Post by hawkeye on Nov 9, 2020 2:44:47 GMT
A lucky several dozen, having won the FAWN lottery, were shoehorned into an empty training room where the Pit and the gallons of baby oil spread within have been placed. The rest of the All Hallows Evil crowd watch from the basement, eyes glued on the 4K big board.
Wherever the loyalists of the best in women’s wrestling found themselves, they moved to the edge of their seats as one when a scratchy, low-tech version of Rod Stewart’s ‘Hot Legs’ blared from an old set of speakers in the upper reaches of the dark, dank Madhouse cellar, the amplifiers in this less-than-hallowed hall perhaps as old as Rod.
HOT LEGS:
www.youtube.com/watch?v=AHcjjxYbgNM
A heavy iron door opened with a ghoulish creak and from behind an Amazonian vision with olive skin and long dark locks emerges. In a skimpy, basic black bikini, the long, limber and lean and anything but basic Tag Team Champion moves the short distance across the cool cement, soles of her feet padding to the Pit’s edge, the battleground carved out of the center of chamber.
VALERIE STIPANOVIC
Wearing a gaudy gold and leather belt around the slender, extended expanse of her midriff, the leggy Angeleno turned to face the audience and stepped one foot onto the ladder leading her to the Pit floor eight feet below. Slowly she descended, reaching the glistening blue plastic of the lightly padded cavity.
She drops to her knees and scooped up handfuls of oil on each side, rubbing the translucent goo across her tawny frame, drawing appreciative hoots from the live portion of the crowd. Duly covered, she rose and moved to the side of the Pit farthest from the ladder.
As Stewart’s anthem faded, a chant grew in its place.
“LEGS…LEGS…LEGS!”
A nod to the team that included the Amazon, a titleholder after a Mania victory against tonight’s foe. It slowly transferred to “STEMS…STEMS…STEMS”, her personal nickname.
The Announcer waited until the mantra fades, if slightly.
“Tonight’s next match is scheduled for one fall with a thirty minute time limit and is fought under FAWN’s Oil Pit rules where a competitor can only win via submission or knockout. First. From Los Angeles, California, one of your NEW tag team champions…VALERIE “STEMS” STIPANOVIC!”
Now the distant arena crowd joins those in immediate attendance in showing their love for the statuesque dark-haired beauty whose task it was to beat for a second time a treacherous, duplicitous warrior she’s managed to survive only one month prior.
Showing no trepidation, Valerie unclasped her belt and raised it high to the growing appreciation from the audience. She tosses it up to an attendant at the top of the Pit wall and called out to her Golden foe.
“Get your ass down here, Amara. I’m going to make what Lenore did to you in this Pit seem like child’s play.”
It took but a split-second for the infamous crashing chords of 'The World is Not Enough' from Garbage to emanate from the ancient speakers.
THE WORLD IS NOT ENOUGH:
www.youtube.com/watch?v=8C5NLfYdZaE
“I know how to hurt. I know how to heal. I know what to show and what to conceal.”
I know when to talk. And I know when to touch. No one ever died from wanting too much…”
The reaction was instant and unanimous and when Portia VanBuren appeared from behind the same worn gate, the denizens of the Madhouse basement and those gathered in environs miles removed let their hatred fly. They buried the former superstar who had since become the organization’s premier manager and her salacious sellout under a torrent of animosity, the duo making their way to the verge of the Pit.
Fortune’s Favorite was flawless in her immaculate, white tennis togs, namely a form-fitting, Louis Vuitton tank top and short skirt with white socks and thousand-dollar tennies. Her beloved polo mallet Precious was mournfully absent, having been broken by the vile women who also snatched her team’s gilded prizes, grasping the title as FAWN’s top team while doing so.
PORTIA OPHELIA VANBUREN THE FOURTH
Moving to the ladder, Portia turned and embraced her charge, the golden-brown goddess, the Bollywood Bombshell, the Empress, all titles failing to fully capture the beauty and power of the woman, Amara Singh.
AMARA SINGH
The former tag champion glittered without the soon-to-be coating of oil, Amara glimmering in a scant, golden metallic bikini that accentuates her curvy figure and tawny skin.
Breaking free of her manager, she lowered herself down the ladder, soles eventually squishing into the saturated plastic. Refusing to lower herself to cheaply thrilling the crowd, Amara passed on layering herself in the slippery goop. It would happen soon enough when she went about tying the brat who had stolen her property in knots before making Val sob her surrender.
As Baby’s music fades, the Announcer makes official the Madhouse Pit’s second guest.
“And her opponent, accompanied above by her manager, Portia VanBuren the Fourth. Hailing from Cawnpore, India, the Golden Empress…AMARA SINGH!”
The Subcontinental Siren ignoreD the boos, dark eyes darting around her environs. The noticeable hint of unease she’s had since having touched the Pit floor remained, the horrific memories of what the Mistress of the Madhouse did to her washing over her senses like a tidal wave. Amara looks longingly at Portia above. Fortune’s Favorite pumped a fist back at the gulping Empress.
“Damn wheel.” Singh mutters as a horn sounds, the audible declaration of war made.
Her usual domineering mood quite soured by the Wheel’s hated slip-ulation, Amara Singh’s countenance was anything but regal when the bell sounded. Truth be told she looked simultaneously disgusted, embarrassed and concerned, an odd brew that did not go unnoticed by the lithesome brunette waiting on the other side.
Seemingly far less worried by the oil than her golden adversary, Valerie Stipanovic took a moment to swipe down her biceps, forearms and thighs before she padded her way to the center of their soft-sided arena. “Looks like you’ve seen a ghost, Amara.” Stems called out to the reluctant Empress. “Is it the oil that’s got you scared? Or these?” Val earned a loud roar from the Basement Dwellers when she bent down and casually ran an index finger from her ankle aaaaaaaaalll the way up the almost endless expanse of her right leg.
“Don’t give that Jersey freak-show any rent inside your head, Amara.” Portia spoke with a quiet confidence quite unlike her usual strident barking. “You’re better than her no matter the stipulation and that includes oil. So you’re not a Baroness? Who gives a shyt, you’re the Golden Empress. Now make her pay.”
Amara said nothing, but she nodded an affirmative and stalked out to meet the towering usurper that’d dared dash the Standard’s dreams of ‘Mania dominance.
Greeting Singh’s arrival with an insolent smile, Valerie curled the fingers on her right hand together to ‘flick’ a mist of oily spray in the other brunette’s direction. “Need a moment to oil up, short-stuff?” she asked. “Or would you like me to do it for--”
Amara lunged high in search of a Side Headlock, unfortunately for her Stipanovic swished ‘round behind her and SMACKED both hands against that bronzed back. The shove was simple but strong, almost pitching Singh onto the floor of the Pit in a facedown sprawl before the former Eurasian Champion was able to catch her balance.
“You’ve still got a massive Raven-shaped chink in your armor.” Val noted when the seething Amara turned for another pass.
“I was NEVER afraid of that scrawny brat. Nor will I EVER be afraid of--”
Stipanovic lashed out with a kick that splashed rather than strike, the lithesome Angeleno spattering Singh from the thighs on down. “I don’t care if you’re not afraid of me…even if we both know that’s a lie.” Valerie smiled when Amara bristled. “But you will learn to put some respect on my name. Even if I have to squeeze it out of--”
Amara pounced and again Stipanovic was ready for her, this time with a simple Push Kick that caught the Empress in the sternum. Singh’s forward momentum should’ve put both ladies on their haunches, yet somehow Stems stayed upright with minimal backpedaling whereas Amara landed on her butt with a loud ‘PLOP!’
“This is ridiculous!” Amara smacked her palms into the oil to send miniature tidal waves in opposite directions. “This peasant’s pastime isn’t worthy of the Golden EmprNNGGHH!”
Fed up with the whining, Stipanovic leaned down and CRACKED Amara across the mouth with a Bytch Slap that earned two very different tones of ‘oh no she dint’s’ from Portia and the rest of those assembled. “Then quit, baby.” Val held brazen, smoldering eye contact with the gobsmacked champion. “If you’re too good for the oil then slink on out of here and beg Portia to get your next match set on Easy MoRRRRGHHH!”
Singh snatched a double handful of hair and yanked hard, effectively using it as an anchor as she clambered back to her feet. Halving the grip allowed her to land a few more hard slaps, then a fish-face that Singh deemed far more becoming of those insolent features. “Just who do you think you are?” she hissed at Stipanovic. “I don’t take orders from filth like you, not even in the depths of a sodden trash pit like OOFH-OOFFH!”
Valerie pumped pair of right hands into the shorter wrestler’s belly, forcing Amara to cede a few oily steps. She didn’t abandon the hair-hold though, meaning Valerie didn’t have to go far to drop a shoulder and thread that arm through her opponent’s legs. The abrupt transition to Fireman’s Carry startled Singh into a yelp that became an ‘OOOFFFFHH!’ when Stems tossed the Golden Empress onto the soft floor at the small, small cost of a few strands of hair. Valerie considered the sting in her scalp was absolutely a bargain because it meant she got a perfect view of the gasping ‘How dare you!’ look on Amara’s face when she PWAAAKED against the oily floor.
“Unworthy peasant!” Singh growled in the midst of scrambling back to verticality. “The tales of your suffering on this night will be the stuff of leg--”
CRAAAAAACK!
Even Baby couldn’t keep the sympathetic groan out of her mouth when Val laid a whistling overhand Slap atop Singh’s glossy décolletage. Pretty features twisted into a silent shriek worthy of a Grind House Double Feature, Amara could offer nothing more than a wheeze when Stipanovic hoisted her into the second Fireman’s Carry in less than a minute. Unlike the first example, this Carry was no quick pit stop on a trip to the canvas, Stems choosing instead to stroll around the Oil Pit to show off her burden for the Basement Dwellers.
“Steady yourself, Amara!” VanBuren called over the baying and howling of those assembled Harrenhal Hounds. “She doesn’t get to dictate pace, YOU’RE the Empress, YOU dictate pace!”
Val didn’t take too kindly to such talk so she strutted over to the edge nearest Baby and jostled the Fireman’s Carry a few times before she said, “Something you wanted to say to Amara, honey? Or did you have something to say to me?”
