Post by bigfan on Apr 5, 2017 15:38:32 GMT
Having reestablished herself upon her return to FAWN after a long stretch back in her native England, wrestling royalty was now a three-count away from the gold she so cherished. Only a Golden Empress remained to be swept aside and she would once again be held as the standard of Anglo wrestling, not to mention the rest of Europe and Asia, usurping both that little rat of an Upstart Sammie and the formerly Sensational Shea, who’d scurried into hiding.
Pushing back the sands of time, Her Ladyship looked simultaneously threatening and glorious as the booming orchestral chords of her familiar entrance graced the speakers, heralding the former Intercontinental and Lightweight champion, now ready to claim the Eurasian title as a hat trick.
HERE COMES THE DUCHESS:
The FAWNatics rose and erupted in a torrent of boos as Her Ladyship strode to center stage, Fiona resplendent as always. The Brit reviewed the boisterous crowd with her usual disdain and started on her way down the ramp when the Announcer made her arrival an official one.
LADY FIONA WATERFORD:
“Our next match is scheduled for one fall with a thirty minute time limit and is for the FAWN Eurasian Championship! First, the challenger, from Finsbury Park, London, England, standing five feet seven inches tall and weighing in at eight stone thirtneen… the Duchess of East Anglia…Lady Fiona Waterford.”
The athletic build of the Englishwoman remained very much appreciated, seemingly a deal with the devil having been struck to keep Waterford in such fine fettle, women half her age green with envy. Her regal beauty was accentuated by a striking midnight blue lace set of bra and panties with red bows on either hip and a royal coat of arms on her taut bum. The attire left just the right amount to the imagination, which in this case was little. As a perfect bit of flair, red fishnet stockings reach up from midnight blue boots, red garters ending the stockings at mid-thigh.
ROYAL ADORNMENT:
Fiona strode down the aisle and hopped to the apron. The Brit slid through the cables and moved to the center where she gave the raucous crowd a backhanded ‘V’, palm inward, letting her true feelings of the great unwashed be reinforced. Waterford raises a microphone to her ruby lips.
“There is only one TRUE Empress,” Fiona shouted over the crowd. “And she certainly does NOT come from that cesspool of a subcontinent.”
Perhaps a little surprisingly, the crowd seemed to agree, giving a modicum of support to Fiona but likely only because of their disdain for the current champion.
Her Ladyship turned to the upper stage.
“Come now, dearheart,” Waterford purred. “Bring the Duchess what is rightfully hers, so I might bring some class and prestige to the title languishing in your possession.”
With the regal pomp and circumstance of Her Ladyship’s entrance finally fading, the catchy groove of "Exotic” by Priyanka Chopra and Pitbull hit the speakers. The FAWNatics tured as one, ready to give the Eurasian titleholder what she deserved. After a brief honeymoon, the fans happy she’d taken the EA belt from the Asian Invasion, those packing the house let loose with a deafening round of jeers and catcalls toward the expected entrance of the Golden Empress.
EXOTIC:
The curtains parted, revealing a set of musclebound men, clad in gold loin clothes and sandals. The FAWN Universe immediately let everyone know how much they despise the despicable champion.
The behemoths carried an ornate bed, where upon the Bollywood Bombshell laid in flawless repose. As the ‘exotic’ grappler was carried toward the ring on the curious conveyance, the FAWNatics battered her with boos.
The copper-skinned beauty, gold around her waist, writhed on her cushioned platform to the sound of the catchy beat. Below, the men’s gaze never left the ring, seemingly oblivious to the outstretched hands of the fans and the movements of the bronzed, raven-haired beauty above.
AMARA SINGH:
The Announcer heralded the arrival of India’s greatest export.
"And her opponent...standing five feet six inches tall and weighing in at one hundred thirty three pounds from Cawnpore, India, she is the FAWN Eurasian Champion… AMARA SINGH!"
The spectacle halted, having reached its destination. The men lowered the ornate bed so it was even with the apron and Singh gracefully moved from bedside to ringside. The champ faced the crowd, proceeding to dance seductively to the remainder of PeeCee and the feat’ing Pitbull. Singh slid from beneath a sparkling gold robe to reveal the curvy form beneath.
The momentary striptease drew a round of rabid applause within the jeers, Singh dropping a pearly sneer upon the peasants. She turned and moved through the ropes, keeping a watchful eye on Her Ladyship.
Amara was clad in an ornately designed gold bra and matching gold and red, lacy harem pants, her feet bare. Her raven tresses fell down to just past her shoulders in wild waves, dark copper skin glowing under the lights. Singh did one last twirl for the crowd before taking center stage. She unbuckles her belt and raised it high, beaming at Fiona. In her opposite palm was a microphone.
“You may be a Lady in England,” Amara hissed. “In this ring, you are nothing more than a peasant who, before the night is through, will kiss my feet in proper subservience.”
