Post by hawkeye on Sept 3, 2023 17:57:41 GMT
It wasn't even noted by the sports press when the name of Tiffani Dubois simply ceased to be included on the FAWN Active Talent roster more than a year ago. Her tenure in the league had been short-lived and wholly unmemorable; just another pretty face...talented, yes, but seemingly nothing special. FAWN has an abundance of pretty faces, most of them exceptionally special.
Her departure generated only a brief flurry of comment in the locker room, and that mostly over the fact that she had rather haughtily informed the front office (via a letter hand-delivered by her chauffeur, no less) that she was taking a sabbatical of indeterminate length from FAWN, but that she would resume her contract when she finally decided to return. Ordinarily, such hubris would have been met with laughter from the top brass, followed by a call to the legal department to terminate the contract over breach on the part of the wrestler.
But the letter found itself on the desk of Anciline de Cyr, and the French aristocrat understood that the wealthy...and the Dubois family are very, very wealthy...operate by a different code of rules. If "The Socialite", as Tiffani dubbed herself for her ring career, wished time off, then she shall have it. Bethany Christian went along with it because she had no other use for Dubois at that time, but she didn't like to toss away a potential future asset. And so, Tiffani had her sabbatical.
It might surprise most that the gilded auburn haired beauty didn't rush to the Cape, or to Turks and Caicos, or the Riviera, as others of her lofty station so often do, to sulk over the non-starter her wrestling career had thus far proven to be. Tiffani Dubois could be as much of a spoiled, self-centered brat as any other trust fund baby, but she also possesses the rare ability of self-awareness. And looking deeply at herself, she realized the intolerable truth: She was a good enough wrestler, but not a great one, and she certainly wasn't the greatest.
Luckily, there was a way to rectify that. It would require determination, effort, and lots and lots of money.
Her daddy had built her a private training facility, complete with a ring, in the mansion he had given her for her 21st birthday, right next door to the Dubois estate in Connecticut, when she first announced that she wanted to be a professional wrestler. Then, she had hired the top trainers on the East Coast to teach her the art of wrestling. But now, she wasn't being so geographically limited...she imported some of the world's best trainers, men and women from across North America, Mexico, Japan, Kenya, Brazil, Germany, and elsewhere. And she threw herself into her training, seven days a week for a solid year, with no outside distractions. The New Haven social scene was decidedly duller for her absence.
Growing up, she had always been Number One, always the best. Daddy's money had seen to that. And now money was going to make her the best in FAWN, and thus the best in the world.
But the thousands of fans who packed the arena weren't talking about her return to the ring tonight. Most had never heard of her before, or had simply forgotten her name. Indeed, the simple fact was, the only name being discussed by the fans (and the media) was Ivy Armstrong. The Second Generation Siren, one of FAWN's biggest stars, was making one of her all-too-rare returns to the promotion, following nearly two years abroad in Japan and Australia, where she was one of the biggest headliners, and only occasionally finding the time to return to the U.S. for one of FAWN's major events. Bethany offered to book Ivy against one of FAWN's top talents for her first match, but the 'Bama Slamma said she wanted to "get the feel for homegrown gals again," so she wanted to start slow, against a mid-carder. When Tiffani heard this, she immediately rang Bethany and not only announced her own return to FAWN, but that she demanded the match against Armstrong. The CEO smiled at the effrontery of the rich girl, then decided that the best reply to such impudence was to let Tiffani have exactly what she wanted...and let Ivy teach her a thing or two. The match was thus booked.
A chorus of boos arose as the impossible-to-resist beats of Prince’s “Trust” pumped through the stadium’s amps. This was in part simply because she was fighting their beloved Ivy, partly because she was garbed in a socially offensive fur coat of pure Russian sable, and finally because of the sheer arrogance she exuded as she strutted to the ring atop gold Manolo Blahnik heels.