“I don’t talk to trash, I burn it.” Portia answered with a disdainful little sniff.
Stipanovic batted her eyes and chirped, “Wrong, sweetie. You don’t burn trash, you manage it.”
Delighted by POV’s incensed sputtering, Stems whipped around in an about-face that just so happened to flick a fine cloud of oily droplets down at the FAWN Original, a perfect parting gift as she returned to the middle of the Pit. “Ready to go for a spin, Empress?” Valerie teased the struggling brunette.
“Dehh…don’t you dareOOOHHHH WHAAAHHHH!”
The Angeleno clearly did dare, Stems demonstrating impressive balance as she turned, then twirled through an increasingly speedy Airplane Spin! This centrifugal cruelty earned a cheer from the crowd and a wail from Amara, the former coming to their collective feet while the latter was slowly but surely stretched perpendicular across Valerie’s shoulders. More than happy to toll the time Singh spent in this glorious gamine Gravitron, they counted off ‘ONE! TWO! THREE! FOUR! FIVE! SIX! SEVEN! EIGHT! NINE! TEN! ELEVEN! TWELVE! THIRTEEN!’
Stipanovic hit the brakes and slung Amara from her perch, the bewildered gold-clad battler crashing to the oil with a wet KER-THWHAP! As for Val, she didn’t emerge entirely unscathed as she had to spend the next few seconds clearing her head but she was still far better off than Amara, who was still looking up at the lights when Stems gave her thighs a loud slap and shouted, “IT’S TIME FOR THE ORLANDO SCISSOR MASSACRE!”
Dropping to a domineering seat above the other woman’s head, Stipanovic grabbed a double handful of hair and lifted Amara’s noggin off the floor so she could thread her thighs around that vulnerable neck. The Figure Four would come later, for now Valerie simply stretched her legs out full length, crossed her ankles and squeeeeeeeeeeeeeeezed until Singh started to thrash and twist.
“Tap out!” Stems pulled Amara’s hair a little harder to emphasize the demand. “Tap out before I squeeze your head off your shoulders!”
A gory, seasonal exaggeration to be sure, yet Singh couldn’t help but groan in concern as the pressure continued to mount.
The greased, golden-brown grappler tries to pry her way free, but such a task would be difficult in the best of conditions and these loathsome, slippery circumstances made it impossible. What wasn’t impossible was Valerie turning the pressure on the compression of her cranium up a notch.
“I took your gold,” Val growled, swiping a few long, dark locks off her glistening visage. “Now it’s time to take your swagger. By the way, Portia’s only going to take so many humiliations before she goes shopping for better.”
Valerie lifted on her palms to squeeze every little bit out of her Headscissors, pouring the pressure into Singh’s increasingly rosy features.
Lids fluttering over her dark eyes, it’s unclear Amara’s in a condition to understand VanBuren’s shouted instructions, though it could be that Baby’s experience cleaning up on the penthouse circuit in her beloved Monaco might not be transferable to a pit in the Madhouse.
Reaching blindly up and behind her, the Empress dragged her nails down Stems’ sides, drawing a wince and a chirp of pain from the near six-footer. Not nearly getting the results she’s after, a drained and glassy-eyed Amara raked her nails down the outer side of Stipanovic’s thighs next. Perhaps reflexively, the lower limbs loosened in response to the burning welt trails and Singh ‘birthed’ herself from between Val’s thighs, the oil helping her plop her head free.
As an angry Valerie rubbed at stinging stems, a bewildered Amara butt-scooted some distance between herself and the new Tag Team Champion.
“F*ckin’ wheel,” Singh mumbled to herself, spitting out baby oil, dismay and disgust on her face. Somehow Lenore set this up. For her amusement. Had to be. Using this Amazon bytch as a stand-in.
Amara rattled her head, sending streams of oil flying from the tips of her matted ebony locks, gray matter sloshing like her body in this goo after the prolonged Scissors. Some of her senses seemed to snap back into place as she pushed to her feet simultaneous to her foe.
Singh was far more the unsteady. She motioned Stipanovic forward, the Angeleno seemingly taking to the Pit like a Venice Beach sandy rumble. Singh bobbed her head to keep the Amazon’s target a moving one and when Valerie swung a Side Kick toward a temple, Amara’s able to duck under, surround Stipanovic’s planted gam and sweep it off the slippery surface.
Unable to remain upright from the force required to take Valerie off her feet, the Bollywood Bombshell rode a twisting Val down to a squishy landing on the oil-covered plastic and the thin cushioning beneath.
Scramble on, Amara ended up on top of a chest-down Val in a reverse straddle of the slick titleholder’s center. The Empress sent fist after right fist into the left thigh of her opponent, punishing part of Valerie’s most infamous weaponry. Stems flailed and groaned from the artillery THUMPING into her long, slender, sinewy lower limb.
Risking infringement charges by Kylie, Singh sank a claw into Valerie’s hammy, clamping her tines into the muscle and pushing down with her top hand to sink them in deeper. A squeak of pain emanates from Val as she tried to tug herself along the slippery blue surface and out from under the Bombshell.
But Amara’s got some Subcontinental junk in the trunk and Val remained a frustrated fighter. Her right leg continued to thrash, but the digits delving deep into the nerve bundle in her upper left thigh were deadening the use of her limb on that side and a look of worry began to grow.
The whipping right leg folded upward and a heel THUMPED into Amara’s shoulder, eliciting a grimace from the Empress. Hitting pay dirt once inspired Val to continue to use her heel as a hammer and a bruised Bollywood badass relented on her theft of the Farm Hand, instead intent on corralling Val’s lively leg.
Switching her kneeling straddle to a crouching one, and the positioning around Valerie’s right leg instead of her slender, wriggling waist, Singh slowed the thrashing, capturing the limb with both hands and quickly tugging it under an arm pit. Amara leeeeaned back with her newly won Single-Leg Crab, fighting to keep her balance as she curled the seemingly endless right leg of her foe. Adding a brutal twist of Valerie’s ankle finally earned the squeal of pain Amara’s been longing to hear.
With her left leg feeling like a sleeve of wet cement, even the oil wasn’t helping the anguished Stipanovic escape her leggy predicament.
“These things,” Amara panted, “are like anyone else’s. Twist them the right way and they’ll make you tap.”
Amara dropped to her knees, unable to keep her slippery soles beneath her. The pressure on Val’s spine released, Singh nevertheless had her leggy property neatly folded under an arm. She added a scissors around the stem, Amara’s own golden-brown weapons brought to bear then continued a new form of torture on Val’s working wheel with a Legbar.
The floundering Angeleno twisted her frame to reach an arm back, frantically grasping for any handhold, but the Empress remained out of range. Singh bowed and screwed and scissored the right leg until Valerie was yelping, nonsensically demanding her leg be let go.
“Uhhh…NO!” Amara shouted, sending another pulse through her Scissors and bending the stem further out of proper alignment. “But if you say the magic word,” she added.
“F*ck you,” Stipanovic verbally volleyed. “Took you out once…”
Another wrench of the right leg brought the brunette’s soliloquy to a stop.
Thankfully for fans of the new Tag Team Champion, her left leg was starting to twitch, this time on command. Regaining feeling and control, Val used it, rotating enough to bring the hammering heel down into the juncture of Amara’s scissoring thighs. The kitty catastrophe opened Amara’s legs as if on a spring and reflexively sent her hands from around Valerie’s opposite stem, instead to tend her throbbing crotch.
Both women dragged their glistening frames away from each other, folding protectively around their sore spots as each cursed under their breath. The strength and flexibility in Stems’ gams provided her an almost preternatural recovery time and it’s Val who’s up on her knees first, in a fighting stance, or a fighting kneel.
Amara remained seated, propping on her elbows, working the pulses from her center away as a gleaming Valerie approaches. She weakly kicked her legs outward in defense, the pain between limiting their ferocity. And while the effort slowed Stipanovic’s advance, it’s only a matter of time before Val had each of Singh’s legs tucked under her arms and pressed forward, lifting her foe’s limbs then booty off the slimy plastic covering, stacking Amara on her shoulders.
A fretful Singh tried to spin her way out of trouble, lifting one shoulder then the other as she rocked for her freedom, though no pin-fall would be forthcoming after three slaps of the oily surface.
Valerie stared down at the flustered Bombshell, a drop of the translucent goo dripping off her nose and onto Singh’s golden-brown belly.
“Let me show you how it’s done,” Val says, coolly, calmly.
Stems rose to her feet somewhat gingerly but successfully and spun in a 180, flipping Amara to her chest, immediately placing the Indian grappler in a backbreaking full Boston Crab that had Amara crying out within seconds, her vertebrae curled into a villainous ‘C’ shape. Singh sent her digits into her soaked, ebony locks, yanking to spread the pain.
“See the difference,” Valerie chided over her shoulder as she lowers deeper into her crouch.
Singh most certainly did, though she wasn’t about to admit a damned thing while she was mired in the depths of this scrawny Yankee’s bastardization of her own beloved Clut--“UUUNNNNNGGGGGGHHHH!” Amara’s internal anger curdled into external anguish, the gold-clad battler groaning aloud as Stipanovic slid north from the hollow of her back to just below her shoulders.
“Ask her. She‘s starting to sound like Alexis at the end of ‘Mania!” Val called to Merle, who’d been observing the oily action from the outside while maintaining a respectful (read: safe) distance from Fortune’s Favorite.
“What do you say, Amara?” the official called when Singh offered no immediate retort. “Do you need me to call it?”
“You won’t even consider it if you value your employment with this organization.” VanBuren opined without even glancing in his direction.
Merle didn’t much care for the sound of that but he felt obligated to protect his charges so he added, “What do you say, Amara?”
“I say this knobbly peasant isn’t fit to carry my palanqEEERRRRGGGGGHHH!”
Valerie continued her northern slide, Stems moving her seat from Singh’s shoulders to the back of the other brunette’s head. Actually it was more like the side of her head, as Amara twisted to one side so as to keep from having her features splattered all over the Pit floor. This ensured her ability to breathe for the time-being, yet it also allowed for an excellent bit of ‘cheek to cheek’ action as Singh found her features mashed between Stipanovic’s buns and the gleaming blue mat.