Singh smirked at the steaming royal. She turned and strode to her corner where she handed the ‘stick’ and her gold-and-leather prize to a FAWN flunky for safekeeping. She returned her attention to the challenger and motioned the official to begin her defense.
The crowd offered up a round of enthusiastic cheers when the bell sounded, not because they were particularly enamored with either champion or challenger, but because they knew egos like Singh and Waterford’s would demand they destroy her opposition in the most brutal way imaginable. As arrogant as ever despite the golden pedigree of the Englishwoman, Amara strutted to center ring and claimed it as her own. “You’re not much to look at,” she said with a sniff, “but at least you’re taller than the dancing dwarf. Perhaps you’re sturdier than your over-inflated countrywoman as well?”
Lady Fiona had no real love for Hailey Kennedy, yet something in the champ’s dismissive tone made her speak on the Ultimate Weapon’s behalf. “You ought to pray I’m NOT as sturdy as Kennedy, I should think. For as I recall she had you on the verge of slobbering surrender before you nearly broke her neck over the top turnbuckle.”
Singh snorted, the Bollywood Bombshell clearly not pleased with this revisionist imperial history. “As I said, she was fragile, hardly worthy of contending with the Golden Empress. Shall I test you in a similar fashion, Lady Waterford?”
‘Lady’ dripped with so much acid the word could’ve burned a hole through the mat. Similarly unimpressed with the Indian’s bravado, Fiona made a small show of adjusting the bows at each hip. Then she took a half step back and dipped her knees into a subtle but springy grappler’s crouch. “I would delight in watching you try, you scenery chewing strumpet.”
Singh’s dark eyes flashed and she pounced fast, catching the Englishwoman in a stern Collar & Elbow that knocked the challenger back on her heels. Giving up one inch of height for a thirteen pound weight advantage suited the bronzed battler just fine and she forced Waterford to cede more than half a dozen steps en route to-- a grimace from Amara as Fiona braced her left leg like a kickstand and brought the march to a grinding halt. Hardly one to tolerate such an offense, Singh slid one hand into Waterford’s dark locks and treated them to a violent tug!
Any pleasure she would’ve wrought from such an effort ultimately came to naught for the Englishwoman responded in identical fashion! Regarding her rival through slitted eyes, Amara and Fiona abandoned the legal half of the clinch to voice their irritation with one another via short, brisk SLAPS across the cheek! They broke apart with a mutual growl and would’ve lunged in for a second skirmish if Al Carpenter hadn’t stepped between.
“Watch with the hair pulling ladies, this is a championship match after all and there IS a bit of national pride on the line alongside the gold.”
The Golden Empress raked a hand through her hair and sighed. “Oh please. There’s little in the way of pride to be found in trouncing a woman who’s royalty in name only. The best I can hope for when it comes to ‘her Ladyship’ is an entertaining diversion with lots of simpering and begging.”
Fiona’s answer sounded pleasant, though her words were anything but. “I think you will find, MISS Singh, that royalty, even those far removed from the throne, draw much more respect than tin-eared ‘actresses’ who botched, failed or otherwise scandalized themselves out of every major studio in Bollyw--”
Amara swept Fiona into a second Collar & Elbow and though this application was perfectly legal, the placement of Singh’s right palm directly under the other brunette’s chin made it highly uncomfortable. Never one to back down in the face of such roughhousing, Waterford cupped a hand against Amara’s chin and applied similar pressure, however she took it a step further by deftly hooking her pinkie into the corner of the champ’s mouth!
“Aaaaarrrrgggggghhhh!” the champ wailed in surprise and displeasure as her Ladyship used the miniature Fishhook to march her toward the nearest set of strands. “Open your eyes, dammit!” Singh barked around the English intrusion. “She’s hooking my MMMRRGGHHH!”
Fiona put her other hand over Amara’s mouth and nose, deftly silencing the complaint and securing a smother in a single stroke! “What was that, my dear?” Waterford taunted. “It seems as though you’ve forgotten your line, yet agEERRHHHH! HAIR, Carpenter! Get her off my bloody hair!”
Al had noted both infractions and wasted no time calling each competitor on it. “Amara, let go of her hair. Fiona, get your finger out of her mouth.” Prompt compliance was not in the offering so the ref started in with a brisk count. “ONE! TWO! THREE! FOUR!”
Both brunettes let go and treated the other to a rough pie-facing that earned an audible ‘ooooohhhh!’ from those assembled. Looking far more irritated than flustered, Singh rubbed a thumb against the corner of her mouth, while Waterford smoothed her hair with both hands. “Not bad for an opening salvo.” it was Waterford who broke the tense silence. “But perhaps from now on you could at least ACT like a champion? Or is that yet another role beyond your already limited ran--”
Singh lashed out with one helluva Bytch Slap only to curse in disgust when Waterford got up both forearms in a lightning-quick guard. Swatting the strike away like it was nothing, Fiona CRAAACKED her prey’s cheek with the first genuine Bytch Slap of the contest, then spun around on her heel and reached over her right shoulder with both hands. Momentarily stunned by the slap, Amara didn’t register the Three Quarters Facelock until Waterford’s fingers laced across the back of her skull and by then it was too late. A quick tug n’ drop flipped Singh off her feet and onto her butt, the Snapmare depositing the champ on her tush with a heavy thud!