TIFFANI DUBOIS
Climbing up the steps, she sharply instructed the referee to hold the top and middle ropes open for her to step between them. Once within the confines of the ring, she seductively let the fur coat slip off her shoulders and then down her arms, as the ref helped her remove it, and she stepped out of her heels. She looked at the ringside attendant who was waiting to receive her property with a sneer of abhorrence; under other circumstances, she wouldn’t let this peon so much as carry her luggage, much less a coat and shoes doubtless worth more than what he makes in a year or three. But Bethany assured her that her property would be promptly placed under lock and key backstage by security, so she acquiesced. But first, she removed a roll of money…the top bill, at least, clearing being $100…and shoved it into the front pocket of the ref’s pants. “Don’t touch!” she commanded.
She accepted that the rabble in the crowd wouldn't appreciate that her matching green and gold sports bra and boyshorts were custom made for her by Rousteing himself, but even these dregs had to take note of how damned good it looked on her lithe, taut body. There was even a growing choir of whistles and cheers as she loosened up in the corner.
But her moment was then drowned out by the deafening roar that erupted after the first three beats of .38 Special's "Wild Eyed Southern Boys" came blasting through the arena's PA speakers. Even the voice of the announcer attempting to introduce her was barely audible above the joyous din. But in truth, Ivy Armstrong didn't need an introduction...her name has been written on the hearts of the fans since she first debuted in FAWN, swiftly establishing herself as a major force, as well as a perpetually beloved figure. She slapped as many of the outstretched hands as she could as she trotted down the aisle. Climbing the steps and standing on the apron, she tilted her head and gave her coyest smile to the referee, and he responded by holding the top and middle ropes open for her…a task which he did as happily for her as he did as dourly for Dubois.
Garbed in a black corset top and red satin briefs. Armstrong slooooooowly slipped between the ropes, giving the appreciative fans an ample view of her vaunted legs and hindquarters. She then stepped out of her sandals and handed them to a ringside attendant, before raising her arms and doing a 360 degree turn to acknowledge the cheers from all sides of the ring.
IVY ARMSTRONG
In her corner, Tiffani casually stood with her arms draped over the top ropes on either side of her, and gave her opponent a condescending smirk.
The toll of the opening bell launched the match largely as all had expected. Ivy didn’t go full bore on her opponent, instead pursuing a steady yet conservative strategy, keeping Tiffani largely on the defensive. It was clear that the redhead was confident she could win this match at any time, but she was in no hurry, preferring to give the fans their money’s worth.
To the spectators, it appeared that the best that Dubois could do was keep her head above water as Armstrong swamped her. But to Ivy herself, her battle instincts told her that her opponent was holding back. Clearly, there was more to the prodigal heiress than seemed readily apparent, but nonetheless, the ‘Bama Slamma was unconcerned. Portia Ophelia VanBuren had been another rich bitch who was a better rassler than a girl from her background had a right to be, and hadn’t Ivy beaten her? No, sooner or later crafty little Ms. Dubois would play her hand, and the veteran would be ready for it.
Except, she wasn’t ready for it.
The moment came when Ivy Irish whipped Tiffani into the corner. Dubois had studied countless hours of video footage of her adversary in preparation for this match, and she knew this had to be a move that Armstrong had favored of late over in Japan. The intent was, as the stunned Tiffani was in the corner, Ivy would rush at her and leap up, landing with her feet upon her opponent’s thighs while the redhead clasped her hands behind the blonde’s head. Pushing herself backward, the Southern gal would then use her momentum to fling Dubois up and over for a Monkey Flip, sending the victim sailing through the air and crashing heavily to the center of the ring.
Yes, that was the plan.
But Tiffani was ready for it. Even as Ivy dashed toward her, Dubois sank lower in the corner, which completely changed her own center of gravity and vastly diminished her attacker’s leverage. Ivy landed as planned atop Tiffani and executed the flip, but because of the blonde’s repositioning of herself, there was no momentum behind it. Armstrong fell to the canvas, and Dubois went up into the air, about four feet up, and one foot forward. Gravity then took over, and Tiffani dropped straight down, simultaneously driving a knee into her opponent’s chest even as she drilled a punch squarely between Ivy’s eyes! The ‘Bama Slamma’s peepers instantly went glassy as she let out a breathless grunt, and she lay there splayed and moaning softly as Dubois deftly rolled up to her feet.