Much as the Gladiatrix photog appreciated that beautiful bit of object d’erriere, it was really the angle of Singh’s spine that was the most concerning as it’d been wrenched into a deep, unrelenting ‘C’ by the power of that leggy Crab. “Keep talking that shyt.” Stipanovic grunted from somewhere seemingly miles above the anguished Empress. “It may impress Baby but it’s not gonna get you outta this Pit.”
“I’LL GET OUT MYSELF!” Amara bellowed, her response a barely-restrained scream at this point. Just how she intended to do this was unknown, yet some or all of her strategy came to light when she crooked her fingers into claws and began raking them down Valerie’s lower legs with all the venom she could muster.
Stipanovic grimaced, shook her head ‘no’ and made Singh pay for the resistance by ‘thumping’ the slim curve of her backside against Amara’s cheek. The Empress hissed, then dished out several furious slaps to those damned legs before sinking a five-tined spade into the meat of Val’s right calf. Refusing to cede the high ground even if it meant wearing knee-high boots through Christmas, the Angeleno hoisted her haunches and brought them down once, twice, three times, Stipanovic literally using a callipygian cudgel to assault her trapped rival.
“GET YOUR ASS OFF ME!” Amara wailed after the latest round of Butt Bombs. “GET OFF ME AT ONCE OR I SWEAR I’LL NNNNNNNNNNGGGGGHH!”
Valerie did as bade, though she made no effort to relinquish the Boston Crab. Instead she inched back a little bit farther, then went up on tiptoe and dropped to her butt to wrench the Empress into a golden crescent via a nasty Backbreaker! Stipanovic released her opponent’s stems on impact, finally allowing the former Tag Team Champion to stretch out full length though this seemed to bring minimal relief to the groaning grappler.
CHIROBREAKER:
www.youtube.com/watch?v=95otpG8B8SM
Seated directly above Singh’s head, Stems ran both hands through her hair and busted out a cheery double bicep flex before she returned to verticality.
“Get up, Amara.” Portia shouted to flattened brunette. “Show her what happens to peasants who forget their pla--” Baby’s patrician features crumpled in dark disappointment when Stipanovic rolled Singh onto her back and collected an ankle in each hand.
“Uuuuuuhhhh…. no…NO!” Amara pleaded with her hands, the Bollywood Bombshell washing some windows in an effort to prevent another Low Blow or god forbid, another Boston Crab.
“No?” Valerie didn’t turn the Empress over, she did however twist the both of ‘em around so that the champ’s back was to VanBuren. “Is that a submission? Or are you hoping I’ll take pity on--”
“I spit on your pity, peasant.” Amara snapped without so much as a thought. She realized the error of her ways at once, Singh’s eyes going wide as she began to shake her head ‘no, no, no!’ “Wait, that’s not what I meant! Think about this Stipanovic, you don’t need to do anything hasOOOWW NNGHH!”
Valerie stretched Amara’s legs into a wide ‘V’, then sprang straight up and kicked her stupendous stems forward so that she came down with her heels THUMPING the pit of Singh’s stomach and her calves smashing down on the other brunette’s inner thighs and crotch!
Amara sat bolt upright her hands scrabbling past those encroaching gams so she could tend to her aching undercarriage. Whatever ministrations she might’ve administered proved short-lived because Stems promptly boxed her ears with a Bell Ringer and followed that with a scathing Bytch Slap, the CRA-CRAAACK of those oily impacts leaving Amara flat on her back with both arms thrown awkwardly overhead.
Stipanovic looked anything but awkward, indeed the towering Angeleno was the picture of slippery confidence as she pattered out a nonsense beat on the vulnerable vixen’s gulping tummy. “Lenore ever whip your ass this hard, honey?” Stems asked in the midst of sliding clear of the bronzed wreckage.
“Shuuuuuhhh… she never whipped anything.” Singh countered as she fought to rise to all fours. “Nothing but a vile smear campaign carried out by West and her idiot followOOOFFFFHHHH!”
Dissatisfied with the evasive (and quite possibly revisionist) answer, Valerie moved into position on the Standard’s right side and whipped her right leg up in a Rock-ette’s worthy high kick that proved infinitely more painful when the white-clad battler THWHAPPED her foot down on the small of Amara’s back!
AXE STOMP:
www.youtube.com/watch?v=QSKVKXoKHYw
“Clear the hell off you Jersey cheap-shot artist!” Portia demanded as her charge collapsed beneath Stems’ latest barrage. “She’s far too good to have to deal with your nagging little--”
“You wanna make a tag, Baby?” Stipanovic called over the blonde’s vitriol. “Just scramble on over here and try, I’d love to break those string beans you call legs!”
“Threaten me again and you’ll hear from my lawyer, idiot. And I’m sorry, didn’t I just tell you to leave my client alone? Hey, don‘t ignore me, Jersey. Don‘t you dare!”
Dismissing VanBuren with a speed that made the veteran’s blood boil, Val nudged Amara onto her back and collected her legs under each arm. The thought of another Boston Crab made Singh whine in distress, which wasn’t nearly enough to stop Stipanovic from swinging around and laying out on her back to slingshot the beleaguered Empress from the floor to the wall, Amara hitting the slick padding with a resounding THWHAP!
Face crimped in breathless hurt, Singh pushed away and turned around only to double over as violent spasm wracked her lower ba--“WATCH OUT, AMARA!”
Portia’s warning sounded half a heartbeat before Valerie rushed in and took to the skies, the agile Angeleno hooking her right leg across the nape of the brunette’s neck for a match ending Fame Legg-- Singh twisted into Stipanovic’s encroachment and stood up straight while simultaneously cinching her arms around the taller wrestler’s waist. Val had just enough time to mouth ‘Oh sh--” and then Amara hurled her down, the former Eurasian Champion fueling that massive Powerbomb with a heady mixture of spite and adrenaline. Val landed high and tight on the back of her head and shoulders, Stems folded into a Matchbook that didn’t unfold until several seconds after Singh collapsed to all fours a short distance away.
The Empress’ dark eyes showed a focused ferocity, but her aching spinal column made the crawl to a splattered, dazed Stems literally painfully slow. Reaching the dark-haired Amazon, Singh climbed aboard in a forward-facing straddle of her foe’s waist and wrapped a palm around Valerie’s throat. Not bothering to hide her blatant choke, the Indian grappler got the most out of her clenching the reddening neck of Stipanovic for as long as Merle allows.
When he reached ‘FOUR’, Amara removed her white-knuckle grip, fashioned the same right hand into a fist and pounded away, lowering a half-dozen straight rights between the peepers of the recently crowned tag champion.
With Val’s eyes going glassy and Merle starting to put on his ‘bossy pants’ again, Singh straightened to a full kneel and dropped her ample ass into the slender waist of the lanky Angeleno. Valerie jackknifed beneath the snarling Singh. With her foe’s upper half elevated, Amara wrapped her shimmering, golden-brown legs around Val’s ribcage, locking her ankles behind Stipanovic. She yanked the head of the brunette into a Guillotine Choke via her left arm while occasionally adding injury to injury with short, clipping right fists to the softly squirming Val.
From the sidelines, Portia chimed in for her charge.
“Mister…”
VanBuren realized she doesn’t know Merle’s last name even after all these years. Did people from Jersey deserve last names? She made due.
“Old man…ask that wench if she finally realizes who her better is.”
The official didn’t appreciate how he’s been brow-beaten but in the end did as he’s told, giving Val the opportunity to surrender before the Scissors and Choke left her an oily dishrag.
She’s able to shake her head a few inches to signal in the negative while writhing fitfully, then THUMPING rabbit punches to either side of the Bollywood Bombshell, Amara showing the effects after a half-dozen on either flank. With Singh distracted, Valerie’s able to flop backward and, with the help of the slippery, translucent goo, flip Amara over with her, Singh’s scissors broken simultaneous to her choke, the Empress sent sliding a few feet beyond her head.
The effort draining, Valerie’s slow to rise and she only made a seated position, her endless legs stretched out in front of her, when the Empress grabbed her noggin from behind, using the sopping mane of her foe as a handle. With both hands, she delivered Valerie’s face to the thinly-padded pit floor while flipping over a shoulder, Stipanovic’s features splashing into the slippery surface between her stems via a somersaulting Neck Snap. The impact sent Val whiplashing away from the impact, opening like an unfolding switchblade. The Amazon’s locks delivered a healthy spray of oil into the crowd as she did, the denizens of the front rows, some thrilled some appalled, forced to bring home some souvenir Johnson & Johnson’s within their attire.
Using her momentum to roll to her feet, Amara slipped and slid as she reached verticality but held her stance, grimacing and reaching a hand to her lower spine, the battle’s combatants showing the wear and tear and shine of the Pit.
Keeping things simple but oh so effective, the Bollywood Bombshell leapt into the air, spreading out like a flying squirrel and exploding across the long lean expanse of Val’s midriff with a sandwiching, splurshing Splash. The Subcontinental Siren flattened Stipanovic in perfect perpendicularity, ‘X’ marking the oily spot with Singh on top.
Amara pushed her palms against the glistening plastic to reach her knees on the side of one of the team title holders. She displayed all the cruel jealously of a woman who’s lost her prized possession to another, RAMMING knee after knee into Valerie’s ribs until Stipanovic was a sputtering wreck.
Having apparently softened her foe the appropriate amount, Singh shoved the groaning Val to her chest, it apparently time to mount her for the piece de resistance. But as Amara maneuvered, Valerie flashed out a blind Mule Kick and the heel plunges into Singh’s midriff, gutting the Empress. As Amara gasped and hugged her bronzed belly, the Angeleno crawled toward a pit wall. Val used the surface of the vertical plane to help herself get there, using it in fits and starts to rise and turn to find her rival.
A risen Amara was charging, an avalanche in the offing for the Amazon until Valerie pivoted and heaved Singh past, the Empress running headlong face-first into the side of the pit, the façade barely budging.
Unsurprisingly, it’s Amara suffering from the collision as she stumbled into a wobbly backpedal after the collision before being GORED by a charging Valerie. The leaping Spear folded Singh in a jackknife before being spread out in a shiny starfish in the middle of the pit, Portia turning away from the impact, perhaps hoping if she didn’t see the vicious tackle it won’t happen.