Of course when one battled Her Ladyship a Snapmare was never JUST a Snapmare, as the Golden Empress discovered when Waterford reared back, dropped to one knee and CRAAACKED her across the shoulders with a Knife-Edge Chop! Amara hissed and arched her back to ease the pain, a reaction which also succeeded in making her chest an easier target for the Soccer Kick Fiona THWHUMPED home! With Singh knocked flat after the quick trio, the Duchess of East Anglia ran the ropes, sprinted back the way she’d came and took to the skies in a gorgeous vertical leap that ended with her right knee THWHUNKING down between Amara’s eyes!
The Sign of the Four left Amara flopped over on one side, at least until Waterford snagged her at shoulder and hip and pulled her onto her back. Showing as much disdain for her fellow heels as she did for the fan favorites she usually opposed, Lady Fiona planted a shin against Singh’s jaw and hooked one leg at the knee while her other hand offered the FAWNatics a royal wave through…
ONE…
TWO…
Singh kicked out simultaneous with ‘TWO!’, the Eurasian Champion issuing a stern rebuke to anyone who thought she’d surrender the gold without a fight. “Hmmmmmh, with the proper lighting and sound editing I could ALMOST believe you were a fighting champion.”
“Enjoy this brief moment in the sun, peasant.” Amara growled as she struggled to clear her head. “It won’t be long before you’re mewling in the depths of my Camel ClEEERRRGGGGGHHHHH!”
Waterford paid back the hair-pull with one of her own and used it to drag Singh to a seat. Snugged in tight behind the vulnerable champion, Fiona slid both legs around Amara’s waist and hooked her left shin into the pit of her right knee to secure a Figure Four Bodyscissors. “Ask her whenever you’d like.” the beautiful Briton chirped to Carpenter after she’d worked the hold for perhaps ten seconds. “A wastrel of her… talents, I suppose you’d call them, seems better suited to short films, don’t you think?” With that, she leaned back on her hands, raised her hips and SQUEEEEEEEEEEEEZED like she meant to cut the Golden Empress in half!
Amara rose slightly with Her Ladyship, trying to relieve the pressure in doing so, but from the look on her flawless face, it’s futile. Another pulse from Fiona’s stems dropped Singh back to the canvas groaning, a mixture of fury and worry.
“No,” the Empress insisted curtly when Carpenter essentially asked if she wanted to hand over her belt.
Knowing her prying hands could never loosen the steel bands surrounding her, the Bollywood Bombshell instead planted the soles of her feet on the canvas and pushed. In the process, she curled Waterford into a cradle beneath her, Fiona’s shoulders stacked firmly to the deck.
The ref scrambled from focusing on Singh’s condition to check Fiona’s blades and in his opinion they’re down. He slapped for…
ONE…
TWO…
Waterford rolled to her side, releasing the Scissors. Although technically one second from a loss, the Duchess seemed far from unnerved by the counter. Matter-of-factly, she disengaged from the recovering champion, pushed to her feet, and landed a nasty stomp to Amara’s ribs, forcing Singh to curl tighter.
“What are you ruling now my dear Empress?” Lady Fiona asked bluntly, snorting at the grappler from the subcontinent. She landed another vicious boot that sent a spasm through Singh’s fame before sinking a set nails into Amara’s ebony locks. She hauled the wincing champ to her feet.
Suddenly, Singh broke free and spun with a right-handed Haymaker at the ready, but the ageless wonder drove a toe kick deep into the titleholder’s gut, doubling Amara at the waist.
Fiona instantly collected Singh’s arms in Double Underhook. The brunette spun so she and the champion were back to back then dropped to her sublime behind, rocking the Empress with a wicked Neckbreaker.
DOUBLE UNDERHOOK NECKBREAKER @ 00:06
A beaming and seated Fiona didn’t bother to turn, the veteran knowing Amara was sprawled behind her. She raised her arms high and wide and received more than a few cheers from the FAWNatics for her treatment of the generally despised Eurasian champ.
Turning leisurely, she moved to all fours and pressed her palms down on Amara’s bosom, flattening the teats of the Indian to her breastbone for…
ONE…
TWO…
Amara threw a shoulder off the canvas, rolling to her side.
Fiona cast a sideways glance at Al, letting him wonder for a moment if he is about to get chewed out by royalty, but she only delivered a disappointed shake of her head.
Grabbing the Golden Empress by her long dark strands once more, Waterford guided Amara to her feet as the London native rose alongside.
“You do understand India was part of OUR empire, do you not?”