A couple of stomps to Armstrong’s belly expelled even more breath from her lungs, followed by a blatant choke as Dubois pressed her foot down across the redhead’s alabaster throat, Ivy’s legs kicking frantically at the mat as she struggled for air, the Socialite angrily arguing with the referee in order to slow his count before she broke the choke a half-second before certain disqualification.
What came next was a veritable tutorial in the art of devastation, as Tiffani Dubois shocked one and all…not the least of whom was Ivy Armstrong…by subjecting the redhead to a wide array of expertly applied holds and moves, some legitimate, some manifestly illegal. Ivy was mauled from pillar to post, her every desperate effort to turn the tide adroitly thwarted by the heiress, who wore a smug smirk throughout.
At one point, eyes wide with dismay, Armstrong sought to gain precious time to recover by rolling out of the ring, but Tiffani simply reached between the ropes and grabbed her fleeing adversary’s scarlet main and dragged Ivy squealing back into the ring. It was a moment that the shocked fans had to search their memories for…Ivy Armstrong so seemingly helpless…and they found they couldn’t recall having witnessed this sort of spectacle before.
A particular bit of mockery was heaped on the redhead when Dubois nailed her with a Pendulum Backbreaker, that having been a signature move of Ivy’s own mother, ring legend Belle Butler. Clearly, the heiress was sending the message that anything Armstrong could do, Tiffani…thanks to unlimited funding for her training…could do better.
For nearly ten full minutes, Ivy Armstrong was reduced to the status of ragdoll at the hands of Tiffani Dubois. Most fans sat in shocked silence…some desperately urged Ivy to fight back…and a small but growing chorus of vocal fans for Tiffani made their presence known.
Finally, the heiress decided to bring the battle to a merciful close…except that Dubois didn’t do mercy; she had long ago concluded that it was a bad look on her.
Armstong offered only token resistance as Dubois snared her and unleashed a Double Underhook Facebuster, the redhead’s angelic features smashing hard into the mat, leaving her barely clinging to consciousness. And that’s just how Tiffani wanted her…too spent to struggle, but juuuuuuuust awake enough to comprehend what’s happening to her.
Rolling the battered Alabamian onto her back, the heiress surprises one and all by not immediately going for the pin. Rather, she stands up and goes over to the ref, where she plunges her left hand into his right front pocket, emerging with the wad of bills. She does a quick count of the cash, eyeing the zebra suspiciously, and then when she is assured it’s all there, she peels off a hundred-dollar bill and tucks it under the waist band of his slacks. “Here’s a little something for your effort. Go crazy…maybe buy some new socks at Target, instead of Ross Dress for Less,” she purrs.
She then returns to the still-splayed Ivy and makes an obvious production out of slowly lowering herself down until she’s sitting on the redhead’s chest. With a coquettish smile upon her face, Dubois then slides herself backward, until her firm derriere, garbed tightly in green and gold, settles down upon the face of Armstrong, smothering her in the most humiliating fashion with her self-declared “Billion Dollar Fantasy”. Tiffani seductively sways her hips grinding her butt down. Ivy’s body squirms feebly, her hands slapping weakly at her oppressor’s thighs, but to no avail. Soon enough, the referee lifts the Southern girl’s arm once…twice…thrice…and each time it drops limply to the canvas.
As the bell tolls, Tiffani crawls off her beaten adversary and, kneeling beside her, the Socialite looks contemptuously down at the reddened, sweat-soaked face of the drowsing redhead, whose chest heaves as her lungs hungrily gulp in breath. With a voice that mixes in equal parts glee and scorn, she tells her victim, “You go up against money, hillbilly, and you’ll find that money wins every damn time.” And with that she takes a few bills from her bank roll and disdainfully shoves them into Armstrong’s open mouth, leaving her gagging in her stupor.
Rising up, Dubois places her left foot upon Armstrong’s chest and allows the referee to raise her right arm in victory, the conquering Socialite displaying her triumph for all to see. She then roughly yanks her wrist from the ref’s grasp with a haughty pout; this oaf doesn’t get to paw her one moment longer than necessary. A tsunami of boos washes down over her, but within it is mixed the undeniable sound of cheers.
