Post by alyadmirer on Oct 20, 2015 6:44:50 GMT
It’s strange, the things you think of at times like these.
Championship success can do funny things to people. Take the women of FAWN, for instance. In striving for the World title, Shea London can be one of the toughest, most accomplished women in the sport. But winning a belt seems to take a little something out of her, and it isn’t long before someone comes along and upsets her.
Or then there’s Kylie Sanders, whose lust for recognition as the Champion of the world…along with a whole stew of self-esteem issues, it seems…drove her to completely re-invent herself, to the point of virtually trying to exorcize her old self, seemingly a the expense of everything she had accomplished in her past career.
And one can’t forget Portia Ophelia VanBuren IV, who feels positively gauche if she isn’t accessorizing with ten pounds of leather and gold around her pampered waist. It had to be particularly bitter for the trust fund tyrant when one of her title reigns was abruptly ended by a li’l ol’ redhead from Alabama.
As for Ivy Armstrong, wrestling was never about titles. Oh sure, it’s fun to be Champ, but it’s almost just as much fun to be denying certain other gals the opportunity to be the Champion. With or without a crown, the ‘Bama Brawler was a headliner in FAWN, and a hell of a lot more popular with the fans than a lot of other so-called “stars” in the company. For Armstrong, a match was about winning, whether there was a strap on the line or not.
But she had to admit, winning tonight…and depriving VanBuren once again of a golden destiny…was going to be oh, so sweet…!
The redhead is jolted out of her musings by the voice blaring over the arena’s PA system. Bellowing to be heard over the strains of .38 Special’s “Wild Eyed Southern Boys”, the announcer proclaims, “Introducing first…from Uriah, Alabama…standing five feet, eight inches tall and weighing in at one hundred and twenty pounds…she is the former inaugural FAWN Television Champion…the former Intercontinental Champion…and a former FAWN World Champion…she is the ‘Bama Slamma herself….IIIIIIVVVVVYYYY ARRRRRRRMSTRONNNNNG!!!”
IVY ARMSTRONG:
The lights go out, and the spotlight hits the curtain at the head of the ramp. The redhead, clad in denim cut-off's and a slightly tattered black babydoll tank with "Belle of the Ball" emblazoned across the front in fancy pink script, tears open the curtains and begins strutting toward the ring, slapping the occasional outstretched hand, a wily grin on her ruby red lips and a mischievous sparkle in her emerald eyes.
One fan holds aloft a sign that reads <bold>I-V-Y OVER P-O-V!</bold> and he is rewarded with the redhead cupping his cheeks in her hands and planting a kiss on his lips, his knees buckling from the bounty. Ivy saunters up the ring steps and onto the apron. Her cutoffs, already an immodest length more akin to a thong than anything else, ride dangerously further up as the Southern Belle bends and slips through the ropes and into the ring, making sure to linger in this position for just an extra heartbeat as the camera focuses on her shapely backside.
Once in the ring, she pulls a dainty lace handkerchief…a jab at her silver spoon rival, perhaps?...from the back pocket of her shorts, dabs nonexistent beads of sweat from her forehead and chest, and then makes a saucy production out of throwing the cloth to the crowd, where a knot of young men fall over themselves attempting to retrieve it. Sauntering over to her corner, she leans almost casually against the ropes as she awaits her opponent for this evening.
With the Bama Slamma lookin’ slammin’ and ready to take up arms…and legs against Fortune’s Favorite, one of the very few franchise members of FAWN bounces from boot sole to boot sole backstage. Beside her is the Associates’ heavy artillery, Alexis Suguitan. The Filipino catfighter rubs the boss’ shoulders, whispering compliment after compliment in the blonde’s ear. And after the genius move to relieve the World Title belt from Emily West via her now tossed aside puppet Kylie Sanders, who could blame VanBuren for believing every word.
PORTIA VANBUREN:
ALEXIS SUGUITAN:
“The Yankees win for a reason,” Portia murmurs to herself, though she might as well be talking to the Southern Charmer. “No Crimson Tide is going to change that.”
Outside the curtain, the sounds of ‘How You Like Me Now' from Heavy, the drumbeating clarion call of FAWN’s infamous socialite begin and the crowd roars to its feet, not in support of the icon and champion, but to jeer Baby at the moment of her greatest triumph, reclaiming FAWN’s ultimate position for the first time in damn near a decade.
( www.youtube.com/watch?v=sVzvRsl4rEM )
The assembled don’t wait long and they let Lyle VanBuren’s only child have it with both barrels. The head of VB&A floats like a feather over the hatred, the enormous gold plate on the belt around her waist lifting her rather than weighing her down. Next to her, Alexis leads a vain effort to gain the titleholder some support. She relents and instead points at belt, letting everyone know the hardware is back where it belongs.
Beaming, Baby starts down the aisle, slapping her faceplate and making sure everyone knows the loss of a quarter of her father’s fortune to Gretchen Vaughn is an aggravating but increasingly distant memory. She was and now IS the best. The belt screamed it for her.
