Post by alyadmirer on Aug 21, 2015 1:29:19 GMT
The sounds of heavy equipment at a construction site echo through the arena drawing instant attention to the upper stage, a rumble from the crowd growing knowing a dangerous destroyer-class is about to present herself. A wailing harmonica cuts through the din and the FAWNatics leap to their feet to lay eyes on the backwoods enigma.
Accompanied by the mouth-organ and pounding drums of Godsmack‘s ‘Shine Down‘, the Vicious Volunteer steps through the curtain and smirks at the assembled.
"SHINE DOWN":
www.youtube.com/watch?v=RV35MxbzTPA
HARLEY JO COLLINS:
Giving the increasingly booing/jeering FAWNatics her country-fried disdain, Collins’ body is mostly sheathed from view by a pair of shapeless denim overalls. But everyone knows they are set-dressing, as evidenced by the occasional glimpse of a black bikini top beneath. Harley Jo digs into the overalls, removing a bottle of Maddog 20/20 and helps herself to a long swig. Smiling as the fire in her mouth meets the fire in her heart, the Ace of Spades pockets her libations and starts toward the ring.
Collins’ long strides make short work of the aisle and would’ve done the same to the steps if she hadn’t paused at the base. A hand went to her shoulders and undid the clasps on the overalls, leaving them in a puddle at her feet. Their absence reveals a black fightin’ two-piece, white pads and ‘Stars and Bars’ patterned boots, Harley Jo apparently not having received the memo on Confederate memorabilia. But the crowd is rightly distracted by the sight of the tall drink of Dixie sweet tea.
Once clear of the shed denim she slides under the bottom rope and pushes to her feet. She strides to the middle of the ring where the ring announcer times his intro nicely with the receding of HJ’s accompaniment.
“Tonight’s next contest is one fall with a 20-minute time limit. Hailing from Jackson, Tennessee she stands five feet ten inches tall and weighs in tonight at one hundred and forty-eight pounds, she is the Tennessee Terror, the Queen of Razorback Holler, HARLEY JO COLLINS!”
Collins call for a microphone and one is tossed that she snatches out of the air. She lifts it to her lips.
“I am sick and tired of all the bad press the South is receiving these days. And no, I’m not talking about South Carolina. I am talking about my blessed Dixie being represented in FAWN by a redheaded stepchild.”
This draws yet more ire from the fans, each and every one loving their Bama Slamma.
“From the moment I stepped foot in this organization, I should have been the living breathing representation of below the Mason-Dixon.”
Harley Jo runs a hand down her little long frame.
“Y’all know it’s true. That paleass ginger from Alabammie has been stealing my spotlight for years and tonight, I put an end to it and her. Ivy. Get your freckled butt and your chicken legs down here to take the asswhipping of a lifetime, darlin.”
Harley Jo holds the microphone straight out in front of her and drops it with a loud ‘CLUNK’.
From behind the velvet curtain at the head of the ramp, Ivy hears her opponent's taunts...and she smiles. Tennessee girls always had less horse sense and more of the horse's ass, as her Mama says, and Collins certainly did seem to be proving that adage true.
Then, she hears the amplified voice of the announcer proclaiming, “And now, her opponent...standing five feet eight inches tall, and tipping the scale at one-hundred and twenty pounds...from Uriah, Alabama...she is IIIIVVVVVVYYYYYY ARMSTRONG!”
IVY ARMSTRONG:
“Wild Eyed Southern Boys” by .38 Special comes crashing through the PA. Grabbing the curtain with both hands and tearing it open, the redhead struts down the aisleway, her hips sashaying with silent temptation. She wears a red and black satin corset and matching black panties that evokes a sense of Antebellum grandeur, even as the panties reveal a conspicuous degree of her backside, and instead of the discreet ankle which a saucy Southern belle might have once shown, the redhead has on display her full legs in all of their lithe splendor. As she confidently swaggers toward the ring, she pauses before one avid fan at the barrier, waving a sign that reads HARLEY JO VOLUNTEERED FOR A 'BAMA BEATING! Cupping his face with her hands, she plants a lingering kiss on his lips, causing his knees to buckle and his friends to whoop, holler and high five one another.
Never let it be said Ivy wasn’t willing to give her all for the fans.
Her fan outreach completed, Armstrong resumes her march to the ring, a contented smile on her ruby red lips and her black eye-lined green eyes half-lidded like a jungle cat on the prowl. At ringside, she grabs the ropes and pulls herself up to the apron. Stepping over to the center of the ring apron, she turns to face the crowd even as her arms reach up on either side so that her hands can grasp the top cable. Then, with a gracefulness that would put Crique du Soleil to shame, she flips up and over the strands in a graceful arc, alighting gently inside of the ring. The end result is an eruption of gratitude from the entranced crowd.
In the ring, she raises her fists high over her head and does a 360° spin as the fans cheer. She then asks the referee to pick up the discarded microphone and hand it to her, if he would please. Putting the mic to her lips, she beams a smile and says in her best honey-dripped drawl, "Why Harley Jo, Ah do declare, y'all might have been doing a better job of representing our sacred Southern soil if you didn't spend so much time with your head down below your Mason-Dixon, and stuck up your own...well now, a true lady doesn't use language such as that. But don't worry if you don't know what I meant, because Ah'll give you a little clue: it's the part of your anatomy which Ah'll be kicking in a few moments." And with that, amid a torrent of cheers and whoops from the crowd, she hands the mic back to the ref, who orders both combatants to their respective corners.
Ivy starts on her way there, but Harley Jo’s and more importantly the Volunteer State’s honor must be defended. For the long lean Tennessean there is no waiting for the bell. Instead, she links her fingers, making a double axhandle overhead, and sprints at the blissfully unaware redhead.
Or so it seems to Collins who lowers the boom only to be gutted by a blind side kick to her expansive tanned midriff. A loud ‘GUHHH’ escapes Harley Jo’s lip as she doubles at the waist, her hands unlacing, arms falling to her side.
“And did ah say,” Ivy purrs as she turns and draws the gasping brunette into a front facelock, “you Lady Volunteers are among the most asinine creature on God’s green earth?”
Left with little choice considering the chaos, the official calls for the bell as Armstrong wrenches the noggin and neck of her foe. She subtly slips her arm from chin to throat and begins choking the life from Collins. As the raspy pleas from HJ draw the referee’s attention, the Bama Slamma cleverly rotates her rival in response to the zebra’s efforts to get a better look, always keeping the throttling out of the ref’s sight, if definitely not out of Harley’s mind.
Harley Jo frantically flails as her windpipe is sealed. Finally the man in stripes works his way into a position to confirm the second-generation superstar’s felonious ways. He loudly starts his count and at ‘FOUR’ the auburn-haired beauty releases, throwing her arms high and wide.
“Do ah stand accused?” Ivy shouts. “After she came at me before the bell?”
The second question is joined by a raised knee to the chest of a gagging, redfaced Collins sending her into a stumbling retreat, Harley Jo’s arms windmilling to keep herself upright. And her only reward for doing so is a crisp dropkick to the point of her chin from Armstrong that still doesn’t knock her foe flat, but does deliver the destroyer-class confederate into a set of buckles, her back THUMPING into the corner, arms flopping over the top rope on either side to help keep her vertical.
