videos, over and over. Both were five feet, four inches tall. One hundred twenty pounds. Twenty-five years old. A perfect match.
They wanted to meet, very very badly. Tonight, they would.
Lila was undefeated in twelve fights on the east coast. Bianca was undefeated in ten from the west coast.
Each woman had a wealthy lover and sponsor. Lila’s was an investment banker from NYC, Bianca’s was a tech CEO from Silicon Valley. The men had arranged this match, raised the money from contacts. Each woman dreamed of the thrill of being the proven best, the undefeated and undisputed champion, of grinding the other woman under her heel. Each man imagined fucking the top cat.
Miami Beach was the negotiated setting. A million dollar purse, winner takes all. A warehouse. A steel cage. No rules. No limits. A fight to the finish.
The warehouse was empty, and hot. The cage was assembled in the center of its concrete floor. It was twelve feet square, eight feet tall. Vertical steel bars, eight inches apart. Spotlights made it even hotter, and left the surrounding space in darkness. Video cameras were installed all around it, small and inconspicuous but highest quality.
One hundred spectators milled about. Mostly men, some women. They spoke in hushed voices. They dressed expensively. Violence like this was a formal event.
Bianca entered first. She wore a red satin robe to mid-thigh. Her blonde hair was loose, and tousled. She waited in one corner of the cage, perfectly still. Lila entered next, and went to the opposite corner. She wore a slate-gray robe, her hair also down.
They shrugged off their robes. They were naked, hard tight sensual bodies on full display.
A big screen flashed to life. Sound boomed from its speaker. The crowd pivoted. A montage played, snippets from their prior fights. A dark-skinned woman screamed frantically as Bianca’s nails slashed through her saucer-sized nipples. A redhead begged as Lila clawed at her pussy. In the cage, the two women looked only at each other, but they smiled at the sounds.
After a minute, the video ended. Those in the crowd who were new to this were shaken, but also aroused, by the savagery they’d seen. Those who were not new turned back to the cage in heart-pounding anticipation. The two women inside the bars were quick, strong, and relentlessly cruel. They liked hurting their opponents and didn’t mind taking pain in order to do it. They were brutal strikers, with fists, elbows, knees. They had claws and teeth and spike heels, and they ripped flesh with them. They were women who fought like women. They tore hair. They scratched faces. They destroyed their opponents’ breasts and pussies.
They stepped to the center of the cage. Their nipples lined up exactly, as hard as the steel bars that hemmed them in. Their eyes were cold and nearly unblinking. The crowd held its collective breath. A perfect match.