But it did and a somewhat stunned Val hovered on her haunches next to the splayed Empress, rolling the sore shoulder she’d used to impale the Bollywood Basher. She looked to the exclusive Madhouse crowd.
“Are we ready to finish this Pit Pretender?” she shouted.
The FAWNatics seemed more than happy for Valerie to either send Amara to beddy-bye or force Singh to frantically tap in subjugation.
Val pushed to her feet, toes squishing amidst the glistening pit floor. She stomped the bruised, golden-brown gut of the Bombshell then moved higher up Singh’s frame. At Amara’s neck, Stipanovic raised her right stem, grasping it behind the knee until her sole was pointed to the rafters in a vertical set of splits, Portia looking on in slack-jawed amazement at both the flexibility and balance.
Down like a guillotine the ridiculously long lower limb fell, the lead right gam CRASHING down across Amara’s throat like the fatal French blade in a split-leg version of a drop. The Indian grappler spasmed beneath the blow, her legs and pelvis thrusting upward before settling with a ‘splursh’ back to the pit floor.
If Val had left the limb in place, she might have gotten a mock ‘three’ count but the lithe, leggy Amazon knew a knockout or submission was the only way out of the oil and she slid her way to a reverse straddle of Singh’s chest, her shins planted atop Amara’s biceps, keeping her foe’s hands from making mischief. Peaking over her shoulder, she started to back her taut, comparatively petite patootie toward the wincing then frightful Singh’s chin.
“Never thought I was going to be the author of this Bollywood Ending did you?” Valerie asked with a shiny smirk. “But since I’m from L.A., let’s call it a Hollywood Ending.”
Val used the slimy goo to slip her cheeks and undercarriage atop Amara’s face, ready to deprive Singh of her oxygen and of her chance for retribution in the fateful Madhouse Pit.
Amara reacted as you might suspect a woman with a well founded hatred of the Madhouse and the Oil Pit in particular would, which was to say, very, very badly. Writhing like a snake with a broken back, she whipped her legs toward Val’s head over and over again while incessantly scrabbling for the brunette’s suffocating rump. And she certainly didn’t do it in silence either, the former Eurasian and Tag Champ burning lord knows how much oxygen in an insensate shriek as she was butted up beneath this pitiless Ass of Amontillado.
Stipanovic endured it all with a grim, hardworking smile, the Angeleno swatting away Singh’s desperate counter-Scissors at least half a dozen times before she put an end to them entirely with a flurry of quick punches to the belly. Her shins did most of the work keep Amara’s claws in check, but she provided additional reinforcements by catching hold of the other brunette’s wrists and thum-thum-THUMPING them against the floor of the Pit. Mounted in a utilitarian seat that was far more Deschain than Bates, Stems kept her gyrations to a minimum, with occasional adjustments to better seal Amara’s mouth and nose.
Galled at the thought of her Destroyer going out in such a humiliating manner, Portia slapped the outer wall of the Pit and called, “You’ve got this, Amara! She hasn’t got the will, wiles or ASS to keep you down! So calm down, conserve your air and throw this peasant into the dirt where she bel--”
Eyes locked on Fortune’s Favorite, Valerie set her buns to ‘paint shaker’ for a ten second butt buffing that had Singh bawling in subdued albeit undeniable humiliation. “She’s finished.” Stipanovic told VanBuren after her she’d slowed her roll. “Do you have the guts to throw in the towel for her, or are you going to walk away before she passes out?”
“She is most certainly not finished.” Portia countered at once. “Do you submit to this peasant, Amara?”
“MMMRRRRGHHHH!”
It sounded like a refusal and Merle confirmed the Empress’ continued participation by the weak shake of her head. “Match is still on, Val.” he told Stems.
“That’s the smartest thing that’s ever come out of your mouth.” Portia said to the official without actually glancing in his direction. “Now do the right thing and make that Jersey trash heap stop playing elevator music covers of my greatest hi--OH COME ON, that’s just gratuitous!”
Valerie tossed Amara’s wrists aside, balled her hands into fists and began to pwak-pwak-pwak away at Singh’s golden tummy with impunity. The belly bludgeoning was certainly unpleasant (as evidenced by Amara’s renewed mewling) but hardly a violation of the rules as closed fists to the body were legal in all FAWN contests. Portia damned well knew this, so Merle didn’t waste any energy explaining it to the increasingly angry VanBuren. Instead he called out, “Show me something, Amara! If you can’t get out I’ll have to call--”
Singh shot a hand into the air and waggled out a frantic ‘no, no, no!’ much to the relief of her fretting manager.
As for Val Stipanovic, she kept up the punches for another ten seconds or so before moving her hands to Amara’s inner thighs. Pushing her seat’s legs into a splayed ‘V’ Stems raised her right hand overhead and grabbed that wrist in her left hand, a sign that any Basement Dweller worth their salt recognized as the international call for a claw.
“Don’t. You. DARE!” Bay threatened the smiling battler. “I swear Stipanovic, if you bust out some shoddy knock-off--”
“AAAAAAARRRRRRRHHHHHHHH!” Amara sobbed in abject agony, her cry reverberating off those Val’s glistening glutes when the near six footer affixed that hooked grip to the center of her golden trunks!
No smiling now, Val worked the claw in short little bursts, the brunette kneading and gouging at the Empress’ vulnerable crotch. Portia pounded a fist against the top of the wall and every bit of encouragement she could muster, though she soon lost her enthusiasm for it as Singh’s resistance began to sputter and fade. After a few more seconds of muffled mewling, Baby swallowed the lump in her throat, then sighed in disgust and started away from the Pit. Her departure went unnoticed by Stipanovic until noise from the fans raised her attention. “Hey Baby, where ya goin’?” Valerie called over the din. “Don’t you wanna be here for this brat when she wakes OOOOWWWWWWW-HUUURRGGHHH---OOOFFFFHH!”
The Angeleno had shifted in her seat to taunt Fortune’s Favorite and even that breath of ass-free oxygen was cleared Singh’s senses enough for the Bollywood Bomber to sink her teeth into the other brunette’s right cheek!
Stems cried out and lurched forward, her non-clawin’ hand moving to the Pit floor for more leverage without giving up her boot-leg 911. This worked for a span of heartbeats before Amara kicked her legs up and backward to hook beneath Stems’ armpits. That made Valerie release the claw and clamp her arms down on Singh’s calves, the Tag Champ leeeeeeeaning back to secure the Reverse MatchboNO! Amara pushed up as Val pushed back so that the Gold Standard rolled backward onto her knees while Stipanovic finished on her back with Singh seated on her chest. Settling for a Half Matchbook where Stipanovic wanted a whole, Amara balled her free hand into a fist and PWAK-PWAK-PWAAAKED it against the juncture of Valerie’s thighs no less than half a dozen times!
“AAAHHHHH SHHHHHIIIIIIIT!” Stems wailed through Amara’s below the belt retribution. “VICIOUS BYTCH, GET YOUR ASS OFFA MMMMRRRPPPPPHHHH!”
Amara slid back and sat down with extreme prejudice, the former champ openly delighting in burying Stems beneath her gleaming bronzed backside. “Silence, peasant. Your Empress is working.” Singh curled her punchin’ hand into a slight scoop and alternated more than a dozen slaps between those squirming cheeks.
“WORK HER OVER, AMARA!” Portia bellowed an instant after she materialized by Merle’s side. “Show that Jersey slut what happens to everyone who defies the Gold Standard!”
Oblivious to Portia’s near desertion, Amara moved her percussive palm to Valerie’s undercarriage and increased the pace of her paddling. “Dehhh… did you think I was finished, peasant?” Singh made a point to swat that much harder when she heard / felt Stipanovic’s moans. “You may BEAT me, but you will never BREAK me! I wonder, can you muster the will to say the same?”
Feeling no particular need to wait on the peasant’s answer, Amara turned her hand sideways to deliver a single brusque karate chop to the champ’s groin! Valerie wailed and dragged fluttering hands down Singh’s back to no avail. Well, not no avail because Amara did toss her captured leg down, unfortunately it was only to prize Stems’ stems apart so she could ‘SMECK!’ a merciless claw between Valerie’s thighs!
“AAAAHHHHHHHH STAAAAAAHHHHB!” the Destroyer-sized bendy-back wailed into Amara’s golden briefs. “GHEDOFFAMYFAZE AYCANDBREEE-OOHHHHOOOHHHHOOHHHNNOOOO!”
Amara squeeeeeeeeeeeeezed all the tighter, her digging digits threatening to destroy the shiny lycra protecting Stems’ privates. “QUIT!” Amara demanded, her strident call leading the chorus of ‘TAP!’ chants that’d sprung up in the last couple minutes. “CEDE THE MATCH!” she paused, then echoed an order given to her when she’d once occupied a similarly humiliating position. “CEDE THE PIT!”
Valerie ‘shook’ her head no as best she could only to slap the oil with both hands as Amara continued to maul. “GHIB! AYGHIB, AYGHIB, AYGHIB!”
That was enough for Merle to call for the bell, but not quite enough for Amara, who was still bearing down when the Announcer called, “Ladies and gentlemen, your winner via submission… AMARA SINGH!”
Not about to stop taking out the frustrations of her Mania title loss and barely escaping a similar losing fate in the oil, Singh gave up her claw to partially satiate Merle but THUMPED her derriere up and down on Val’s increasingly stupor-filled face. The pounding of backside to mug knocked the remaining senses out of Stems while simultaneously sending oil splurshing in various directions, not to mention making Portia a very happy Manhattanite.
“AGAIN…AGAIN…AGAIN!” VanBuren shouted at the Bollywood Bombshell, no doubt living vicariously through the Indian beauty.
Only Merle’s tardy threat of a disqualification brought Singh’s hammering ass attack to an end, the weary Amara settling into a seat atop the flaccid Valerie’s face. Informed that’s not enough, she must remove herself from Stipanovic entirely, a smirking Singh rolled off and spread into an exhausted starfish next to the unconscious tag champion.