The alabaster-skinned Southern Charmer is quick to scramble to her feet and close the gap. Moving to the ropes at Collins’ left side, the FAWN original snatches them and uses the cable to balance as she lifts her left leg high, forcing her bare foot harshly against the throat of the brunette. Harley Jo chokes out a complaint as her palms wrap around Ivy’s ankle, trying to push the offending foot away without success.
The sheriff of the ring gives Armstrong a familiar time limit and the smirking Ivy releases with a second to spare, dropping the leg away but only so far as she can jab it forward into the Volunteer’s lower, lower abdomen, Harley Jo responding with a guttural ‘fuuhk’. Weak in the knees from the low blow, HJ staggers forward, her body imploding around her crotch until she falls to her knees. There, a “tender” Ivy places a palm atop the crown of the bigger brunette’s skull.
“Can we agree there is no star of Dixie greater than me?”
Harley Jo starts to lob a verbal rejoinder but the words are cut short when Ivy continues her control, lifting a knee into the underside of the tanned Tennessean’s chin with enough force to snap the head of Harley Jo with a wicked whiplash. When it returns, there is a noticeable glaze over HJ’s baby blues, her mouth slightly agape.
“Cat got your tongue, darlin’?” Armstrong asks, drawing the penitent Collins into a tight front facelock. “Or are you finally wisen’ up?”
Ivy continues her show of dominance, laying out and bringing the lanky but lowered brunette with her, SPIKING her rival’s skull into the deck with a DDT.
The force of the impact sends the boneless Volunteer barrelrolling to her back and into a spreadeagle while the methodical redhead slithers to her victim, sensually sliding atop the dazzled Collins and into a lateral press, Armstrong hooking a long sinewy stem of her foe for the ONE…TWO…kickout.
HJ blasts her way out of the pin, pushing Armstrong up to her knees, drawing an impressed eyebrow raise from the Southern Charmer.
“Yeah. I didn’t think so,” Ivy confesses. “Maybe a Yankee, like our precious little troll of a champ, but not you.”
Armstrong latches onto Collins’ dark mop and tugs her up into a stiff forearm shot. With her foe’s head bobbling, Ivy rises and draws Harley Jo up with her. Setting the beleaguered Collins in a wobbly stance in front of her, Armstrong peppers the chin of the Vicious Volunteer with left jabs, one after the other, HJ’s noggin swaying after each connection, her peepers increasingly glassy.
Finally, a beaming Bama Slamma grabs Harley Jo’s right wrist with her left hand and folds the arm behind Collins’ back. The redhead cocks her tightly clenched right fist and aims her infamous heart punch at the cleft of the brunette’s bosom, tossing her signature defibrillator at her fellow Southerner.
But before Ivy connects, Collins do-si-dos out of the hammerlock, ducking under the arm bar and avoiding the Alabaman’s bombthrowing in one motion. Ending with a chickenwing of her own on Armstrong, HJ nestles in tight to Ivy’s back and ratchets the trapped limb. Collins draws her lips tight to her former tormentor’s ear.
“You had your fun Crimson Snide,” HJ informs, “now it’s my turn.”
Collins adds a second hammerlock to her first and with possession of both arms, she vaults the smaller Ivy into the air. As she sends the auburn-haired grappler dropping face down in front of her, the Volunteer lays out, getting to the canvas first, curling her knees up to gore the gut of the extended Ivy.
www.youtube.com/watch?v=ErFcgb8vQSc
The ivory skinned Slamma bounces off the brutal impact, rolling to the side, swaddling her roiling tummy, having to pay the piper…and the banjo player for the first time in the match.
Not wasting any time, Collins fills her fists with her opponent's fiery mane and pulls the squealing Alabaman up to her feet. Keen to demonstrate her superior strength, the larger wrestler scoops up the redhead and delivers her back to the mat with a ring-jarring bodyslam. Yet even as her rattled spine arches in pained protest, Ivy is offered no chance for recovery, as she is again peeled up off of the canvas by a hairpull, and once more finds herself help aloft by her powerhouse adversary.
This time, however, the bodyslam terminated with Armstrong's back colliding with Harley Jo's knee. For one sickening instant, as the redhead's body twists into a wholly unnatural position, there is a collective fear among the onlookers that her spine has been snapped like a twig. But Ivy is made of sturdy stuff, and her skeletal structure remains intact...although the agony blazing up and down her spine may suggest otherwise at the moment to her befuddled brain.
A simple backbreaker now might be all that's necessary to draw a submission from the ravished redhead. But such a quick victory doesn't suit the raven-tressed Tennessean at all. No, she needs...and, more importantly, wants...to make Armstrong suffer for as long as possible, to dismantle her in front of the eyes of the world. Thus, Collins can demonstrate her true superiority, because nobody fights quite and hard as a couple of proud Southern gals.
Tightening her right hand around Ivy's alabaster throat, Harley Jo stands up, hauling the gurgling redhead up with her. But Armstrong doesn't stay upright for long, as Clayton chokeslams her back to the mat, the redhead's body twitching spasmodically in the aftermath. The 'Bama Slamma's pained moans turn to squeals as she's again ripped up off of the canvas by a handful of hair, scooped up like a bale of hay, carried over to a corner, and then her body is draped over the turnbuckle and top ropes, leaving her torso exposed to a series of sledgehammer-like blows. Harley Jo's fists crash down again and again onto her opponent's tummy, and drive into her pert breasts as if they were hammering railroad spikes.
Tiring of this, Collins muscles the redhead onto her shoulders and carries her almost effortlessly to center ring. There, a gorilla press puts Armstrong's limp body on display like a trophy, until the brunette finally throws her almost contemptuously to the mat. Ivy bounces once from the impact, then rolls over with a slurred groan onto her back, her eyes squinting up at the arena lights above. "There she is," Harley Jo bellows. "The 'Great White Hope' of the South. And she's NOTHING compared to me! Say your goodbyes, because this is gonna be the last you'll ever see of Ivy Armstrong in a ring!"
Collins plucks Ivy off the canvas by a wrist, tugging her to unsteady feet with the first pull and then up between her open arms with the second. The tanned limbs surround Armstrong’s ivory midriff and cinch tight. A gust of breath escapes the redhead’s lips in a rush as the Violent Volunteer bears down on her bearhug. The Slamma’s vaunted lower limbs circle Harley Jo loosely to try and take some of the pressure off, but Collins makes allowances, tightening her grasp even further.
Ivy’s emerald peepers pop, lips widening in a gasping ‘O’ as Harley Jo works tummy and spine simultaneously.
“I’d ask for your surrender, but that’s all too normal for a Bama girl. Instead, I’m going to break you in half.”
Again, HJ increases the compression of her embrace and Ivy moans, her chin drooping onto the bigger brunette’s left shoulder. Collins gives the redhead a rattle then powerfully pops Armstrong over a dipped set of shoulders and into a fireman’s carry.
There’s very little squirm in the gutshot Ivy and things go from bad to worse when the tanned Tennessean presses Ivy up military-style once more, ducks underneath her horizontal frame and lets the second generation superstar fall to bended knee with a fireman’s carry gutbuster.
www.youtube.com/watch?v=mbKnHJ-4uGc
Ivy wretches as she bounces off the balled joint. Armstrong desperately hugs her tummy, ending turtled on her back, trying to leave as little of her midsection as possible open to further attack. Collins leaves the Bama beauty to groan in agony, passing on a pin.
