Art? Or Story? An experiment, I guess. 
We watched the two women step into the sunken square. One wore her hair down, a beautiful young brunette, in black satin. The other had pinned her auburn hair up in a French roll. She wore white lace. They were beautiful. Glamorous, in their expensive lingerie and artful makeup. We weren’t told why they were here - let the imagination work - but at $1000 a ticket, we were assured two things: they hated each other, and they would fight to the finish. It wouldn’t be like the other fights I’d seen here.
We weren’t told their names. Not this fight. In my mind, I called the brunette Lori because of a girl by that name I know. The redhead I thought of as Riley - an Irish lass. I pictured a man at the root of their enmity. A fight of passion.
Whatever their fury sprang from, it was deeply personal and feminine. Their bras were ripped away almost immediately. They wanted at each other’s breasts, badly. And oh, they both had magnificent breasts.
Riley’s hair came loose; a sexy wild wave of red. I love red hair. She screamed. Lori’s fingers - her knife-sharp nails - were deep in her pale breasts.
Riley punched her way free. Her savage uppercut into Lori’s breast nearly tore it off the brunette’s chest.
Riley had knives too. She slashed Lori’s belly deep enough to make her bleed. The veneer of civilization from lingerie, and jewelry, and careful hairdos - gone. Two animals fought while we watched now. Many fights here ended quickly. Not this one.
Their panties went next, ripped away. Riley’s scream of utter agony when Lori clawed her pussy made several watchers gasp. Not me. In my mind, Lori had caught Riley fucking her man in this position. Sweet revenge for that.
Naked. Bruised. Bloody. A toe-to-toe fist fight. Auburn hair whipped wildly when Lori landed a vicious shot to Riley’s mouth. A spray of blood spattered on the hardwood floor.
A referee would stop them at this point. Not this fight. “Finish” would be decided by the winner.
Riley still wore pearls. Lori strangled her with them. Exquisitely slowly. Breathe. Choke. Breathe. Choke. And in the torture of a back-breaking hold. A submission fight would be over. Not this fight.
Riley’s head thrown back, over the lip of their shallow pit. Lori gutted her. Punch after punch into her lower belly. The fight was won, but not over. Not yet. The brunette had rage to spend.
Lori dragged Riley around the fighting space, displaying her, for us. She was broken. Beaten unconscious. Whatever had seethed between them, Lori had settled it, beyond any doubt. Sometimes the loser still has hope, or pride, or a chance at redemption. Not this fight. Finished.
Lori came to me. I gave her back her ring. The diamond sparkled as she slipped it on.
“If she ever touches you again,” she said, “I’ll kill her.”