Her Ladyship punctuates the inquiry with an Irish whip to the nearby corner. Singh took only a few steps before RAMMING into the buckles chest first. She bounced into a backpedal and was snatched by the back rim of her harem pants and a shoulder by the challenger.
The Duchess swung her left leg around Singh’s body and THUMPED it into Amara’s copper-skinned tummy. With her cargo properly bent, Fiona bum rushed the doubled Indian back to the corner, heaving her between the top and middle buckles.
Amara’s right shoulder THUNKED against the steel of the ring post and Amara cried out in a husky squeak of pain. Fiona roughly pulled Singh out from amidst the buckles and spun her back to the corner.
Scooping the reeling champion up behind her knees, Lady Fiona set the battered Singh on the top buckle. Waterford turned her back to the seated champ and reached behind, collecting Amara’s noggin over her right shoulder.
Singh burst to life, pushing against the back of the Briton. She got loose for a moment before Waterford clocked the Indian grappler with a sharp elbow to the temple.
Quelled, Amara was groggy as Fiona rose to a stance on the middle ropes and maneuvered Singh across her shoulders in a Fireman’s Carry. Ready to take a Channel Plunge, Fiona strapped the champ in tight despite Amara’s tardy effort to wriggle free and launched in a front flip.
Chants of “You still got it!” ring out across the arena after Her Ladyship NAILED Amara to the deck with signature style.
CHANNEL PLUNGE:
Fiona skidded to a stop and scurried for the pin this time, collapsing across the demolished Amara in a Crossbody pin, adding a cradled far leg for good measure and the…
ONE…
TWO…
THRENOOO!
To the clear frustration of the gorgeous royal, Amara saved her title reign for the time being, a full body spasm letting her escape one more time to Her Ladyship’s dismay. Fiona turns to Carpenter.
“Are you mad I outlasted Shea, sir? I know you always had a thing for her.”
A stricken Al was speechless and Fiona couldn’t hide the hint of a smirk, Waterford playing with the man and enjoying the knowledge she continued toward a championship while London was back on the Isle, no doubt turning tricks or scrubbing floors.
Turning her attention back to the beleaguered Amara, the kneeling Fiona tugged Amara there as well. From nowhere, the champ NAILED Fiona with a sturdy right forearm, the Brit’s head snapping to the side. But Fee responded in kind, rocking her rival. Amara returned fire with another, only for Waterford to do the same. And before Singh could manage a third, Fiona blistered the increasingly glassy-eyed champ with a third, fourth and fifth that left Amara wobbling in a daze, listing on her haunches.
A grinning Fiona calmly rose to her feet and walked around the dumbfounded Indian. She stepped over her foe’s lowered shoulders, first left then right. With the back of Amara’s head pressed to her crotch, Lady Fiona clamped her thighs tight in a Standing Headscissors.
Amara’s arms started to wrap around the Englishwoman’s thighs, drawing an immediate look of concern from the challenger. A strengthened flex of her sinewy stems made Singh’s arms uncurl and Fiona then dropped forward onto her chest and palms. She keeps the Scissors in place on the way and Amara’s face CRASHED into the deck with as modified a Facebuster as you’re likely to see.
The impact stretched Amara out flat on her face, but relatively safe from a cover, at least until Fiona twisted her hips and rolled to a seat. Singh was flopped along with her tormentor and now her shoulders were down, a situation that grew all the more unpleasant when Waterford leaned down, hooked her right leg behind the knee and drew it up to her chest in a rough Half Matchbook. Already close to the action, Al swooped in beside the tangled battler’s and counted off…
KNEELING FACEBUSTER:
ONE…
TWO…
THRNOOOO!
Singh kicked loose and raised a shoulder to extend her reign for at least another three seconds, though it was plain to see it was far from her usual domineering performance. Indeed, the Eurasian Champion had been anything but golden as the fifteen year veteran treated her like little more than tackling dummy.
Beside her, Lady Waterford rose to one knee and swept a hand through her dark locks. “I must say, I’m more than a little disappointed thus far.” she informed Amara after plunging her hands deep into the other brunette’s hair. “Despite your claims to the contrary, your recent opposition has been of the highest caliber and you’ve acquitted yourself and the title quite well. And yet tonight I have imposed my will upon you practically from the opening bell. Which leads me to believe that you are either A, having what the Americans call ‘an off night.’” Her Ladyship stood up, forced Singh to do the same and promptly folded her over with a Toe Kick to the midsection. From there she pulled Amara’s head under her left armpit and slipped both hands under the Indian’s biceps to secure another stiff Double Underhook. “Or B, I am simply poison for any and all false royals.”
Caught in the grip of a humiliation she hadn’t felt in a very long time, Singh growled and tried to power her foe toward the corner or even the ropes, alas, Waterford dug in her heels to neutralize the effort like she had all others. “Don’t proclaim the end of my reign too early, peasant.” she hissed. “There’s still more than enough time to break your WHOOAAAANNNNGGGGH!”