She does, however, move to both knees next to Ivy’s side, brushing Armstrong’s protective arms aside so can sink a five-pronged weapon into the alabaster belly of the FAWN original. The claw sinks deep into Ivy’s flesh, the auburn-haired grappler howling in pain, her body spasming, palms wrapping around Harley Jo’s wrist in order to pull the talons free, but Armstrong is unable.
“I’m going to turn your guts into garters,” the long, lithe brunette growls, continuing to work her fingers deeper into Ivy’s midriff, nearly down to the second knuckle when she presses her opposite hand on top. Unable to remove HJ’s digits, Ivy’s maulers move to her own long locks, yanking at her hair, trying to spread the anguish. Only HJ’s determination to make her fellow Southern girl suffer in a new way stops the gut churning display.
Harley Jo rises and delivers a boot to the belly button of Armstrong, Ivy imploding around the impact. Collins grabs the fiery strands of her foe and forces a mewling Armstrong up for more.
“You’re one of the oldest books in the library,” Harley Jo informs as she turns the doubled, groaning redhead toward her. Her body failing her, Armstrong drops to one knee, penitent in front of the new Queen of the South “Everybody on the roster has read you up, down and sideways a dozen times. Nothing new UNUHHH…”
Harley Jo’s face is suddenly stricken, the words unable to come. And there’s good reason, as Ivy’s swept an uppercut forearm into the brunette’s crotch, lifting Collins to tiptoes.
“You forget that page, bytch?” Ivy asks between breathless pants, still on one knee as she removes her invading arm and uses the frozen HJ to climb to her feet. Reaching there, the Southern Charmer lifts a knee into Collins’ belly for a little navel payback. The bigger brunette doubles low, gasping from the vicious strike. Bent at the waist, and still trying to overcome the waves of pain from between her thighs, Harley Jo can manage little in the way of defense as Ivy steps alongside, lifts a knee to Collins’ temple while wrapping up her opposite arm.
Ivy then throws her frame in reverse, laying out and landing on the canvas with a THUMP, violently pulling HJ with her to teach what Mama Knows Best.
www.youtube.com/watch?v=pJmrOSHMhwI
Her head and neck taking a vile snap from the side, Collins twists to a seat then melts to the mat. And this time it’s Ivy who passes on the pinning combination. She slowly climbs to her feet and surveys with weary satisfaction.
“Ya know whatcha ought to volunteer doing?” Ivy asks, tugging the long lean brunette to her feet in stages. “Shutting the hell up, sugah.”
Dipping, Ivy sweeps an arm between Harley Jo’s long tanned stems and scoops the bigger grappler off the deck and onto her right shoulder. The smirking Armstrong doesn’t deliver her back to the canvas immediately. Instead, she walks her foe in a half-circuit of the ring before getting an ambling start and SLAMMING her rival to the canvas. The base of HJ’s spine takes the force of the impact and she curls into an anguished arch, features twisted in pain from the force of Ivy’s suped-up slam.
The redhead jogs around the ring in a premature victory lap, arms raised, perfect pearlies flashing, her many admirers out in force with a rousing ovation. As she does, HJ uses the cables to climb to her knees. The flagging brunette leans heavy against the ropes, rubbing at the base of her backbone and drawing in large gulps of oxygen.
Armstrong ends her parade at the strands opposite Collins, her smile turning to smirk. Turning a crow hop into a sprint toward her rival, it’s clear Ivy plans to place the Volunteer on the train tracks and run her down. Armstrong lifts off as she closes on her target. The snarling Slamma lands in a crossbody splash across the back of the brunette using her signature Confederate Railroad to send Harleys Jo’s throat deep into the middle rope, the sound of her tummy smacking against HJ’s back reverberating through the arena, quickly joined by the choking gags of Collins.
Ivy scrambles to her feet and leans a knee into the back of Harley Jo’s noggin to increase the throttling pressure, HJ turning redfaced as the ref threatens then finally starts his count, Ivy waiting until ‘FOUR’ to give the garrote up.
Tugging Harley Jo up and away from the ropes, Ivy dips underneath a weak clothesline attempt from the still coughing Collins. Ivy slides her body behind the long lean Tennessean from the side, strapping down across Harley Jo’s back while keeping one knee in front. She snakes a leg around one of Collins’, the FAWN legend slipping her body under HJ’s far arm and securing an abdominal stretch just like Mama Armstrong used to make back in the day.
www.youtube.com/watch?v=Kh8AlBD_P-g
Ivy brutally shreds at Harley Jo’s pride and joy, determined to work over Collins’ abs until she capitulates. But as Armstrong demands HJ surrender, the powerful, dark-haired grappler works her leg free of Ivy’s grapevine and, as Armstrong’s head shakes in disbelief, Collins powers the wide-eyed Southern girl up and over with a hiptoss, Armstrong landing on her derriere. Ivy winces as her hands shoot to the base of her tailbone, the Southern Charmer bouncing in pain as she drops her hands underneath as a bumper, the redhead massaging her aching rumpus.
Ignoring her own pain and exhaustion, the Violent Volunteer forces herself to crawl toward her unsuspecting opponent, and then lunges at her. Caught by surprise, Armstrong offers ineffectual defense as Harley Jo viciously rakes her nails over the redhead's eyes, drawing forth a piercing shriek.
It's at this specific moment in the match that things truly went "country", as Collins abandons all pretenses of civility. Lunging at her rival, she bares her teeth, sinking them into Ivy's forehead like a rabid hound dog. The redhead shrieks, her nails clawing at the face of her tormentor until she is finally able to ward her off. A trickle of blood makes its way down Armstrong's face, but its red pales in comparison to the fire in the 'Bama Slamma's eyes. With a banshee's wail, Ivy leaps at Harley Jo, and now it's her turn to be animalistic, as her teeth bite down onto the brunette's scalp just above her hairline. When she is finally forced off, Collins has a matching patch of crimson upon her visage.
What ensues next is less a wrestling match than it is a catfight, as the two hellions tear into one another 'Southern style'. Their skin is mottled with scratches and bruises, and marred by the indentations of teeth, their hair tattered mops. Fabric is tugged and torn away, leaving them both reduced onto to their panties. After several minutes of this unrivaled savagery, the two primitive beauties fall away from each other, both struggling against exhaustion and they lay on their back, sweat-soaked chests heaving for breath as each stares at the arena lights overhead. The referee begins his count, and it takes to a full nineteen before both stir and rise up from the mat.
Their fury seemingly abated...at least for the moment...the pair now move more like cunning grappling strategists than as wild beasts, both cautiously circling the other, seeking an opening to strike. It's Armstrong with her superior speed who moves first, reaching out and grasping the brunette's left wrist. Before Collins can react, Ivy nails her with an "Eat Defeat", lifting her right leg and pressing her sole to the Tennessean's jaw, then falling backwards to the canvas, pulling Harley Jo's wrist with her, and the impact snapping the victim's head back violently. Stunned, Collins takes several long seconds on the mat to gather her wits, and then pushes herself back up to her feet. Her face registers confusion as she does not immediately locate her opponent. The brunette turns around in search of her, even as Armstrong, perched frog-style on the top ropes of the nearest corner, leaps out into the air. As Harley Jo fully turns to face her, she is met with a Front Missile Dropkick, with Armstrong's feet smashing into her face like twin sledges. Collins sails backwards until crashing on the deck with a little bounce.