This Madhouse victory didn’t bring the gold back to the Gold Standard but perhaps it helped put a career low point in the rearview mirror and taught Leggs, Inc. their reign would be a VERY short one.
Wherever the loyalists of the best in women’s wrestling found themselves, they moved to the edge of their seats as one when a scratchy, low-tech version of Rod Stewart’s ‘Hot Legs’ blared from an old set of speakers in the upper reaches of the dark, dank Madhouse cellar, the amplifiers in this less-than-hallowed hall perhaps as old as Rod.
HOT LEGS:
www.youtube.com/watch?v=AHcjjxYbgNM
A heavy iron door opened with a ghoulish creak and from behind an Amazonian vision with olive skin and long dark locks emerges. In a skimpy, basic black bikini, the long, limber and lean and anything but basic Tag Team Champion moves the short distance across the cool cement, soles of her feet padding to the Pit’s edge, the battleground carved out of the center of chamber.
VALERIE STIPANOVIC
Wearing a gaudy gold and leather belt around the slender, extended expanse of her midriff, the leggy Angeleno turned to face the audience and stepped one foot onto the ladder leading her to the Pit floor eight feet below. Slowly she descended, reaching the glistening blue plastic of the lightly padded cavity.
She drops to her knees and scooped up handfuls of oil on each side, rubbing the translucent goo across her tawny frame, drawing appreciative hoots from the live portion of the crowd. Duly covered, she rose and moved to the side of the Pit farthest from the ladder.
As Stewart’s anthem faded, a chant grew in its place.
“LEGS…LEGS…LEGS!”
A nod to the team that included the Amazon, a titleholder after a Mania victory against tonight’s foe. It slowly transferred to “STEMS…STEMS…STEMS”, her personal nickname.
The Announcer waited until the mantra fades, if slightly.
“Tonight’s next match is scheduled for one fall with a thirty minute time limit and is fought under FAWN’s Oil Pit rules where a competitor can only win via submission or knockout. First. From Los Angeles, California, one of your NEW tag team champions…VALERIE “STEMS” STIPANOVIC!”
Now the distant arena crowd joins those in immediate attendance in showing their love for the statuesque dark-haired beauty whose task it was to beat for a second time a treacherous, duplicitous warrior she’s managed to survive only one month prior.
Showing no trepidation, Valerie unclasped her belt and raised it high to the growing appreciation from the audience. She tosses it up to an attendant at the top of the Pit wall and called out to her Golden foe.
“Get your ass down here, Amara. I’m going to make what Lenore did to you in this Pit seem like child’s play.”
It took but a split-second for the infamous crashing chords of 'The World is Not Enough' from Garbage to emanate from the ancient speakers.
THE WORLD IS NOT ENOUGH:
www.youtube.com/watch?v=8C5NLfYdZaE
“I know how to hurt. I know how to heal. I know what to show and what to conceal.”
I know when to talk. And I know when to touch. No one ever died from wanting too much…”
The reaction was instant and unanimous and when Portia VanBuren appeared from behind the same worn gate, the denizens of the Madhouse basement and those gathered in environs miles removed let their hatred fly. They buried the former superstar who had since become the organization’s premier manager and her salacious sellout under a torrent of animosity, the duo making their way to the verge of the Pit.
Fortune’s Favorite was flawless in her immaculate, white tennis togs, namely a form-fitting, Louis Vuitton tank top and short skirt with white socks and thousand-dollar tennies. Her beloved polo mallet Precious was mournfully absent, having been broken by the vile women who also snatched her team’s gilded prizes, grasping the title as FAWN’s top team while doing so.
PORTIA OPHELIA VANBUREN THE FOURTH
Moving to the ladder, Portia turned and embraced her charge, the golden-brown goddess, the Bollywood Bombshell, the Empress, all titles failing to fully capture the beauty and power of the woman, Amara Singh.
AMARA SINGH
The former tag champion glittered without the soon-to-be coating of oil, Amara glimmering in a scant, golden metallic bikini that accentuates her curvy figure and tawny skin.
Breaking free of her manager, she lowered herself down the ladder, soles eventually squishing into the saturated plastic. Refusing to lower herself to cheaply thrilling the crowd, Amara passed on layering herself in the slippery goop. It would happen soon enough when she went about tying the brat who had stolen her property in knots before making Val sob her surrender.
As Baby’s music fades, the Announcer makes official the Madhouse Pit’s second guest.
“And her opponent, accompanied above by her manager, Portia VanBuren the Fourth. Hailing from Cawnpore, India, the Golden Empress…AMARA SINGH!”
The Subcontinental Siren ignoreD the boos, dark eyes darting around her environs. The noticeable hint of unease she’s had since having touched the Pit floor remained, the horrific memories of what the Mistress of the Madhouse did to her washing over her senses like a tidal wave. Amara looks longingly at Portia above. Fortune’s Favorite pumped a fist back at the gulping Empress.
“Damn wheel.” Singh mutters as a horn sounds, the audible declaration of war made.
Her usual domineering mood quite soured by the Wheel’s hated slip-ulation, Amara Singh’s countenance was anything but regal when the bell sounded. Truth be told she looked simultaneously disgusted, embarrassed and concerned, an odd brew that did not go unnoticed by the lithesome brunette waiting on the other side.
Seemingly far less worried by the oil than her golden adversary, Valerie Stipanovic took a moment to swipe down her biceps, forearms and thighs before she padded her way to the center of their soft-sided arena. “Looks like you’ve seen a ghost, Amara.” Stems called out to the reluctant Empress. “Is it the oil that’s got you scared? Or these?” Val earned a loud roar from the Basement Dwellers when she bent down and casually ran an index finger from her ankle aaaaaaaaalll the way up the almost endless expanse of her right leg.
“Don’t give that Jersey freak-show any rent inside your head, Amara.” Portia spoke with a quiet confidence quite unlike her usual strident barking. “You’re better than her no matter the stipulation and that includes oil. So you’re not a Baroness? Who gives a shyt, you’re the Golden Empress. Now make her pay.”
Amara said nothing, but she nodded an affirmative and stalked out to meet the towering usurper that’d dared dash the Standard’s dreams of ‘Mania dominance.
Greeting Singh’s arrival with an insolent smile, Valerie curled the fingers on her right hand together to ‘flick’ a mist of oily spray in the other brunette’s direction. “Need a moment to oil up, short-stuff?” she asked. “Or would you like me to do it for--”
Amara lunged high in search of a Side Headlock, unfortunately for her Stipanovic swished ‘round behind her and SMACKED both hands against that bronzed back. The shove was simple but strong, almost pitching Singh onto the floor of the Pit in a facedown sprawl before the former Eurasian Champion was able to catch her balance.
“You’ve still got a massive Raven-shaped chink in your armor.” Val noted when the seething Amara turned for another pass.
“I was NEVER afraid of that scrawny brat. Nor will I EVER be afraid of--”
Stipanovic lashed out with a kick that splashed rather than strike, the lithesome Angeleno spattering Singh from the thighs on down. “I don’t care if you’re not afraid of me…even if we both know that’s a lie.” Valerie smiled when Amara bristled. “But you will learn to put some respect on my name. Even if I have to squeeze it out of--”
Amara pounced and again Stipanovic was ready for her, this time with a simple Push Kick that caught the Empress in the sternum. Singh’s forward momentum should’ve put both ladies on their haunches, yet somehow Stems stayed upright with minimal backpedaling whereas Amara landed on her butt with a loud ‘PLOP!’
“This is ridiculous!” Amara smacked her palms into the oil to send miniature tidal waves in opposite directions. “This peasant’s pastime isn’t worthy of the Golden EmprNNGGHH!”
Fed up with the whining, Stipanovic leaned down and CRACKED Amara across the mouth with a Bytch Slap that earned two very different tones of ‘oh no she dint’s’ from Portia and the rest of those assembled. “Then quit, baby.” Val held brazen, smoldering eye contact with the gobsmacked champion. “If you’re too good for the oil then slink on out of here and beg Portia to get your next match set on Easy MoRRRRGHHH!”
Singh snatched a double handful of hair and yanked hard, effectively using it as an anchor as she clambered back to her feet. Halving the grip allowed her to land a few more hard slaps, then a fish-face that Singh deemed far more becoming of those insolent features. “Just who do you think you are?” she hissed at Stipanovic. “I don’t take orders from filth like you, not even in the depths of a sodden trash pit like OOFH-OOFFH!”
Valerie pumped pair of right hands into the shorter wrestler’s belly, forcing Amara to cede a few oily steps. She didn’t abandon the hair-hold though, meaning Valerie didn’t have to go far to drop a shoulder and thread that arm through her opponent’s legs. The abrupt transition to Fireman’s Carry startled Singh into a yelp that became an ‘OOOFFFFHH!’ when Stems tossed the Golden Empress onto the soft floor at the small, small cost of a few strands of hair. Valerie considered the sting in her scalp was absolutely a bargain because it meant she got a perfect view of the gasping ‘How dare you!’ look on Amara’s face when she PWAAAKED against the oily floor.
“Unworthy peasant!” Singh growled in the midst of scrambling back to verticality. “The tales of your suffering on this night will be the stuff of leg--”
CRAAAAAACK!
Even Baby couldn’t keep the sympathetic groan out of her mouth when Val laid a whistling overhand Slap atop Singh’s glossy décolletage. Pretty features twisted into a silent shriek worthy of a Grind House Double Feature, Amara could offer nothing more than a wheeze when Stipanovic hoisted her into the second Fireman’s Carry in less than a minute. Unlike the first example, this Carry was no quick pit stop on a trip to the canvas, Stems choosing instead to stroll around the Oil Pit to show off her burden for the Basement Dwellers.
“Steady yourself, Amara!” VanBuren called over the baying and howling of those assembled Harrenhal Hounds. “She doesn’t get to dictate pace, YOU’RE the Empress, YOU dictate pace!”
Val didn’t take too kindly to such talk so she strutted over to the edge nearest Baby and jostled the Fireman’s Carry a few times before she said, “Something you wanted to say to Amara, honey? Or did you have something to say to me?”
“I don’t talk to trash, I burn it.” Portia answered with a disdainful little sniff.