Fiona dipped low, then popped her hips to take the other woman up, over and down onto her back with a BOOMING Double Underhook Suplex. Hands still locked after the landing, Waterford somersaulted into a heavy landing on her opponent’s belly and proceeded to wrench, jerk, twist and otherwise strain her prey’s neck and spine with a Butterfly Lock!
DOUBLE UNDERHOOK SUPLEX & BUTTERFLY LOCK:
“Yes, yes, yes, you’re the Golden Empress, it’s as boring now as it was before.” Fiona pretended to stifle a yawn even as she tried to fold the struggling lovely in half. “Perhaps you should consider rehearsing in front of a mirror so you could say it with a little more convicnnnnggghhh. Oh, is THAT how low you’ve sunk?” Singh didn’t respond with words, choosing instead for another double-fisted YANK on her opponent’s waistband. Teeth clenched to better endure the savage wedgie, Waterford turned her attention to Carpenter. “Are you really going to permit her attempt to saw me in half from the bottom up?”
“It’s not an illegal maneuver, as you well know, Fiona.” Al replied. “I’m sure you’ve got the constitution to--” he would’ve said ‘endure’ if the Englishwoman hadn’t let loose a furious shriek and scrambled away from her prey with one hand pressed to the center of her trunks.
“Some Empress.” Waterford sneered as she fought through the waves of nausea radiating up from her groin. “You fight like the filthiest urchins Calcutta has to offer.”
Breathing hard following the narrow escape, Singh clambered to boot leather and made a show of wiping three fingers on her harem pants. “You’re not better than trash.” Amara said with a sneer. “Therefore I am under no obligation to--”
Fiona had one hand in Singh’s hair before she could finish her sentence, the Duchess of East Anglia winding up for European Uppercut that “EEERRGGGHHH!” The Champ endured the hair-pull long enough to reach out and raaaaaaaake her nails across the Briton’s eyes! Fiona let go and staggered away, turning her back to the Empress as she tried to clear her vision. “Don’t EVER turn your back on me, peasant!” Singh’s swagger was back full force as she stalked after the retreating brunette and scored her from shoulders to buttocks, this time with both hands! Fiona’s progress dropped to almost nil, making it much easier for the resurgent champion to cup a hand over her left hip. With Waterford held steady, Amara balled her right hand into a fist and THWHUMPED a hateful shot into her opponent’s liver.
The challenger wailed in anguish and doubled over, both arms curling tight around her midsection. She might’ve crumpled to her knees if Singh had simply waited, but Amara was in no mood for moderation after her earlier trouncing, so she reached around and grabbed the suffering royal’s right wrist in her left hand. In the next instant she spun Fiona in a half circle, stepped in and THWHACKED her across the collarbone with a Clothesline that put Lady Fee flat on her back.
RIPCORD CLOTHESLINE:
The Ripcord Clothesline bounced Waterford’s skull against the mat hard enough to force her to a seat, the suddenly stunned Englishwoman clutching the back of her head and groaning most pitiably. It was of course, music to Amara’s ears. “Did you really think you could obscure my radiance forever?” Singh cooed as she filled one hand with Waterford’s hair. “You of all people should know, the sun set on the British Empire a long, long time ago.” She hauled Fiona to verticality and gave her head a mean little shake despite the warning from Carpenter. “And the era of the Golden Empress has only just begun!”
The words were barely out of her mouth when she stepped in, dropped to one knee and THWHUMPED her free hand into the challenger’s flat tummy. Washboard or not, the air ‘oooofffhed’ from Waterford’s lungs and she collapsed to hands and knees, or rather ‘hand’ and knees, as the other was pressed to her abused abdominals. “Lips to the mat in my presence, washerwoman.” Amara made the demand a heartbeat before she braced one foot between Fiona’s shoulders and stepped down, thus BWONKING her forehead against the canvas in a sawed-off Curbstomp.
Waterford jolted hard, but she didn’t have time to roll or even stretch out before Singh grabbed a whole lotta hair and pulled her into a low Headscissors. They got even lower when the Bollywood Bombshell sank to her knees immediately thereafter. “I shall have your surrender whenever I desire it.” Singh proclaimed loud enough for the first several rows to hear. “But first I shall take several small, painful tributes.” On that unpleasant promise she grabbed Fiona’s left wrist in both hands and yanked it up so the Englishwoman’s arm was stretched out perpendicular to her torso. With the other point of the other brunette’s elbow aimed at her chest, Amara pulled down on Waterford’s wrist, thus bending that joint and the rest of her Ladyship’s arm at a most unpleasant angle. The muffled wails and pattering of boots on canvas told Singh she was doing a good job so she repeated the tactic two of three times before demanding, “Give me your other hand, peasant.”