Tiffani Dubois was back, and she had served notice that she was now a force to be reckoned with.
Her departure generated only a brief flurry of comment in the locker room, and that mostly over the fact that she had rather haughtily informed the front office (via a letter hand-delivered by her chauffeur, no less) that she was taking a sabbatical of indeterminate length from FAWN, but that she would resume her contract when she finally decided to return. Ordinarily, such hubris would have been met with laughter from the top brass, followed by a call to the legal department to terminate the contract over breach on the part of the wrestler.
But the letter found itself on the desk of Anciline de Cyr, and the French aristocrat understood that the wealthy...and the Dubois family are very, very wealthy...operate by a different code of rules. If "The Socialite", as Tiffani dubbed herself for her ring career, wished time off, then she shall have it. Bethany Christian went along with it because she had no other use for Dubois at that time, but she didn't like to toss away a potential future asset. And so, Tiffani had her sabbatical.
It might surprise most that the gilded auburn haired beauty didn't rush to the Cape, or to Turks and Caicos, or the Riviera, as others of her lofty station so often do, to sulk over the non-starter her wrestling career had thus far proven to be. Tiffani Dubois could be as much of a spoiled, self-centered brat as any other trust fund baby, but she also possesses the rare ability of self-awareness. And looking deeply at herself, she realized the intolerable truth: She was a good enough wrestler, but not a great one, and she certainly wasn't the greatest.
Luckily, there was a way to rectify that. It would require determination, effort, and lots and lots of money.
Her daddy had built her a private training facility, complete with a ring, in the mansion he had given her for her 21st birthday, right next door to the Dubois estate in Connecticut, when she first announced that she wanted to be a professional wrestler. Then, she had hired the top trainers on the East Coast to teach her the art of wrestling. But now, she wasn't being so geographically limited...she imported some of the world's best trainers, men and women from across North America, Mexico, Japan, Kenya, Brazil, Germany, and elsewhere. And she threw herself into her training, seven days a week for a solid year, with no outside distractions. The New Haven social scene was decidedly duller for her absence.
Growing up, she had always been Number One, always the best. Daddy's money had seen to that. And now money was going to make her the best in FAWN, and thus the best in the world.
But the thousands of fans who packed the arena weren't talking about her return to the ring tonight. Most had never heard of her before, or had simply forgotten her name. Indeed, the simple fact was, the only name being discussed by the fans (and the media) was Ivy Armstrong. The Second Generation Siren, one of FAWN's biggest stars, was making one of her all-too-rare returns to the promotion, following nearly two years abroad in Japan and Australia, where she was one of the biggest headliners, and only occasionally finding the time to return to the U.S. for one of FAWN's major events. Bethany offered to book Ivy against one of FAWN's top talents for her first match, but the 'Bama Slamma said she wanted to "get the feel for homegrown gals again," so she wanted to start slow, against a mid-carder. When Tiffani heard this, she immediately rang Bethany and not only announced her own return to FAWN, but that she demanded the match against Armstrong. The CEO smiled at the effrontery of the rich girl, then decided that the best reply to such impudence was to let Tiffani have exactly what she wanted...and let Ivy teach her a thing or two. The match was thus booked.
A chorus of boos arose as the impossible-to-resist beats of Prince’s “Trust” pumped through the stadium’s amps. This was in part simply because she was fighting their beloved Ivy, partly because she was garbed in a socially offensive fur coat of pure Russian sable, and finally because of the sheer arrogance she exuded as she strutted to the ring atop gold Manolo Blahnik heels.
TIFFANI DUBOIS
Climbing up the steps, she sharply instructed the referee to hold the top and middle ropes open for her to step between them. Once within the confines of the ring, she seductively let the fur coat slip off her shoulders and then down her arms, as the ref helped her remove it, and she stepped out of her heels. She looked at the ringside attendant who was waiting to receive her property with a sneer of abhorrence; under other circumstances, she wouldn’t let this peon so much as carry her luggage, much less a coat and shoes doubtless worth more than what he makes in a year or three. But Bethany assured her that her property would be promptly placed under lock and key backstage by security, so she acquiesced. But first, she removed a roll of money…the top bill, at least, clearing being $100…and shoved it into the front pocket of the ref’s pants. “Don’t touch!” she commanded.