The tall brunette skids to a stop in a dazed starfish, her tanned frame beaded in perspiration. Collins stares into the rafters blankly. She shakes her head to drop some of her senses back into place. And she indeed has a few when her vision is filled with the sparkling green eyes of the Bama Slamma staring down at her.
“Time to give you a little taste of Roll Tide moonshine, darlin’,” Armstrong purrs.
She scoops Harley Jo’s ankles off the canvas and spreads them wide. HJ holds up both hands, palms facing Ivy as she ‘washes some windows’, pleading with the second generation superstar not to go downtown.
Ivy looks around the arena, apparently seeking a cue from the FAWNatics who seem to have no problem with their Southern Charmer getting down and dirty. Armstrong half-grins half-growls as she raises a boot high and SLAMS it into Collins’ crotch. The Volunteer shoots up to a seat, her eyes wide and mouth agape, hands rushing to her throbbing center.
Not satisfied, Ivy flattens her foe with a knee to the jaw. She steps over the splayed brunette and twists Harley Jo to her chest, Armstrong now in a reverse standing straddle that slips into a crouch. The redhead lets one leg flop free, the Crab turning into a half variety.
HJ yips in pain as the FAWN original leans back, curling Harley Jo’s spine into an agonizing arch, but Armstrong turns the level of pain up several notches when she sends the fingers of her free hand sinking into the tender tissue between Collins’ thighs. The finishing touch of her signature White Lightning has Harley Jo howling and spasming, Ivy not only working leg and backbone but sending her talons below Harley Jo’s Mason-Dixon.
HJ tears at her long dark locks to spread the pain, unsuccessfully. The official drops in front of the agonized Tennessean and asks if she wants to give. Through watery eyes, Collins shakes her head as she bites her lower lip.
“Hell no,” she shouts, gulping down a hard swallow afterward before another shriek emerges when Ivy digs deeper.
“GAWWWDDD,” HJ howls.
“Ah do believe he ain’t got a bit to do with it, sunshine,” Armstrong assures between heavy breaths.
Finally, becoming a bit unsteady herself, the redhead calls an end to the Lightning, letting the lanky grappler’s long leg drop to the canvas while simultaneously giving up her throttling grasp of Harley Jo’s kitty.
Ivy sidles to HJ’s droopy head and sinks her nails into the Volunteer’s scalp, dragging her foe up to her haunches with a handful of hair. Harley Jo leans her cheek heavily against Ivy’s right hip, her hands between her thighs.
“Do you understAHHH.”
Ivy’s words are cut short when Collins finds the wherewithal to swing her right arm around and up between Armstrong’s infamous ivory stems. Wickets brutally parted, Ivy drops to her knees, face twisted in pain, the two women nearly nose to nose, suffering at each other’s invading limb.
But before Harley Jo can open her palm and return the favor with a claw of her own, Armstrong sends a head butt to the bridge of HJ’s nose that stupefies the brunette. Collins’ arms fall to her sides as she sways in front of Ivy.
“Ah will always will be the Queen of the Confederacy, sugah,” Ivy grunts. “No matter how low you go, I’m already there.”
The redhead's moment of resolute triumph lasts just that...a moment. For, moving with serpentine speed, Harley Jo grabs at her opponent and pulls her over, rolling her up into a small package. The referee drops to his knees and starts to slap the mat.
ONE...
TWO...
KICKOUT!
With fire in her eyes, Armstrong breaks the pinfall attempt and scampers back to her knees...only to once more be taken by her opponent, and in a heartbeat again rolled up, with this time the Tennessean taking a handful of her Alabama rival's panties to better hold her down to the canvas.
ONE...
TWO...
THRNOOOOOO!
The zebra earns his paycheck by noticing Harley Jo's illegal hold of Ivy's modest garment at the last possible instant, and orders to pin hold released. With a growl, the redhead erupts from the canvas, jumping to her feet and grabbing Collins by her tattered raven mane, hauling her back up as well. But bare instants later, Harley Jo is returned to the mat, courtesy of an RKO stunner that leaves the brunette face-down and twitching spasmodically.
But the "Bama Slamma knows not to underestimate her cagey foe, so she further softens up Collins with a Triangle Choke, the country gal's face purpling from the python pressure of the legs encircling her head. Finally, satisfied that her victim is ripe for finishing off, Ivy transforms her hold into her signature finisher, the Southern Charm. Head trapped in the vise of the redhead's thighs, face smothered into her tormentor's own crotch, wrists held tightly by Armstrong's hand, neutralizing the brunette's powerful arms, Collins can but feebly squirm in defiance. Her movements grew more sluggish with every passing second, until finally, after one last great shudder, she lay still.
Releasing one of her opponent's arms so that the referee can check it, he drop it once, twice, thrice, and calls for the bell.
Releasing her devastating hold, Armstrong with a noticeable wince of ache, climbs back up to her feet so that the official can raise her arm in triumph...but not before the redhead almost daintily places her foot between the shoulder blades of her slumber rival, striking a victory pose that helps settle the question of Southern supremacy in FAWN.
The redhead's moment of resolute triumph lasts just that...a moment. For, moving with serpentine speed, Harley Jo grabs at her opponent and pulls her over, rolling her up into a small package. The referee drops to his knees and starts to slap the mat.
ONE...
TWO...
KICKOUT!
With fire in her eyes, Armstrong breaks the pinfall attempt and scampers back to her knees...only to once more be taken by her opponent, and in a heartbeat again rolled up, with this time the Tennessean taking a handful of her Alabama rival's panties to better hold her down to the canvas.
ONE...
TWO...
THRNOOOOOO!
The zebra earns his paycheck by noticing Harley Jo's illegal hold of Ivy's modest garment at the last possible instant, and orders to pin hold released. With a growl, the redhead erupts from the canvas, jumping to her feet and grabbing Collins by her tattered raven mane, hauling her back up as well. But bare instants later, Harley Jo is returned to the mat, courtesy of an RKO stunner that leaves the brunette face-down and twitching spasmodically.
But the "Bama Slamma knows not to underestimate her cagey foe, so she further softens up Collins with a Triangle Choke, the country gal's face purpling from the python pressure of the legs encircling her head. Finally, satisfied that her victim is ripe for finishing off, Ivy transforms her hold into her signature finisher, the Southern Charm. Head trapped in the vise of the redhead's thighs, face smothered into her tormentor's own crotch, wrists held tightly by Armstrong's hand, neutralizing the brunette's powerful arms, Collins can but feebly squirm in defiance. Her movements grew more sluggish with every passing second, until finally, after one last great shudder, she lay still.
Releasing one of her opponent's arms so that the referee can check it, he drop it once, twice, thrice, and calls for the bell.