GROUNDED WRIST WRENCHING:
Vulnerable, but hardly defenseless and certainly not stupid, Fiona tucked her right arm under her torso to keep it from the champion’s clutches. Angered by the defiance, Singh halved her grip and curled that hand into a glittering talon. “Very well. Then feel the claws of an Empress tearing you to pieces!” She set her fingertips to the exposed curve of Waterford’s haughty glutes and RAKED them once, twice, three times before ending with a cracking SLAP that itself segued into a white-knuckled Glute Claw!
“Ask her!” Amara commanded Carpenter as she doled out two very different brands of punishment. “Ask this peasant if she’s ready to submit to the supremacy of my Golden Empire!”
With Her Lady ship on her knees and bent over from the pain, one arm close to wrenched out of its socket, she’s forced to suffer the anguish-inducing indignity of having her bum shredded by the champion from the subcontinent.
There’s no way to react regally and Waterford wass reduced to a pained shriek with the claw sunk deep into her buttock. Singh’s nails were quite an inducement to the challenger to escape and, with only one hand now controlling her folded arm, Fiona was able to work the limb out of its precarious positioning.
Amara tore into her claw all the harder as punishment, but she realized as painful as the grab-assing was, she wouldn’t be able to control the Duchess properly. So she removed her talons in order to reach her feet first.
The decision proved prescient when the veteran struggled to vertical quickly behind, turned to the Bollywood Bombshell, and was met with a Spinning Heel Kick to the chin that decked Lady Fiona like a shotgun blast.
SPINNING HEEL KICK:
Waterford was knocked flat, starfished on the canvas as Amara pirouetted to a stop, a beaming smile in place. She genuflected atop the bosom of the blasted brunette as if she’s about to be knighted by the Queen, humiliating Her Ladyship with an unforgettable…
ONE…
TWO…
THRNOOO!
Fiona shoved a shoulder up with no more than a few inches to spare before the third slap of the canvas. A startled Amara settled onto her haunches a few inches to the side. She stared at Carpenter for confirmation and he responded with a nod that had more than a hint of surprise as well.
Singh growled but accepted the decision and turned back to the slowly rising Briton. She hopped and dropped an elbow into the cleft of Fiona’s bosom, leaving the challenger flattened once more and this time the Golden Empress mounted her foe in a reverse straddle.
Amara slipped her calves under Fiona’s shoulders, propping the head of the aching Englishwoman a few inches upward. The Indian started to scoot her copper-skinned behind from Waterford’s chest toward the wide-eyed features of Her Ladyship, clearly planning her signature Bollywood Ending Face Sit.
The veteran’s humbling end seemed forgone and Singh chirped loudly while sliding her considerable backside into place.
“This is the proper way for you to show your deference to an Empress,” Amara informed, “by becoming my throne.”
As the Indian prepared to literally polish off what’s left of Lady Fiona, the Duchess dug deep to return Singh’s agonizing grip from earlier by sinking her ruby-tipped nails into both of Amara’s thighs and scoring the flesh with them.
The Bombshell howled in pain, leaping off her foe as if Waterford was electrified. Singh rubbed at her legs, cursing under and above her breath. She rounded on her challenger with a hateful scowl.
“Instead of sleeping peacefully under my ass, you’ll now feel how much pain can be drawn from a spinal column,” Amara threatened.
The Brit made it to a seat on her royal derriere as the champion approached, Singh careful at first then moving in a lightning surge. But the veteran was ready, lacing her legs within those of the charging Indian. Amara tumbled, her nose thumping into the deck courtesy of a Drop Toehold.
Singh’s hands reflexively shot to her beak to check its alignment. Her Ladyship, drawing on her reserves, rolled atop the Empress. She immediately snaked her arms around the braincase of the Bollywood Bombshell from behind, trying to secure an old-school Sleeper.
Amara rolled the both of them over, Fiona now below, before Waterford could strap her arms in place and start to cut the flow through the carotid. Amara flailed her arms and legs wildly, the lids over her dark eyes starting to flutter after a half dozen seconds.
While she couldn’t escape the tightening arms of the British legend, Singh did manage to use her positioning to flatten the curved back of the Duchess so Fee’s shoulders were pressed tight to the canvas. Lady Fiona tried to roll to a shoulder with her grip still in place but a stubborn Amara prevented it and Waterford gave up her Sleeper to push the Duchess off and escape the near fall at a loud ‘TWO’.
With a dazed Singh to her side, the Indian struggling to make it to hands and knees after the sedative-like effects of Waterford’s submission, Fiona scrambled up with enough vigor to send an excited murmur through the FAWNatics.
The ravishing royal waited patiently for the staggered champion to wobble to vertical. Amara turned into the scooping right arm of Waterford. Her Ladyship ‘hupped’ Amara into a Fireman’s Carry and it tool her a mere second to send Singh into a ‘Waking Nightmare’, flipping the Bollywood Bombshell out of the carry into Fee’s brutal signature Neckbreaker, Singh’s impact drawing a sympathetic groan from the crowd.
WAKING NIGHTMARE:
Amara ended in a semiconscious seat, lifeless copper-skinned legs stretched out in front of her. Fiona tugged back on a shoulder of her foe and spread the demolished champion flat against the canvas, limbs pointing in four different directions.