She accepted that the rabble in the crowd wouldn't appreciate that her matching green and gold sports bra and boyshorts were custom made for her by Rousteing himself, but even these dregs had to take note of how damned good it looked on her lithe, taut body. There was even a growing choir of whistles and cheers as she loosened up in the corner.
But her moment was then drowned out by the deafening roar that erupted after the first three beats of .38 Special's "Wild Eyed Southern Boys" came blasting through the arena's PA speakers. Even the voice of the announcer attempting to introduce her was barely audible above the joyous din. But in truth, Ivy Armstrong didn't need an introduction...her name has been written on the hearts of the fans since she first debuted in FAWN, swiftly establishing herself as a major force, as well as a perpetually beloved figure. She slapped as many of the outstretched hands as she could as she trotted down the aisle. Climbing the steps and standing on the apron, she tilted her head and gave her coyest smile to the referee, and he responded by holding the top and middle ropes open for her…a task which he did as happily for her as he did as dourly for Dubois.
Garbed in a black corset top and red satin briefs. Armstrong slooooooowly slipped between the ropes, giving the appreciative fans an ample view of her vaunted legs and hindquarters. She then stepped out of her sandals and handed them to a ringside attendant, before raising her arms and doing a 360 degree turn to acknowledge the cheers from all sides of the ring.
IVY ARMSTRONG
In her corner, Tiffani casually stood with her arms draped over the top ropes on either side of her, and gave her opponent a condescending smirk.
The toll of the opening bell launched the match largely as all had expected. Ivy didn’t go full bore on her opponent, instead pursuing a steady yet conservative strategy, keeping Tiffani largely on the defensive. It was clear that the redhead was confident she could win this match at any time, but she was in no hurry, preferring to give the fans their money’s worth.
To the spectators, it appeared that the best that Dubois could do was keep her head above water as Armstrong swamped her. But to Ivy herself, her battle instincts told her that her opponent was holding back. Clearly, there was more to the prodigal heiress than seemed readily apparent, but nonetheless, the ‘Bama Slamma was unconcerned. Portia Ophelia VanBuren had been another rich bitch who was a better rassler than a girl from her background had a right to be, and hadn’t Ivy beaten her? No, sooner or later crafty little Ms. Dubois would play her hand, and the veteran would be ready for it.
Except, she wasn’t ready for it.
The moment came when Ivy Irish whipped Tiffani into the corner. Dubois had studied countless hours of video footage of her adversary in preparation for this match, and she knew this had to be a move that Armstrong had favored of late over in Japan. The intent was, as the stunned Tiffani was in the corner, Ivy would rush at her and leap up, landing with her feet upon her opponent’s thighs while the redhead clasped her hands behind the blonde’s head. Pushing herself backward, the Southern gal would then use her momentum to fling Dubois up and over for a Monkey Flip, sending the victim sailing through the air and crashing heavily to the center of the ring.
Yes, that was the plan.
But Tiffani was ready for it. Even as Ivy dashed toward her, Dubois sank lower in the corner, which completely changed her own center of gravity and vastly diminished her attacker’s leverage. Ivy landed as planned atop Tiffani and executed the flip, but because of the blonde’s repositioning of herself, there was no momentum behind it. Armstrong fell to the canvas, and Dubois went up into the air, about four feet up, and one foot forward. Gravity then took over, and Tiffani dropped straight down, simultaneously driving a knee into her opponent’s chest even as she drilled a punch squarely between Ivy’s eyes! The ‘Bama Slamma’s peepers instantly went glassy as she let out a breathless grunt, and she lay there splayed and moaning softly as Dubois deftly rolled up to her feet.