Releasing her devastating hold, Armstrong with a noticeable wince of ache, climbs back up to her feet so that the official can raise her arm in triumph...but not before the redhead almost daintily places her foot between the shoulder blades of her slumber rival, striking a victory pose that helps settle the question of Southern supremacy in FAWN.
Accompanied by the mouth-organ and pounding drums of Godsmack‘s ‘Shine Down‘, the Vicious Volunteer steps through the curtain and smirks at the assembled.
"SHINE DOWN":
www.youtube.com/watch?v=RV35MxbzTPA
HARLEY JO COLLINS:
Giving the increasingly booing/jeering FAWNatics her country-fried disdain, Collins’ body is mostly sheathed from view by a pair of shapeless denim overalls. But everyone knows they are set-dressing, as evidenced by the occasional glimpse of a black bikini top beneath. Harley Jo digs into the overalls, removing a bottle of Maddog 20/20 and helps herself to a long swig. Smiling as the fire in her mouth meets the fire in her heart, the Ace of Spades pockets her libations and starts toward the ring.
Collins’ long strides make short work of the aisle and would’ve done the same to the steps if she hadn’t paused at the base. A hand went to her shoulders and undid the clasps on the overalls, leaving them in a puddle at her feet. Their absence reveals a black fightin’ two-piece, white pads and ‘Stars and Bars’ patterned boots, Harley Jo apparently not having received the memo on Confederate memorabilia. But the crowd is rightly distracted by the sight of the tall drink of Dixie sweet tea.
Once clear of the shed denim she slides under the bottom rope and pushes to her feet. She strides to the middle of the ring where the ring announcer times his intro nicely with the receding of HJ’s accompaniment.
“Tonight’s next contest is one fall with a 20-minute time limit. Hailing from Jackson, Tennessee she stands five feet ten inches tall and weighs in tonight at one hundred and forty-eight pounds, she is the Tennessee Terror, the Queen of Razorback Holler, HARLEY JO COLLINS!”
Collins call for a microphone and one is tossed that she snatches out of the air. She lifts it to her lips.
“I am sick and tired of all the bad press the South is receiving these days. And no, I’m not talking about South Carolina. I am talking about my blessed Dixie being represented in FAWN by a redheaded stepchild.”
This draws yet more ire from the fans, each and every one loving their Bama Slamma.
“From the moment I stepped foot in this organization, I should have been the living breathing representation of below the Mason-Dixon.”
Harley Jo runs a hand down her little long frame.
“Y’all know it’s true. That paleass ginger from Alabammie has been stealing my spotlight for years and tonight, I put an end to it and her. Ivy. Get your freckled butt and your chicken legs down here to take the asswhipping of a lifetime, darlin.”
Harley Jo holds the microphone straight out in front of her and drops it with a loud ‘CLUNK’.
From behind the velvet curtain at the head of the ramp, Ivy hears her opponent's taunts...and she smiles. Tennessee girls always had less horse sense and more of the horse's ass, as her Mama says, and Collins certainly did seem to be proving that adage true.
Then, she hears the amplified voice of the announcer proclaiming, “And now, her opponent...standing five feet eight inches tall, and tipping the scale at one-hundred and twenty pounds...from Uriah, Alabama...she is IIIIVVVVVVYYYYYY ARMSTRONG!”
IVY ARMSTRONG:
“Wild Eyed Southern Boys” by .38 Special comes crashing through the PA. Grabbing the curtain with both hands and tearing it open, the redhead struts down the aisleway, her hips sashaying with silent temptation. She wears a red and black satin corset and matching black panties that evokes a sense of Antebellum grandeur, even as the panties reveal a conspicuous degree of her backside, and instead of the discreet ankle which a saucy Southern belle might have once shown, the redhead has on display her full legs in all of their lithe splendor. As she confidently swaggers toward the ring, she pauses before one avid fan at the barrier, waving a sign that reads HARLEY JO VOLUNTEERED FOR A 'BAMA BEATING! Cupping his face with her hands, she plants a lingering kiss on his lips, causing his knees to buckle and his friends to whoop, holler and high five one another.
Never let it be said Ivy wasn’t willing to give her all for the fans.
Her fan outreach completed, Armstrong resumes her march to the ring, a contented smile on her ruby red lips and her black eye-lined green eyes half-lidded like a jungle cat on the prowl. At ringside, she grabs the ropes and pulls herself up to the apron. Stepping over to the center of the ring apron, she turns to face the crowd even as her arms reach up on either side so that her hands can grasp the top cable. Then, with a gracefulness that would put Crique du Soleil to shame, she flips up and over the strands in a graceful arc, alighting gently inside of the ring. The end result is an eruption of gratitude from the entranced crowd.
In the ring, she raises her fists high over her head and does a 360° spin as the fans cheer. She then asks the referee to pick up the discarded microphone and hand it to her, if he would please. Putting the mic to her lips, she beams a smile and says in her best honey-dripped drawl, "Why Harley Jo, Ah do declare, y'all might have been doing a better job of representing our sacred Southern soil if you didn't spend so much time with your head down below your Mason-Dixon, and stuck up your own...well now, a true lady doesn't use language such as that. But don't worry if you don't know what I meant, because Ah'll give you a little clue: it's the part of your anatomy which Ah'll be kicking in a few moments." And with that, amid a torrent of cheers and whoops from the crowd, she hands the mic back to the ref, who orders both combatants to their respective corners.
Ivy starts on her way there, but Harley Jo’s and more importantly the Volunteer State’s honor must be defended. For the long lean Tennessean there is no waiting for the bell. Instead, she links her fingers, making a double axhandle overhead, and sprints at the blissfully unaware redhead.
Or so it seems to Collins who lowers the boom only to be gutted by a blind side kick to her expansive tanned midriff. A loud ‘GUHHH’ escapes Harley Jo’s lip as she doubles at the waist, her hands unlacing, arms falling to her side.
“And did ah say,” Ivy purrs as she turns and draws the gasping brunette into a front facelock, “you Lady Volunteers are among the most asinine creature on God’s green earth?”
Left with little choice considering the chaos, the official calls for the bell as Armstrong wrenches the noggin and neck of her foe. She subtly slips her arm from chin to throat and begins choking the life from Collins. As the raspy pleas from HJ draw the referee’s attention, the Bama Slamma cleverly rotates her rival in response to the zebra’s efforts to get a better look, always keeping the throttling out of the ref’s sight, if definitely not out of Harley’s mind.
Harley Jo frantically flails as her windpipe is sealed. Finally the man in stripes works his way into a position to confirm the second-generation superstar’s felonious ways. He loudly starts his count and at ‘FOUR’ the auburn-haired beauty releases, throwing her arms high and wide.
“Do ah stand accused?” Ivy shouts. “After she came at me before the bell?”
The second question is joined by a raised knee to the chest of a gagging, redfaced Collins sending her into a stumbling retreat, Harley Jo’s arms windmilling to keep herself upright. And her only reward for doing so is a crisp dropkick to the point of her chin from Armstrong that still doesn’t knock her foe flat, but does deliver the destroyer-class confederate into a set of buckles, her back THUMPING into the corner, arms flopping over the top rope on either side to help keep her vertical.