Lady Fiona dove aboard the blown up Bombshell and cradled her in a Crossbody, both legs hooked for the…
ONE…
TWO…
THRENOOO!
Amazingly, Amara refused to relinquish the belt that made her title of Empress, golden, kicking her way out of the predicament with a quarter-second to spare.
Singh flopped to her side, perhaps broken but not yet beaten.
Fiona was ready to turn the former into the latter. Scurrying to her feet, she grabbed both ankles of the waylaid champion and crossed them in her grasp. With much of her remaining might, Waterford slowly rolled the wriggling Singh o-o-o-o-over to her chest, sharpshooter applied.
SHARPSHOOTER:
But she’s not stopping, as she decided not to completely turn her back to the yelping Empress, instead adding a Bow & Arrow to the submission maneuver to complete her terrible Tower Bridge.
ADDED BOW & ARROW:
Amara howled in agony, grasping at her own ebony locks and yanking to spread the pain from her back and legs.
In unison, the crowd chanted “TAP…TAP…TAP…”. But after ten torturous seconds a teary-eyed Singh had still refused.
Fiona was certain most of her longtime nemeses would’ve abandoned a submission after such prolonged resistance. They were after all, beholden to their slobbering fans and thus required they never had to wait too long for the next bit of Instagram-bait or chantable offense. Her Ladyship however was beholden to no one but herself and so she continued to grind away at the Tower Bridge, the near constant rise and fall of her knees in conjunction with the chin-control and a concentrated effort to make sure her shoulders were never on the mat at the same time. It took effort but Waterford was nothing if not patient and why shouldn’t she be? She could FEEL the power wicking out of Singh’s tawny frame and her formerly defiant shrieks had slowly but surely faded into pitiable ‘don’t hurt me’ mewling.
Fiona loved every bit of it.
Flicking her gaze toward Carpenter after another thirty seconds of spine-wrenching anguish, the brunette murmured, “Ask herRROOOWWWWW!”
Amara, who had been pawing at the hand cupping her chin, abruptly grabbed the challenger’s thumb and yanked it backward! Forced to relinquish her grip or endure lost months to a broken thumb, Waterford undid her hooks and pistoned her legs up with enough force to launch Singh tummy-first onto the canvas in a miniature Splash! Though in far better circumstances now that she was free of the Tower Bridge, the Bollywood Bombshell was far from safe, as evidenced from the near frantic “NO!” that escaped her lips when Fiona buried both hands in her hair.
“Yes indeed.” the Duchess cooed once she’d hauled the other brunette to her feet. A Kneelift to that fluttering bronze tummy rendered Singh sludgy pliable, making it all the easier for Waterford to wedge her right shoulder against the champ’s chest while simultaneously dipping under her right arm. Amara shook her head and tried to pull free, alas it was all for naught as beguiling Briton reached through her prey’s legs from behind and seized her left wrist in a Pumphandle. The Front Facelock that followed locked Amara down for good, at least until the challenger muscled her all the way to high noon! Holding the Golden Empress over her head in a helpless, wriggling bundle, Waterford turned to all four sides of the squared circle before she dropped down and THWHUNKED the base of her foe’s neck against the post of her knee.
PUMPHANDLE OVER THE KNEE NECKBREAKER:
Amara flopped away, started to roll to her stomach and got caught by Fiona instead. Stretching the Indian lovely out on her back, Lady Fiona twisted into a Back Press and drew her prey’s legs into a twitching bundle while Carpenter and the rest of the idiots counted off…
ONE…
TWO…
THRENOOOOOOOO!
Singh inched a shoulder off the mat so late Al sprang up waving his hands to make sure the Timekeeper didn’t call for the bell. Waterford was much more reserved in her reaction, only fetching a long sigh as she smoothed her hair back. “You’re remarkably resilient for a delusional hack actress, aren’t you? I might actually be impressed, if there wasn’t a guillotine aimed at your neck.” Singh only offered unintelligible cursing as response, so her Ladyship stood tall and took possession of the champion’s wrist and ankle. Dragging Amara like she was a mere rug and not the Queen who often reposed upon it, Waterford moved to the middle of the squared circle, looked around to gauge their position, then turned in a quarter circle before dropping the vulnerable women’s limbs.
With the sun rapidly setting on the Golden Empire, Waterford strode to the nearest corner, slipped out onto the apron and made as if to climb to the top only to leap instead. Standing tall and regal upon her perch, Fiona stretched her arms wide and beckoned the crowd to make some noise, a ‘tribute’ to the Sensational One that earned her an energetic round of boos. Not in the least put out of countenance, the brunette cooed, “Off with her he-- oh, bloody hell.”