Stipanovic batted her eyes and chirped, “Wrong, sweetie. You don’t burn trash, you manage it.”
Delighted by POV’s incensed sputtering, Stems whipped around in an about-face that just so happened to flick a fine cloud of oily droplets down at the FAWN Original, a perfect parting gift as she returned to the middle of the Pit. “Ready to go for a spin, Empress?” Valerie teased the struggling brunette.
“Dehh…don’t you dareOOOHHHH WHAAAHHHH!”
The Angeleno clearly did dare, Stems demonstrating impressive balance as she turned, then twirled through an increasingly speedy Airplane Spin! This centrifugal cruelty earned a cheer from the crowd and a wail from Amara, the former coming to their collective feet while the latter was slowly but surely stretched perpendicular across Valerie’s shoulders. More than happy to toll the time Singh spent in this glorious gamine Gravitron, they counted off ‘ONE! TWO! THREE! FOUR! FIVE! SIX! SEVEN! EIGHT! NINE! TEN! ELEVEN! TWELVE! THIRTEEN!’
Stipanovic hit the brakes and slung Amara from her perch, the bewildered gold-clad battler crashing to the oil with a wet KER-THWHAP! As for Val, she didn’t emerge entirely unscathed as she had to spend the next few seconds clearing her head but she was still far better off than Amara, who was still looking up at the lights when Stems gave her thighs a loud slap and shouted, “IT’S TIME FOR THE ORLANDO SCISSOR MASSACRE!”
Dropping to a domineering seat above the other woman’s head, Stipanovic grabbed a double handful of hair and lifted Amara’s noggin off the floor so she could thread her thighs around that vulnerable neck. The Figure Four would come later, for now Valerie simply stretched her legs out full length, crossed her ankles and squeeeeeeeeeeeeeeezed until Singh started to thrash and twist.
“Tap out!” Stems pulled Amara’s hair a little harder to emphasize the demand. “Tap out before I squeeze your head off your shoulders!”
A gory, seasonal exaggeration to be sure, yet Singh couldn’t help but groan in concern as the pressure continued to mount.
The greased, golden-brown grappler tries to pry her way free, but such a task would be difficult in the best of conditions and these loathsome, slippery circumstances made it impossible. What wasn’t impossible was Valerie turning the pressure on the compression of her cranium up a notch.
“I took your gold,” Val growled, swiping a few long, dark locks off her glistening visage. “Now it’s time to take your swagger. By the way, Portia’s only going to take so many humiliations before she goes shopping for better.”
Valerie lifted on her palms to squeeze every little bit out of her Headscissors, pouring the pressure into Singh’s increasingly rosy features.
Lids fluttering over her dark eyes, it’s unclear Amara’s in a condition to understand VanBuren’s shouted instructions, though it could be that Baby’s experience cleaning up on the penthouse circuit in her beloved Monaco might not be transferable to a pit in the Madhouse.
Reaching blindly up and behind her, the Empress dragged her nails down Stems’ sides, drawing a wince and a chirp of pain from the near six-footer. Not nearly getting the results she’s after, a drained and glassy-eyed Amara raked her nails down the outer side of Stipanovic’s thighs next. Perhaps reflexively, the lower limbs loosened in response to the burning welt trails and Singh ‘birthed’ herself from between Val’s thighs, the oil helping her plop her head free.
As an angry Valerie rubbed at stinging stems, a bewildered Amara butt-scooted some distance between herself and the new Tag Team Champion.
“F*ckin’ wheel,” Singh mumbled to herself, spitting out baby oil, dismay and disgust on her face. Somehow Lenore set this up. For her amusement. Had to be. Using this Amazon bytch as a stand-in.
Amara rattled her head, sending streams of oil flying from the tips of her matted ebony locks, gray matter sloshing like her body in this goo after the prolonged Scissors. Some of her senses seemed to snap back into place as she pushed to her feet simultaneous to her foe.
Singh was far more the unsteady. She motioned Stipanovic forward, the Angeleno seemingly taking to the Pit like a Venice Beach sandy rumble. Singh bobbed her head to keep the Amazon’s target a moving one and when Valerie swung a Side Kick toward a temple, Amara’s able to duck under, surround Stipanovic’s planted gam and sweep it off the slippery surface.
Unable to remain upright from the force required to take Valerie off her feet, the Bollywood Bombshell rode a twisting Val down to a squishy landing on the oil-covered plastic and the thin cushioning beneath.
Scramble on, Amara ended up on top of a chest-down Val in a reverse straddle of the slick titleholder’s center. The Empress sent fist after right fist into the left thigh of her opponent, punishing part of Valerie’s most infamous weaponry. Stems flailed and groaned from the artillery THUMPING into her long, slender, sinewy lower limb.
Risking infringement charges by Kylie, Singh sank a claw into Valerie’s hammy, clamping her tines into the muscle and pushing down with her top hand to sink them in deeper. A squeak of pain emanates from Val as she tried to tug herself along the slippery blue surface and out from under the Bombshell.
But Amara’s got some Subcontinental junk in the trunk and Val remained a frustrated fighter. Her right leg continued to thrash, but the digits delving deep into the nerve bundle in her upper left thigh were deadening the use of her limb on that side and a look of worry began to grow.
The whipping right leg folded upward and a heel THUMPED into Amara’s shoulder, eliciting a grimace from the Empress. Hitting pay dirt once inspired Val to continue to use her heel as a hammer and a bruised Bollywood badass relented on her theft of the Farm Hand, instead intent on corralling Val’s lively leg.
Switching her kneeling straddle to a crouching one, and the positioning around Valerie’s right leg instead of her slender, wriggling waist, Singh slowed the thrashing, capturing the limb with both hands and quickly tugging it under an arm pit. Amara leeeeaned back with her newly won Single-Leg Crab, fighting to keep her balance as she curled the seemingly endless right leg of her foe. Adding a brutal twist of Valerie’s ankle finally earned the squeal of pain Amara’s been longing to hear.
With her left leg feeling like a sleeve of wet cement, even the oil wasn’t helping the anguished Stipanovic escape her leggy predicament.
“These things,” Amara panted, “are like anyone else’s. Twist them the right way and they’ll make you tap.”
Amara dropped to her knees, unable to keep her slippery soles beneath her. The pressure on Val’s spine released, Singh nevertheless had her leggy property neatly folded under an arm. She added a scissors around the stem, Amara’s own golden-brown weapons brought to bear then continued a new form of torture on Val’s working wheel with a Legbar.
The floundering Angeleno twisted her frame to reach an arm back, frantically grasping for any handhold, but the Empress remained out of range. Singh bowed and screwed and scissored the right leg until Valerie was yelping, nonsensically demanding her leg be let go.
“Uhhh…NO!” Amara shouted, sending another pulse through her Scissors and bending the stem further out of proper alignment. “But if you say the magic word,” she added.
“F*ck you,” Stipanovic verbally volleyed. “Took you out once…”
Another wrench of the right leg brought the brunette’s soliloquy to a stop.
Thankfully for fans of the new Tag Team Champion, her left leg was starting to twitch, this time on command. Regaining feeling and control, Val used it, rotating enough to bring the hammering heel down into the juncture of Amara’s scissoring thighs. The kitty catastrophe opened Amara’s legs as if on a spring and reflexively sent her hands from around Valerie’s opposite stem, instead to tend her throbbing crotch.
Both women dragged their glistening frames away from each other, folding protectively around their sore spots as each cursed under their breath. The strength and flexibility in Stems’ gams provided her an almost preternatural recovery time and it’s Val who’s up on her knees first, in a fighting stance, or a fighting kneel.
Amara remained seated, propping on her elbows, working the pulses from her center away as a gleaming Valerie approaches. She weakly kicked her legs outward in defense, the pain between limiting their ferocity. And while the effort slowed Stipanovic’s advance, it’s only a matter of time before Val had each of Singh’s legs tucked under her arms and pressed forward, lifting her foe’s limbs then booty off the slimy plastic covering, stacking Amara on her shoulders.
A fretful Singh tried to spin her way out of trouble, lifting one shoulder then the other as she rocked for her freedom, though no pin-fall would be forthcoming after three slaps of the oily surface.
Valerie stared down at the flustered Bombshell, a drop of the translucent goo dripping off her nose and onto Singh’s golden-brown belly.
“Let me show you how it’s done,” Val says, coolly, calmly.
Stems rose to her feet somewhat gingerly but successfully and spun in a 180, flipping Amara to her chest, immediately placing the Indian grappler in a backbreaking full Boston Crab that had Amara crying out within seconds, her vertebrae curled into a villainous ‘C’ shape. Singh sent her digits into her soaked, ebony locks, yanking to spread the pain.
“See the difference,” Valerie chided over her shoulder as she lowers deeper into her crouch.
Singh most certainly did, though she wasn’t about to admit a damned thing while she was mired in the depths of this scrawny Yankee’s bastardization of her own beloved Clut--“UUUNNNNNGGGGGGHHHH!” Amara’s internal anger curdled into external anguish, the gold-clad battler groaning aloud as Stipanovic slid north from the hollow of her back to just below her shoulders.
“Ask her. She‘s starting to sound like Alexis at the end of ‘Mania!” Val called to Merle, who’d been observing the oily action from the outside while maintaining a respectful (read: safe) distance from Fortune’s Favorite.
“What do you say, Amara?” the official called when Singh offered no immediate retort. “Do you need me to call it?”
“You won’t even consider it if you value your employment with this organization.” VanBuren opined without even glancing in his direction.
Merle didn’t much care for the sound of that but he felt obligated to protect his charges so he added, “What do you say, Amara?”
“I say this knobbly peasant isn’t fit to carry my palanqEEERRRRGGGGGHHH!”
Valerie continued her northern slide, Stems moving her seat from Singh’s shoulders to the back of the other brunette’s head. Actually it was more like the side of her head, as Amara twisted to one side so as to keep from having her features splattered all over the Pit floor. This ensured her ability to breathe for the time-being, yet it also allowed for an excellent bit of ‘cheek to cheek’ action as Singh found her features mashed between Stipanovic’s buns and the gleaming blue mat.