The alabaster-skinned Southern Charmer is quick to scramble to her feet and close the gap. Moving to the ropes at Collins’ left side, the FAWN original snatches them and uses the cable to balance as she lifts her left leg high, forcing her bare foot harshly against the throat of the brunette. Harley Jo chokes out a complaint as her palms wrap around Ivy’s ankle, trying to push the offending foot away without success.
The sheriff of the ring gives Armstrong a familiar time limit and the smirking Ivy releases with a second to spare, dropping the leg away but only so far as she can jab it forward into the Volunteer’s lower, lower abdomen, Harley Jo responding with a guttural ‘fuuhk’. Weak in the knees from the low blow, HJ staggers forward, her body imploding around her crotch until she falls to her knees. There, a “tender” Ivy places a palm atop the crown of the bigger brunette’s skull.
“Can we agree there is no star of Dixie greater than me?”
Harley Jo starts to lob a verbal rejoinder but the words are cut short when Ivy continues her control, lifting a knee into the underside of the tanned Tennessean’s chin with enough force to snap the head of Harley Jo with a wicked whiplash. When it returns, there is a noticeable glaze over HJ’s baby blues, her mouth slightly agape.
“Cat got your tongue, darlin’?” Armstrong asks, drawing the penitent Collins into a tight front facelock. “Or are you finally wisen’ up?”
Ivy continues her show of dominance, laying out and bringing the lanky but lowered brunette with her, SPIKING her rival’s skull into the deck with a DDT.
The force of the impact sends the boneless Volunteer barrelrolling to her back and into a spreadeagle while the methodical redhead slithers to her victim, sensually sliding atop the dazzled Collins and into a lateral press, Armstrong hooking a long sinewy stem of her foe for the ONE…TWO…kickout.
HJ blasts her way out of the pin, pushing Armstrong up to her knees, drawing an impressed eyebrow raise from the Southern Charmer.
“Yeah. I didn’t think so,” Ivy confesses. “Maybe a Yankee, like our precious little troll of a champ, but not you.”
Armstrong latches onto Collins’ dark mop and tugs her up into a stiff forearm shot. With her foe’s head bobbling, Ivy rises and draws Harley Jo up with her. Setting the beleaguered Collins in a wobbly stance in front of her, Armstrong peppers the chin of the Vicious Volunteer with left jabs, one after the other, HJ’s noggin swaying after each connection, her peepers increasingly glassy.
Finally, a beaming Bama Slamma grabs Harley Jo’s right wrist with her left hand and folds the arm behind Collins’ back. The redhead cocks her tightly clenched right fist and aims her infamous heart punch at the cleft of the brunette’s bosom, tossing her signature defibrillator at her fellow Southerner.
But before Ivy connects, Collins do-si-dos out of the hammerlock, ducking under the arm bar and avoiding the Alabaman’s bombthrowing in one motion. Ending with a chickenwing of her own on Armstrong, HJ nestles in tight to Ivy’s back and ratchets the trapped limb. Collins draws her lips tight to her former tormentor’s ear.
“You had your fun Crimson Snide,” HJ informs, “now it’s my turn.”
Collins adds a second hammerlock to her first and with possession of both arms, she vaults the smaller Ivy into the air. As she sends the auburn-haired grappler dropping face down in front of her, the Volunteer lays out, getting to the canvas first, curling her knees up to gore the gut of the extended Ivy.
www.youtube.com/watch?v=ErFcgb8vQSc
The ivory skinned Slamma bounces off the brutal impact, rolling to the side, swaddling her roiling tummy, having to pay the piper…and the banjo player for the first time in the match.
Not wasting any time, Collins fills her fists with her opponent's fiery mane and pulls the squealing Alabaman up to her feet. Keen to demonstrate her superior strength, the larger wrestler scoops up the redhead and delivers her back to the mat with a ring-jarring bodyslam. Yet even as her rattled spine arches in pained protest, Ivy is offered no chance for recovery, as she is again peeled up off of the canvas by a hairpull, and once more finds herself help aloft by her powerhouse adversary.
This time, however, the bodyslam terminated with Armstrong's back colliding with Harley Jo's knee. For one sickening instant, as the redhead's body twists into a wholly unnatural position, there is a collective fear among the onlookers that her spine has been snapped like a twig. But Ivy is made of sturdy stuff, and her skeletal structure remains intact...although the agony blazing up and down her spine may suggest otherwise at the moment to her befuddled brain.
A simple backbreaker now might be all that's necessary to draw a submission from the ravished redhead. But such a quick victory doesn't suit the raven-tressed Tennessean at all. No, she needs...and, more importantly, wants...to make Armstrong suffer for as long as possible, to dismantle her in front of the eyes of the world. Thus, Collins can demonstrate her true superiority, because nobody fights quite and hard as a couple of proud Southern gals.
Tightening her right hand around Ivy's alabaster throat, Harley Jo stands up, hauling the gurgling redhead up with her. But Armstrong doesn't stay upright for long, as Clayton chokeslams her back to the mat, the redhead's body twitching spasmodically in the aftermath. The 'Bama Slamma's pained moans turn to squeals as she's again ripped up off of the canvas by a handful of hair, scooped up like a bale of hay, carried over to a corner, and then her body is draped over the turnbuckle and top ropes, leaving her torso exposed to a series of sledgehammer-like blows. Harley Jo's fists crash down again and again onto her opponent's tummy, and drive into her pert breasts as if they were hammering railroad spikes.
Tiring of this, Collins muscles the redhead onto her shoulders and carries her almost effortlessly to center ring. There, a gorilla press puts Armstrong's limp body on display like a trophy, until the brunette finally throws her almost contemptuously to the mat. Ivy bounces once from the impact, then rolls over with a slurred groan onto her back, her eyes squinting up at the arena lights above. "There she is," Harley Jo bellows. "The 'Great White Hope' of the South. And she's NOTHING compared to me! Say your goodbyes, because this is gonna be the last you'll ever see of Ivy Armstrong in a ring!"
Collins plucks Ivy off the canvas by a wrist, tugging her to unsteady feet with the first pull and then up between her open arms with the second. The tanned limbs surround Armstrong’s ivory midriff and cinch tight. A gust of breath escapes the redhead’s lips in a rush as the Violent Volunteer bears down on her bearhug. The Slamma’s vaunted lower limbs circle Harley Jo loosely to try and take some of the pressure off, but Collins makes allowances, tightening her grasp even further.
Ivy’s emerald peepers pop, lips widening in a gasping ‘O’ as Harley Jo works tummy and spine simultaneously.
“I’d ask for your surrender, but that’s all too normal for a Bama girl. Instead, I’m going to break you in half.”
Again, HJ increases the compression of her embrace and Ivy moans, her chin drooping onto the bigger brunette’s left shoulder. Collins gives the redhead a rattle then powerfully pops Armstrong over a dipped set of shoulders and into a fireman’s carry.
There’s very little squirm in the gutshot Ivy and things go from bad to worse when the tanned Tennessean presses Ivy up military-style once more, ducks underneath her horizontal frame and lets the second generation superstar fall to bended knee with a fireman’s carry gutbuster.
www.youtube.com/watch?v=mbKnHJ-4uGc
Ivy wretches as she bounces off the balled joint. Armstrong desperately hugs her tummy, ending turtled on her back, trying to leave as little of her midsection as possible open to further attack. Collins leaves the Bama beauty to groan in agony, passing on a pin.