Perhaps sensing her title was in grave danger, Amara Singh gathered her reserves into a weary barrel roll that took her from the center to the edge and out onto the floor. More troublesome, the champ didn’t stop to lean against the apron or the barricade, she shambled over to the Timekeeper’s table and scooped up the Eurasian Title en route to heading for the ramp!
In that moment Lady Fiona Waterford actually sympathized with Shea, yet another disgusting slight for which the so-called champion would pay dearly. “Don’t even THINK about it.” she warned Carpenter as he raised his hand to start the count. “I’ll have her back in the ring momentarily.” Eager to accomplish this task, Waterford hopped from the top turnbuckle from the apron to the floor and went straight for the retreating Empress. “Tactical retreat won’t work tonight, dear.” she hissed. “I’m afraid this campaign is strictly Scorched EarNNNGGGGHHHH!”
Singh whirled a heartbeat before Fiona’s hand touched her shoulder, which was the only reason she managed to get her forearm between her face and the title belt. Even so, the ten pounds of leather and gold THWHAPPED the Briton’s wrist into her nose hard enough to make it bleed, the blow dropping Fiona to a woozy seat in the shadow of the ring. Dark eyes flashing hatred, Singh snarled, “DON’T EVER IMPEDE ME AGAIN, PEAS--” the bell CLANGED, temporarily redirecting Amara’s ire to the referee and the Announcer.
“Ladies and gentlemen, Amara Singh has been disqualified. Therefore your winner is Fiona Waterford, however, Amara Singh is still the Eurasian Champion.”
Cheated jeers all around, no one wanted to see the match end in a DQ. Furious at this stain on her glorious rule, the Bollywood Bombshell tossed the strap aside, then bent down and hauled Waterford up with a huge handful of trunks ‘n tresses. Making a point to treat her Ladyship to a quite undignified wedgie during the short march back to the ring, Amara tossed Fiona under the bottom rope and slid in immediately thereafter. Al stepped between them even as Singh regained her feet. “Clear off, Amara. The match is over, no need to--” CRAAACK! Amara lit up the poor dope with a Bytch Slap, then bum rushed him through the ropes so she could be alone with her prey.
“Enjoy this meaningless bauble of a victory.” she sneered amidst delivering a battery of stomps to the royal’s lower back. “While the records may record you as triumphant, I promise your body and spirit will tell a much different story in the morning.” Fiona cursed, tried to rise to all fours and was crushed to the mat when Singh stepped over and dropped a Butt Bomb into the hollow of her aching spine. Back on her feet after a taunting little grind, Amara swept a hand over the woozy challenger and called, “BEHOLD THE FATE OF ALL WHO OPPOSE THE GOLDEN EMPRESS! LET THIS SO CALLED ‘ROYALS’ PATHETIC SCREAMS SERVE AS A WARNING TO EVERY WOMAN WITHIN THE SOUND OF MY VOICE!”
Singh finished her decree with a wicked smile, she was in fact, still smiling when she bent down and seized Waterford’s biceps. Hoisting the Englishwoman’s upper body off the mat, Amara sank into a deep crouch and “OOOFFFHHHHH!”
Lady Fiona wrenched free, slid back between the champion’s stems and grabbed her ankles in the process. The yank that followed sent Singh toppling to the deck chin-first, meaning the champ was well and truly stunned when Fiona scrambled into a seat on her lower back. Earlier disappointment transformed into unexpected elation as the Duchess of East Anglia threaded Amara’s biceps over her thighs and cupped both hands under the other brunette’s chin.
Camel Clutch, Lady Fiona Waterford to Amara Singh.
Reefing back with every bit of venom and bile at her disposal, the wrathful royal slipped two fingers on each hand into Amara’s mouth, a painful, humiliating fishhook that made the new ‘J’ curve of her spine that much more hellish. “YOU’RE NO QUEEN!” Waterford roared. “YOU’RE A PRETENDER AND WILL BE MADE TO BEG AS SUCH! GO ON, SINGH! BEG YOUR QUEEN FOR MERCY!”
“NUUUUHHHHHVEEERRRRH!” Singh wailed around the intruding digits. “GHED OFFA MEEE PEASUUNNNGGGGGHHHH STAAAAAAAAHHHHP!”
Waterford removed two fingers from the champ’s mouth only to work them into her nostrils! She may very well have done permanent, disfiguring damage to the Bombshell if Al Carpenter hadn’t slogged back into the fray and prized the challenger from her foe.
“Release me, bloody let me go!” Fiona squirmed and fought, but didn’t get loose for almost five seconds and by then Amara had rolled under the bottom rope once again. “This isn’t over, slattern.” the Brit promised as Singh backpedaled up the ramp with the EA title clutched firmly against her chest. “This humbling lesson will continue as soon as the bell sounds on our next match.”
Amara’s upper lip curled in disgust. “I will break you, peasant. You will beg and plead, but they will fall deaf on the ears of the Golden Empress.” As proof of her claim, Singh raised the belt high overhead until she disappeared from view, forcing a fuming, disappointed Duchess to watch and plot her next move.