A couple of stomps to Armstrong’s belly expelled even more breath from her lungs, followed by a blatant choke as Dubois pressed her foot down across the redhead’s alabaster throat, Ivy’s legs kicking frantically at the mat as she struggled for air, the Socialite angrily arguing with the referee in order to slow his count before she broke the choke a half-second before certain disqualification.
What came next was a veritable tutorial in the art of devastation, as Tiffani Dubois shocked one and all…not the least of whom was Ivy Armstrong…by subjecting the redhead to a wide array of expertly applied holds and moves, some legitimate, some manifestly illegal. Ivy was mauled from pillar to post, her every desperate effort to turn the tide adroitly thwarted by the heiress, who wore a smug smirk throughout.
At one point, eyes wide with dismay, Armstrong sought to gain precious time to recover by rolling out of the ring, but Tiffani simply reached between the ropes and grabbed her fleeing adversary’s scarlet main and dragged Ivy squealing back into the ring. It was a moment that the shocked fans had to search their memories for…Ivy Armstrong so seemingly helpless…and they found they couldn’t recall having witnessed this sort of spectacle before.
A particular bit of mockery was heaped on the redhead when Dubois nailed her with a Pendulum Backbreaker, that having been a signature move of Ivy’s own mother, ring legend Belle Butler. Clearly, the heiress was sending the message that anything Armstrong could do, Tiffani…thanks to unlimited funding for her training…could do better.
For nearly ten full minutes, Ivy Armstrong was reduced to the status of ragdoll at the hands of Tiffani Dubois. Most fans sat in shocked silence…some desperately urged Ivy to fight back…and a small but growing chorus of vocal fans for Tiffani made their presence known.
Finally, the heiress decided to bring the battle to a merciful close…except that Dubois didn’t do mercy; she had long ago concluded that it was a bad look on her.
Armstong offered only token resistance as Dubois snared her and unleashed a Double Underhook Facebuster, the redhead’s angelic features smashing hard into the mat, leaving her barely clinging to consciousness. And that’s just how Tiffani wanted her…too spent to struggle, but juuuuuuuust awake enough to comprehend what’s happening to her.
Rolling the battered Alabamian onto her back, the heiress surprises one and all by not immediately going for the pin. Rather, she stands up and goes over to the ref, where she plunges her left hand into his right front pocket, emerging with the wad of bills. She does a quick count of the cash, eyeing the zebra suspiciously, and then when she is assured it’s all there, she peels off a hundred-dollar bill and tucks it under the waist band of his slacks. “Here’s a little something for your effort. Go crazy…maybe buy some new socks at Target, instead of Ross Dress for Less,” she purrs.
She then returns to the still-splayed Ivy and makes an obvious production out of slowly lowering herself down until she’s sitting on the redhead’s chest. With a coquettish smile upon her face, Dubois then slides herself backward, until her firm derriere, garbed tightly in green and gold, settles down upon the face of Armstrong, smothering her in the most humiliating fashion with her self-declared “Billion Dollar Fantasy”. Tiffani seductively sways her hips grinding her butt down. Ivy’s body squirms feebly, her hands slapping weakly at her oppressor’s thighs, but to no avail. Soon enough, the referee lifts the Southern girl’s arm once…twice…thrice…and each time it drops limply to the canvas.
As the bell tolls, Tiffani crawls off her beaten adversary and, kneeling beside her, the Socialite looks contemptuously down at the reddened, sweat-soaked face of the drowsing redhead, whose chest heaves as her lungs hungrily gulp in breath. With a voice that mixes in equal parts glee and scorn, she tells her victim, “You go up against money, hillbilly, and you’ll find that money wins every damn time.” And with that she takes a few bills from her bank roll and disdainfully shoves them into Armstrong’s open mouth, leaving her gagging in her stupor.
Rising up, Dubois places her left foot upon Armstrong’s chest and allows the referee to raise her right arm in victory, the conquering Socialite displaying her triumph for all to see. She then roughly yanks her wrist from the ref’s grasp with a haughty pout; this oaf doesn’t get to paw her one moment longer than necessary. A tsunami of boos washes down over her, but within it is mixed the undeniable sound of cheers.
Tiffani Dubois was back, and she had served notice that she was now a force to be reckoned with.