She does, however, move to both knees next to Ivy’s side, brushing Armstrong’s protective arms aside so can sink a five-pronged weapon into the alabaster belly of the FAWN original. The claw sinks deep into Ivy’s flesh, the auburn-haired grappler howling in pain, her body spasming, palms wrapping around Harley Jo’s wrist in order to pull the talons free, but Armstrong is unable.
“I’m going to turn your guts into garters,” the long, lithe brunette growls, continuing to work her fingers deeper into Ivy’s midriff, nearly down to the second knuckle when she presses her opposite hand on top. Unable to remove HJ’s digits, Ivy’s maulers move to her own long locks, yanking at her hair, trying to spread the anguish. Only HJ’s determination to make her fellow Southern girl suffer in a new way stops the gut churning display.
Harley Jo rises and delivers a boot to the belly button of Armstrong, Ivy imploding around the impact. Collins grabs the fiery strands of her foe and forces a mewling Armstrong up for more.
“You’re one of the oldest books in the library,” Harley Jo informs as she turns the doubled, groaning redhead toward her. Her body failing her, Armstrong drops to one knee, penitent in front of the new Queen of the South “Everybody on the roster has read you up, down and sideways a dozen times. Nothing new UNUHHH…”
Harley Jo’s face is suddenly stricken, the words unable to come. And there’s good reason, as Ivy’s swept an uppercut forearm into the brunette’s crotch, lifting Collins to tiptoes.
“You forget that page, bytch?” Ivy asks between breathless pants, still on one knee as she removes her invading arm and uses the frozen HJ to climb to her feet. Reaching there, the Southern Charmer lifts a knee into Collins’ belly for a little navel payback. The bigger brunette doubles low, gasping from the vicious strike. Bent at the waist, and still trying to overcome the waves of pain from between her thighs, Harley Jo can manage little in the way of defense as Ivy steps alongside, lifts a knee to Collins’ temple while wrapping up her opposite arm.
Ivy then throws her frame in reverse, laying out and landing on the canvas with a THUMP, violently pulling HJ with her to teach what Mama Knows Best.
www.youtube.com/watch?v=pJmrOSHMhwI
Her head and neck taking a vile snap from the side, Collins twists to a seat then melts to the mat. And this time it’s Ivy who passes on the pinning combination. She slowly climbs to her feet and surveys with weary satisfaction.
“Ya know whatcha ought to volunteer doing?” Ivy asks, tugging the long lean brunette to her feet in stages. “Shutting the hell up, sugah.”
Dipping, Ivy sweeps an arm between Harley Jo’s long tanned stems and scoops the bigger grappler off the deck and onto her right shoulder. The smirking Armstrong doesn’t deliver her back to the canvas immediately. Instead, she walks her foe in a half-circuit of the ring before getting an ambling start and SLAMMING her rival to the canvas. The base of HJ’s spine takes the force of the impact and she curls into an anguished arch, features twisted in pain from the force of Ivy’s suped-up slam.
The redhead jogs around the ring in a premature victory lap, arms raised, perfect pearlies flashing, her many admirers out in force with a rousing ovation. As she does, HJ uses the cables to climb to her knees. The flagging brunette leans heavy against the ropes, rubbing at the base of her backbone and drawing in large gulps of oxygen.
Armstrong ends her parade at the strands opposite Collins, her smile turning to smirk. Turning a crow hop into a sprint toward her rival, it’s clear Ivy plans to place the Volunteer on the train tracks and run her down. Armstrong lifts off as she closes on her target. The snarling Slamma lands in a crossbody splash across the back of the brunette using her signature Confederate Railroad to send Harleys Jo’s throat deep into the middle rope, the sound of her tummy smacking against HJ’s back reverberating through the arena, quickly joined by the choking gags of Collins.
Ivy scrambles to her feet and leans a knee into the back of Harley Jo’s noggin to increase the throttling pressure, HJ turning redfaced as the ref threatens then finally starts his count, Ivy waiting until ‘FOUR’ to give the garrote up.
Tugging Harley Jo up and away from the ropes, Ivy dips underneath a weak clothesline attempt from the still coughing Collins. Ivy slides her body behind the long lean Tennessean from the side, strapping down across Harley Jo’s back while keeping one knee in front. She snakes a leg around one of Collins’, the FAWN legend slipping her body under HJ’s far arm and securing an abdominal stretch just like Mama Armstrong used to make back in the day.
www.youtube.com/watch?v=Kh8AlBD_P-g
Ivy brutally shreds at Harley Jo’s pride and joy, determined to work over Collins’ abs until she capitulates. But as Armstrong demands HJ surrender, the powerful, dark-haired grappler works her leg free of Ivy’s grapevine and, as Armstrong’s head shakes in disbelief, Collins powers the wide-eyed Southern girl up and over with a hiptoss, Armstrong landing on her derriere. Ivy winces as her hands shoot to the base of her tailbone, the Southern Charmer bouncing in pain as she drops her hands underneath as a bumper, the redhead massaging her aching rumpus.
Ignoring her own pain and exhaustion, the Violent Volunteer forces herself to crawl toward her unsuspecting opponent, and then lunges at her. Caught by surprise, Armstrong offers ineffectual defense as Harley Jo viciously rakes her nails over the redhead's eyes, drawing forth a piercing shriek.
It's at this specific moment in the match that things truly went "country", as Collins abandons all pretenses of civility. Lunging at her rival, she bares her teeth, sinking them into Ivy's forehead like a rabid hound dog. The redhead shrieks, her nails clawing at the face of her tormentor until she is finally able to ward her off. A trickle of blood makes its way down Armstrong's face, but its red pales in comparison to the fire in the 'Bama Slamma's eyes. With a banshee's wail, Ivy leaps at Harley Jo, and now it's her turn to be animalistic, as her teeth bite down onto the brunette's scalp just above her hairline. When she is finally forced off, Collins has a matching patch of crimson upon her visage.
What ensues next is less a wrestling match than it is a catfight, as the two hellions tear into one another 'Southern style'. Their skin is mottled with scratches and bruises, and marred by the indentations of teeth, their hair tattered mops. Fabric is tugged and torn away, leaving them both reduced onto to their panties. After several minutes of this unrivaled savagery, the two primitive beauties fall away from each other, both struggling against exhaustion and they lay on their back, sweat-soaked chests heaving for breath as each stares at the arena lights overhead. The referee begins his count, and it takes to a full nineteen before both stir and rise up from the mat.
Their fury seemingly abated...at least for the moment...the pair now move more like cunning grappling strategists than as wild beasts, both cautiously circling the other, seeking an opening to strike. It's Armstrong with her superior speed who moves first, reaching out and grasping the brunette's left wrist. Before Collins can react, Ivy nails her with an "Eat Defeat", lifting her right leg and pressing her sole to the Tennessean's jaw, then falling backwards to the canvas, pulling Harley Jo's wrist with her, and the impact snapping the victim's head back violently. Stunned, Collins takes several long seconds on the mat to gather her wits, and then pushes herself back up to her feet. Her face registers confusion as she does not immediately locate her opponent. The brunette turns around in search of her, even as Armstrong, perched frog-style on the top ropes of the nearest corner, leaps out into the air. As Harley Jo fully turns to face her, she is met with a Front Missile Dropkick, with Armstrong's feet smashing into her face like twin sledges. Collins sails backwards until crashing on the deck with a little bounce.