Much as the Gladiatrix photog appreciated that beautiful bit of object d’erriere, it was really the angle of Singh’s spine that was the most concerning as it’d been wrenched into a deep, unrelenting ‘C’ by the power of that leggy Crab. “Keep talking that shyt.” Stipanovic grunted from somewhere seemingly miles above the anguished Empress. “It may impress Baby but it’s not gonna get you outta this Pit.”
“I’LL GET OUT MYSELF!” Amara bellowed, her response a barely-restrained scream at this point. Just how she intended to do this was unknown, yet some or all of her strategy came to light when she crooked her fingers into claws and began raking them down Valerie’s lower legs with all the venom she could muster.
Stipanovic grimaced, shook her head ‘no’ and made Singh pay for the resistance by ‘thumping’ the slim curve of her backside against Amara’s cheek. The Empress hissed, then dished out several furious slaps to those damned legs before sinking a five-tined spade into the meat of Val’s right calf. Refusing to cede the high ground even if it meant wearing knee-high boots through Christmas, the Angeleno hoisted her haunches and brought them down once, twice, three times, Stipanovic literally using a callipygian cudgel to assault her trapped rival.
“GET YOUR ASS OFF ME!” Amara wailed after the latest round of Butt Bombs. “GET OFF ME AT ONCE OR I SWEAR I’LL NNNNNNNNNNGGGGGHH!”
Valerie did as bade, though she made no effort to relinquish the Boston Crab. Instead she inched back a little bit farther, then went up on tiptoe and dropped to her butt to wrench the Empress into a golden crescent via a nasty Backbreaker! Stipanovic released her opponent’s stems on impact, finally allowing the former Tag Team Champion to stretch out full length though this seemed to bring minimal relief to the groaning grappler.
CHIROBREAKER:
www.youtube.com/watch?v=95otpG8B8SM
Seated directly above Singh’s head, Stems ran both hands through her hair and busted out a cheery double bicep flex before she returned to verticality.
“Get up, Amara.” Portia shouted to flattened brunette. “Show her what happens to peasants who forget their pla--” Baby’s patrician features crumpled in dark disappointment when Stipanovic rolled Singh onto her back and collected an ankle in each hand.
“Uuuuuuhhhh…. no…NO!” Amara pleaded with her hands, the Bollywood Bombshell washing some windows in an effort to prevent another Low Blow or god forbid, another Boston Crab.
“No?” Valerie didn’t turn the Empress over, she did however twist the both of ‘em around so that the champ’s back was to VanBuren. “Is that a submission? Or are you hoping I’ll take pity on--”
“I spit on your pity, peasant.” Amara snapped without so much as a thought. She realized the error of her ways at once, Singh’s eyes going wide as she began to shake her head ‘no, no, no!’ “Wait, that’s not what I meant! Think about this Stipanovic, you don’t need to do anything hasOOOWW NNGHH!”
Valerie stretched Amara’s legs into a wide ‘V’, then sprang straight up and kicked her stupendous stems forward so that she came down with her heels THUMPING the pit of Singh’s stomach and her calves smashing down on the other brunette’s inner thighs and crotch!
Amara sat bolt upright her hands scrabbling past those encroaching gams so she could tend to her aching undercarriage. Whatever ministrations she might’ve administered proved short-lived because Stems promptly boxed her ears with a Bell Ringer and followed that with a scathing Bytch Slap, the CRA-CRAAACK of those oily impacts leaving Amara flat on her back with both arms thrown awkwardly overhead.
Stipanovic looked anything but awkward, indeed the towering Angeleno was the picture of slippery confidence as she pattered out a nonsense beat on the vulnerable vixen’s gulping tummy. “Lenore ever whip your ass this hard, honey?” Stems asked in the midst of sliding clear of the bronzed wreckage.
“Shuuuuuhhh… she never whipped anything.” Singh countered as she fought to rise to all fours. “Nothing but a vile smear campaign carried out by West and her idiot followOOOFFFFHHHH!”
Dissatisfied with the evasive (and quite possibly revisionist) answer, Valerie moved into position on the Standard’s right side and whipped her right leg up in a Rock-ette’s worthy high kick that proved infinitely more painful when the white-clad battler THWHAPPED her foot down on the small of Amara’s back!
AXE STOMP:
www.youtube.com/watch?v=QSKVKXoKHYw
“Clear the hell off you Jersey cheap-shot artist!” Portia demanded as her charge collapsed beneath Stems’ latest barrage. “She’s far too good to have to deal with your nagging little--”
“You wanna make a tag, Baby?” Stipanovic called over the blonde’s vitriol. “Just scramble on over here and try, I’d love to break those string beans you call legs!”
“Threaten me again and you’ll hear from my lawyer, idiot. And I’m sorry, didn’t I just tell you to leave my client alone? Hey, don‘t ignore me, Jersey. Don‘t you dare!”
Dismissing VanBuren with a speed that made the veteran’s blood boil, Val nudged Amara onto her back and collected her legs under each arm. The thought of another Boston Crab made Singh whine in distress, which wasn’t nearly enough to stop Stipanovic from swinging around and laying out on her back to slingshot the beleaguered Empress from the floor to the wall, Amara hitting the slick padding with a resounding THWHAP!
Face crimped in breathless hurt, Singh pushed away and turned around only to double over as violent spasm wracked her lower ba--“WATCH OUT, AMARA!”
Portia’s warning sounded half a heartbeat before Valerie rushed in and took to the skies, the agile Angeleno hooking her right leg across the nape of the brunette’s neck for a match ending Fame Legg-- Singh twisted into Stipanovic’s encroachment and stood up straight while simultaneously cinching her arms around the taller wrestler’s waist. Val had just enough time to mouth ‘Oh sh--” and then Amara hurled her down, the former Eurasian Champion fueling that massive Powerbomb with a heady mixture of spite and adrenaline. Val landed high and tight on the back of her head and shoulders, Stems folded into a Matchbook that didn’t unfold until several seconds after Singh collapsed to all fours a short distance away.
The Empress’ dark eyes showed a focused ferocity, but her aching spinal column made the crawl to a splattered, dazed Stems literally painfully slow. Reaching the dark-haired Amazon, Singh climbed aboard in a forward-facing straddle of her foe’s waist and wrapped a palm around Valerie’s throat. Not bothering to hide her blatant choke, the Indian grappler got the most out of her clenching the reddening neck of Stipanovic for as long as Merle allows.
When he reached ‘FOUR’, Amara removed her white-knuckle grip, fashioned the same right hand into a fist and pounded away, lowering a half-dozen straight rights between the peepers of the recently crowned tag champion.
With Val’s eyes going glassy and Merle starting to put on his ‘bossy pants’ again, Singh straightened to a full kneel and dropped her ample ass into the slender waist of the lanky Angeleno. Valerie jackknifed beneath the snarling Singh. With her foe’s upper half elevated, Amara wrapped her shimmering, golden-brown legs around Val’s ribcage, locking her ankles behind Stipanovic. She yanked the head of the brunette into a Guillotine Choke via her left arm while occasionally adding injury to injury with short, clipping right fists to the softly squirming Val.
From the sidelines, Portia chimed in for her charge.
“Mister…”
VanBuren realized she doesn’t know Merle’s last name even after all these years. Did people from Jersey deserve last names? She made due.
“Old man…ask that wench if she finally realizes who her better is.”
The official didn’t appreciate how he’s been brow-beaten but in the end did as he’s told, giving Val the opportunity to surrender before the Scissors and Choke left her an oily dishrag.
She’s able to shake her head a few inches to signal in the negative while writhing fitfully, then THUMPING rabbit punches to either side of the Bollywood Bombshell, Amara showing the effects after a half-dozen on either flank. With Singh distracted, Valerie’s able to flop backward and, with the help of the slippery, translucent goo, flip Amara over with her, Singh’s scissors broken simultaneous to her choke, the Empress sent sliding a few feet beyond her head.
The effort draining, Valerie’s slow to rise and she only made a seated position, her endless legs stretched out in front of her, when the Empress grabbed her noggin from behind, using the sopping mane of her foe as a handle. With both hands, she delivered Valerie’s face to the thinly-padded pit floor while flipping over a shoulder, Stipanovic’s features splashing into the slippery surface between her stems via a somersaulting Neck Snap. The impact sent Val whiplashing away from the impact, opening like an unfolding switchblade. The Amazon’s locks delivered a healthy spray of oil into the crowd as she did, the denizens of the front rows, some thrilled some appalled, forced to bring home some souvenir Johnson & Johnson’s within their attire.
Using her momentum to roll to her feet, Amara slipped and slid as she reached verticality but held her stance, grimacing and reaching a hand to her lower spine, the battle’s combatants showing the wear and tear and shine of the Pit.
Keeping things simple but oh so effective, the Bollywood Bombshell leapt into the air, spreading out like a flying squirrel and exploding across the long lean expanse of Val’s midriff with a sandwiching, splurshing Splash. The Subcontinental Siren flattened Stipanovic in perfect perpendicularity, ‘X’ marking the oily spot with Singh on top.
Amara pushed her palms against the glistening plastic to reach her knees on the side of one of the team title holders. She displayed all the cruel jealously of a woman who’s lost her prized possession to another, RAMMING knee after knee into Valerie’s ribs until Stipanovic was a sputtering wreck.
Having apparently softened her foe the appropriate amount, Singh shoved the groaning Val to her chest, it apparently time to mount her for the piece de resistance. But as Amara maneuvered, Valerie flashed out a blind Mule Kick and the heel plunges into Singh’s midriff, gutting the Empress. As Amara gasped and hugged her bronzed belly, the Angeleno crawled toward a pit wall. Val used the surface of the vertical plane to help herself get there, using it in fits and starts to rise and turn to find her rival.
A risen Amara was charging, an avalanche in the offing for the Amazon until Valerie pivoted and heaved Singh past, the Empress running headlong face-first into the side of the pit, the façade barely budging.
Unsurprisingly, it’s Amara suffering from the collision as she stumbled into a wobbly backpedal after the collision before being GORED by a charging Valerie. The leaping Spear folded Singh in a jackknife before being spread out in a shiny starfish in the middle of the pit, Portia turning away from the impact, perhaps hoping if she didn’t see the vicious tackle it won’t happen.