The tall brunette skids to a stop in a dazed starfish, her tanned frame beaded in perspiration. Collins stares into the rafters blankly. She shakes her head to drop some of her senses back into place. And she indeed has a few when her vision is filled with the sparkling green eyes of the Bama Slamma staring down at her.
“Time to give you a little taste of Roll Tide moonshine, darlin’,” Armstrong purrs.
She scoops Harley Jo’s ankles off the canvas and spreads them wide. HJ holds up both hands, palms facing Ivy as she ‘washes some windows’, pleading with the second generation superstar not to go downtown.
Ivy looks around the arena, apparently seeking a cue from the FAWNatics who seem to have no problem with their Southern Charmer getting down and dirty. Armstrong half-grins half-growls as she raises a boot high and SLAMS it into Collins’ crotch. The Volunteer shoots up to a seat, her eyes wide and mouth agape, hands rushing to her throbbing center.
Not satisfied, Ivy flattens her foe with a knee to the jaw. She steps over the splayed brunette and twists Harley Jo to her chest, Armstrong now in a reverse standing straddle that slips into a crouch. The redhead lets one leg flop free, the Crab turning into a half variety.
HJ yips in pain as the FAWN original leans back, curling Harley Jo’s spine into an agonizing arch, but Armstrong turns the level of pain up several notches when she sends the fingers of her free hand sinking into the tender tissue between Collins’ thighs. The finishing touch of her signature White Lightning has Harley Jo howling and spasming, Ivy not only working leg and backbone but sending her talons below Harley Jo’s Mason-Dixon.
HJ tears at her long dark locks to spread the pain, unsuccessfully. The official drops in front of the agonized Tennessean and asks if she wants to give. Through watery eyes, Collins shakes her head as she bites her lower lip.
“Hell no,” she shouts, gulping down a hard swallow afterward before another shriek emerges when Ivy digs deeper.
“GAWWWDDD,” HJ howls.
“Ah do believe he ain’t got a bit to do with it, sunshine,” Armstrong assures between heavy breaths.
Finally, becoming a bit unsteady herself, the redhead calls an end to the Lightning, letting the lanky grappler’s long leg drop to the canvas while simultaneously giving up her throttling grasp of Harley Jo’s kitty.
Ivy sidles to HJ’s droopy head and sinks her nails into the Volunteer’s scalp, dragging her foe up to her haunches with a handful of hair. Harley Jo leans her cheek heavily against Ivy’s right hip, her hands between her thighs.
“Do you understAHHH.”
Ivy’s words are cut short when Collins finds the wherewithal to swing her right arm around and up between Armstrong’s infamous ivory stems. Wickets brutally parted, Ivy drops to her knees, face twisted in pain, the two women nearly nose to nose, suffering at each other’s invading limb.
But before Harley Jo can open her palm and return the favor with a claw of her own, Armstrong sends a head butt to the bridge of HJ’s nose that stupefies the brunette. Collins’ arms fall to her sides as she sways in front of Ivy.
“Ah will always will be the Queen of the Confederacy, sugah,” Ivy grunts. “No matter how low you go, I’m already there.”
The redhead's moment of resolute triumph lasts just that...a moment. For, moving with serpentine speed, Harley Jo grabs at her opponent and pulls her over, rolling her up into a small package. The referee drops to his knees and starts to slap the mat.
ONE...
TWO...
KICKOUT!
With fire in her eyes, Armstrong breaks the pinfall attempt and scampers back to her knees...only to once more be taken by her opponent, and in a heartbeat again rolled up, with this time the Tennessean taking a handful of her Alabama rival's panties to better hold her down to the canvas.
ONE...
TWO...
THRNOOOOOO!
The zebra earns his paycheck by noticing Harley Jo's illegal hold of Ivy's modest garment at the last possible instant, and orders to pin hold released. With a growl, the redhead erupts from the canvas, jumping to her feet and grabbing Collins by her tattered raven mane, hauling her back up as well. But bare instants later, Harley Jo is returned to the mat, courtesy of an RKO stunner that leaves the brunette face-down and twitching spasmodically.
But the "Bama Slamma knows not to underestimate her cagey foe, so she further softens up Collins with a Triangle Choke, the country gal's face purpling from the python pressure of the legs encircling her head. Finally, satisfied that her victim is ripe for finishing off, Ivy transforms her hold into her signature finisher, the Southern Charm. Head trapped in the vise of the redhead's thighs, face smothered into her tormentor's own crotch, wrists held tightly by Armstrong's hand, neutralizing the brunette's powerful arms, Collins can but feebly squirm in defiance. Her movements grew more sluggish with every passing second, until finally, after one last great shudder, she lay still.
Releasing one of her opponent's arms so that the referee can check it, he drop it once, twice, thrice, and calls for the bell.
Releasing her devastating hold, Armstrong with a noticeable wince of ache, climbs back up to her feet so that the official can raise her arm in triumph...but not before the redhead almost daintily places her foot between the shoulder blades of her slumber rival, striking a victory pose that helps settle the question of Southern supremacy in FAWN.
The redhead's moment of resolute triumph lasts just that...a moment. For, moving with serpentine speed, Harley Jo grabs at her opponent and pulls her over, rolling her up into a small package. The referee drops to his knees and starts to slap the mat.
ONE...
TWO...
KICKOUT!
With fire in her eyes, Armstrong breaks the pinfall attempt and scampers back to her knees...only to once more be taken by her opponent, and in a heartbeat again rolled up, with this time the Tennessean taking a handful of her Alabama rival's panties to better hold her down to the canvas.
ONE...
TWO...
THRNOOOOOO!
The zebra earns his paycheck by noticing Harley Jo's illegal hold of Ivy's modest garment at the last possible instant, and orders to pin hold released. With a growl, the redhead erupts from the canvas, jumping to her feet and grabbing Collins by her tattered raven mane, hauling her back up as well. But bare instants later, Harley Jo is returned to the mat, courtesy of an RKO stunner that leaves the brunette face-down and twitching spasmodically.
But the "Bama Slamma knows not to underestimate her cagey foe, so she further softens up Collins with a Triangle Choke, the country gal's face purpling from the python pressure of the legs encircling her head. Finally, satisfied that her victim is ripe for finishing off, Ivy transforms her hold into her signature finisher, the Southern Charm. Head trapped in the vise of the redhead's thighs, face smothered into her tormentor's own crotch, wrists held tightly by Armstrong's hand, neutralizing the brunette's powerful arms, Collins can but feebly squirm in defiance. Her movements grew more sluggish with every passing second, until finally, after one last great shudder, she lay still.
Releasing one of her opponent's arms so that the referee can check it, he drop it once, twice, thrice, and calls for the bell.
Releasing her devastating hold, Armstrong with a noticeable wince of ache, climbs back up to her feet so that the official can raise her arm in triumph...but not before the redhead almost daintily places her foot between the shoulder blades of her slumber rival, striking a victory pose that helps settle the question of Southern supremacy in FAWN.