But it did and a somewhat stunned Val hovered on her haunches next to the splayed Empress, rolling the sore shoulder she’d used to impale the Bollywood Basher. She looked to the exclusive Madhouse crowd.
“Are we ready to finish this Pit Pretender?” she shouted.
The FAWNatics seemed more than happy for Valerie to either send Amara to beddy-bye or force Singh to frantically tap in subjugation.
Val pushed to her feet, toes squishing amidst the glistening pit floor. She stomped the bruised, golden-brown gut of the Bombshell then moved higher up Singh’s frame. At Amara’s neck, Stipanovic raised her right stem, grasping it behind the knee until her sole was pointed to the rafters in a vertical set of splits, Portia looking on in slack-jawed amazement at both the flexibility and balance.
Down like a guillotine the ridiculously long lower limb fell, the lead right gam CRASHING down across Amara’s throat like the fatal French blade in a split-leg version of a drop. The Indian grappler spasmed beneath the blow, her legs and pelvis thrusting upward before settling with a ‘splursh’ back to the pit floor.
If Val had left the limb in place, she might have gotten a mock ‘three’ count but the lithe, leggy Amazon knew a knockout or submission was the only way out of the oil and she slid her way to a reverse straddle of Singh’s chest, her shins planted atop Amara’s biceps, keeping her foe’s hands from making mischief. Peaking over her shoulder, she started to back her taut, comparatively petite patootie toward the wincing then frightful Singh’s chin.
“Never thought I was going to be the author of this Bollywood Ending did you?” Valerie asked with a shiny smirk. “But since I’m from L.A., let’s call it a Hollywood Ending.”
Val used the slimy goo to slip her cheeks and undercarriage atop Amara’s face, ready to deprive Singh of her oxygen and of her chance for retribution in the fateful Madhouse Pit.
Amara reacted as you might suspect a woman with a well founded hatred of the Madhouse and the Oil Pit in particular would, which was to say, very, very badly. Writhing like a snake with a broken back, she whipped her legs toward Val’s head over and over again while incessantly scrabbling for the brunette’s suffocating rump. And she certainly didn’t do it in silence either, the former Eurasian and Tag Champ burning lord knows how much oxygen in an insensate shriek as she was butted up beneath this pitiless Ass of Amontillado.
Stipanovic endured it all with a grim, hardworking smile, the Angeleno swatting away Singh’s desperate counter-Scissors at least half a dozen times before she put an end to them entirely with a flurry of quick punches to the belly. Her shins did most of the work keep Amara’s claws in check, but she provided additional reinforcements by catching hold of the other brunette’s wrists and thum-thum-THUMPING them against the floor of the Pit. Mounted in a utilitarian seat that was far more Deschain than Bates, Stems kept her gyrations to a minimum, with occasional adjustments to better seal Amara’s mouth and nose.
Galled at the thought of her Destroyer going out in such a humiliating manner, Portia slapped the outer wall of the Pit and called, “You’ve got this, Amara! She hasn’t got the will, wiles or ASS to keep you down! So calm down, conserve your air and throw this peasant into the dirt where she bel--”
Eyes locked on Fortune’s Favorite, Valerie set her buns to ‘paint shaker’ for a ten second butt buffing that had Singh bawling in subdued albeit undeniable humiliation. “She’s finished.” Stipanovic told VanBuren after her she’d slowed her roll. “Do you have the guts to throw in the towel for her, or are you going to walk away before she passes out?”
“She is most certainly not finished.” Portia countered at once. “Do you submit to this peasant, Amara?”
“MMMRRRRGHHHH!”
It sounded like a refusal and Merle confirmed the Empress’ continued participation by the weak shake of her head. “Match is still on, Val.” he told Stems.
“That’s the smartest thing that’s ever come out of your mouth.” Portia said to the official without actually glancing in his direction. “Now do the right thing and make that Jersey trash heap stop playing elevator music covers of my greatest hi--OH COME ON, that’s just gratuitous!”
Valerie tossed Amara’s wrists aside, balled her hands into fists and began to pwak-pwak-pwak away at Singh’s golden tummy with impunity. The belly bludgeoning was certainly unpleasant (as evidenced by Amara’s renewed mewling) but hardly a violation of the rules as closed fists to the body were legal in all FAWN contests. Portia damned well knew this, so Merle didn’t waste any energy explaining it to the increasingly angry VanBuren. Instead he called out, “Show me something, Amara! If you can’t get out I’ll have to call--”
Singh shot a hand into the air and waggled out a frantic ‘no, no, no!’ much to the relief of her fretting manager.
As for Val Stipanovic, she kept up the punches for another ten seconds or so before moving her hands to Amara’s inner thighs. Pushing her seat’s legs into a splayed ‘V’ Stems raised her right hand overhead and grabbed that wrist in her left hand, a sign that any Basement Dweller worth their salt recognized as the international call for a claw.
“Don’t. You. DARE!” Bay threatened the smiling battler. “I swear Stipanovic, if you bust out some shoddy knock-off--”
“AAAAAAARRRRRRRHHHHHHHH!” Amara sobbed in abject agony, her cry reverberating off those Val’s glistening glutes when the near six footer affixed that hooked grip to the center of her golden trunks!
No smiling now, Val worked the claw in short little bursts, the brunette kneading and gouging at the Empress’ vulnerable crotch. Portia pounded a fist against the top of the wall and every bit of encouragement she could muster, though she soon lost her enthusiasm for it as Singh’s resistance began to sputter and fade. After a few more seconds of muffled mewling, Baby swallowed the lump in her throat, then sighed in disgust and started away from the Pit. Her departure went unnoticed by Stipanovic until noise from the fans raised her attention. “Hey Baby, where ya goin’?” Valerie called over the din. “Don’t you wanna be here for this brat when she wakes OOOOWWWWWWW-HUUURRGGHHH---OOOFFFFHH!”
The Angeleno had shifted in her seat to taunt Fortune’s Favorite and even that breath of ass-free oxygen was cleared Singh’s senses enough for the Bollywood Bomber to sink her teeth into the other brunette’s right cheek!
Stems cried out and lurched forward, her non-clawin’ hand moving to the Pit floor for more leverage without giving up her boot-leg 911. This worked for a span of heartbeats before Amara kicked her legs up and backward to hook beneath Stems’ armpits. That made Valerie release the claw and clamp her arms down on Singh’s calves, the Tag Champ leeeeeeeaning back to secure the Reverse MatchboNO! Amara pushed up as Val pushed back so that the Gold Standard rolled backward onto her knees while Stipanovic finished on her back with Singh seated on her chest. Settling for a Half Matchbook where Stipanovic wanted a whole, Amara balled her free hand into a fist and PWAK-PWAK-PWAAAKED it against the juncture of Valerie’s thighs no less than half a dozen times!
“AAAHHHHH SHHHHHIIIIIIIT!” Stems wailed through Amara’s below the belt retribution. “VICIOUS BYTCH, GET YOUR ASS OFFA MMMMRRRPPPPPHHHH!”
Amara slid back and sat down with extreme prejudice, the former champ openly delighting in burying Stems beneath her gleaming bronzed backside. “Silence, peasant. Your Empress is working.” Singh curled her punchin’ hand into a slight scoop and alternated more than a dozen slaps between those squirming cheeks.
“WORK HER OVER, AMARA!” Portia bellowed an instant after she materialized by Merle’s side. “Show that Jersey slut what happens to everyone who defies the Gold Standard!”
Oblivious to Portia’s near desertion, Amara moved her percussive palm to Valerie’s undercarriage and increased the pace of her paddling. “Dehhh… did you think I was finished, peasant?” Singh made a point to swat that much harder when she heard / felt Stipanovic’s moans. “You may BEAT me, but you will never BREAK me! I wonder, can you muster the will to say the same?”
Feeling no particular need to wait on the peasant’s answer, Amara turned her hand sideways to deliver a single brusque karate chop to the champ’s groin! Valerie wailed and dragged fluttering hands down Singh’s back to no avail. Well, not no avail because Amara did toss her captured leg down, unfortunately it was only to prize Stems’ stems apart so she could ‘SMECK!’ a merciless claw between Valerie’s thighs!
“AAAAHHHHHHHH STAAAAAAHHHHB!” the Destroyer-sized bendy-back wailed into Amara’s golden briefs. “GHEDOFFAMYFAZE AYCANDBREEE-OOHHHHOOOHHHHOOHHHNNOOOO!”
Amara squeeeeeeeeeeeeezed all the tighter, her digging digits threatening to destroy the shiny lycra protecting Stems’ privates. “QUIT!” Amara demanded, her strident call leading the chorus of ‘TAP!’ chants that’d sprung up in the last couple minutes. “CEDE THE MATCH!” she paused, then echoed an order given to her when she’d once occupied a similarly humiliating position. “CEDE THE PIT!”
Valerie ‘shook’ her head no as best she could only to slap the oil with both hands as Amara continued to maul. “GHIB! AYGHIB, AYGHIB, AYGHIB!”
That was enough for Merle to call for the bell, but not quite enough for Amara, who was still bearing down when the Announcer called, “Ladies and gentlemen, your winner via submission… AMARA SINGH!”
Not about to stop taking out the frustrations of her Mania title loss and barely escaping a similar losing fate in the oil, Singh gave up her claw to partially satiate Merle but THUMPED her derriere up and down on Val’s increasingly stupor-filled face. The pounding of backside to mug knocked the remaining senses out of Stems while simultaneously sending oil splurshing in various directions, not to mention making Portia a very happy Manhattanite.
“AGAIN…AGAIN…AGAIN!” VanBuren shouted at the Bollywood Bombshell, no doubt living vicariously through the Indian beauty.
Only Merle’s tardy threat of a disqualification brought Singh’s hammering ass attack to an end, the weary Amara settling into a seat atop the flaccid Valerie’s face. Informed that’s not enough, she must remove herself from Stipanovic entirely, a smirking Singh rolled off and spread into an exhausted starfish next to the unconscious tag champion.
This Madhouse victory didn’t bring the gold back to the Gold Standard but perhaps it helped put a career low point in the rearview mirror and taught Leggs, Inc. their reign would be a VERY short one.