Portia unsnaps the leather and lifts it overhead, the familiar, eardrum-injuring cascade of jeers echoing through the confines like the sound of a jet engine.
The sinewy blonde reaches the ring, smiling and offering a queenly wave to Armstrong. She offers a familiar toss of her flaxen mane from one side to the other as she makes her way down the aisle.
VanBuren is garbed in her alternate wear for her first defense, daringly scant emerald two-piece with black dollar sign on her infamous and flawless derriere. Baby’s uva-nourished, ivory skin glows next to the bright green swatches, her attire completed with black pads and green boots, the footwear containing the black outline of the state of New Jersey, an iconic red circle with a slash superimposed atop the Garden State.
The blonde patrician reaches the ring, making a predatory walk-by on Ivy as she circles the battleground. Alexis waits patiently beneath the Associates’ corner in her skin-tight, red mini and pumps, the copper skin of her arms and legs resplendent. The ring announcer breaks in as Lyle’s baby girl steps up to the apron.
“And her opponent… accompanied to the ring by her partner in VanBuren & Associates, Alexis Suguitan…from Manhattan and Easthampton, New York and Monaco City, Monaco, standing five feet seven inches tall and weighing in at 120 pounds, she is the THREE, THREE, THREE TIME FAWN World Champion… Portia Ophelia VanBuren IV!”
Portia slips through the ropes and shows the gold to Ivy who nods and mouths ‘MINE’. This draws a chuckle from Portia.
“I didn’t wait months to take this from some braindead hick just to give it to another one,” she informs.
Portia turns to her curvy back-up, handing the belt over to Alexis. But the ref instantly demands Suguitan present to him, which she grudgingly does. The man moves to the center and holds the belt high, the crowd growing more excited by the second, particularly when Ivy is allowed to inspect before the zebra hands the prize over to a FAWN flunky for safe storage.
Perhaps surprised there hasn’t been any eruption of hostilities, the official quickly calls for the bell and out Portia comes, circling away from her corner, Ivy doing likewise. The orbits grow closer until the two legends come together in an enthusiastic collar-and-elbow tie-up to start off the Mania dream main event and battle of titans.
The two combatants, as experienced as they may be, and as well-versed in the tactics of the other that they are, have no need for any preening, nor to test the defenses of the other. Both strain against the other, their feet digging into the canvas, with Ivy’s bare soles perhaps finding somewhat better purchase than Portia’s boots. Although the difference is marginal, VanBuren’s keen battle instincts inform her of it, and not one to toil at any sort of disadvantage, she suddenly shifts tactics. With a blur of motion, she breaks the lock-up and wraps her right arm around her opponent’s neck, pulling her face in tight alongside Fortune’s Favorite body, and giving the redhead an unwanted and up-close view of alabaster-skinned side boob.
But not for long, as the agile Alabamian wriggles out, grasping the rich bltch’s right wrist as she goes, and applying an armlock. Portia deftly reverses it, but an instant later Ivy does the same, and so it goes, seesawing for a few moments more, until finally Armstrong wraps both hands around her opponent’s wrist, straightens out the arm, and then starts to jump up and down, whip cracking the limb. Portia gasps in discomfort, her free hand pressed against her right shoulder…and leaving her taut midriff wide open as the redhead suddenly swings her right leg up, landing a side kick square in the breadbasket. The blonde gives a sharp whoosh of air as she partially doubles over. Armstrong swings her right leg back like a pendulum, then fires another kick, this one connecting directly under VanBuren's fine Knickerbocker chin.
With a violent backward snap of her head, Portia stumbles until she feels herself pressed against the ropes. She gives her head a shake, her luxurious hair flowing as she gathers her wits, there's a long second where she can discern nothing externally...and in that ever-so-brief span of time, the redhead strikes. Lunging at her rival, Ivy grabs the top rope alongside POV and fires a kneelift up around the equator between the New Yorker's navel and her vault of precious jewels...high enough to not be considered bad sportswomanship so early in the match, but low enough to cause some genuine discomfort. "You should have just bought yourself a ticket and watched the show from ringside, sugah," the Southerner purrs in her honeyed drawl. "Because inside this ring is that last place y'all want to find yourself tonight." A handful of flaxen mane pulls VanBuren away from the ropes. Dipping her knees, Ivy scoops up her opponent in a swift fireman's carry, slamming her to mat and instantly applying an armbar...while simultaneously keeping Portia in place my pressing her right knee down against the side of VanBuren's head.
Twisting her body, Portia's legs flail wildly, trying to build the momentum needed to pull free. Ivy decides to help her, suddenly releasing her armbar, and while the blonde's own momentum causes her to roll over, Armstrong moves with a blur of motion. When the dust settles, Portia is seated upon the mat, and the redhead is pressing a knee between her shoulder blades while her cupped hands jerk the head of the heiress back to an agonizing angle.
"How about it, Portia?" the referee intones. "Never...ask...me...that...again!" POV growls through clenched teeth, and in spite of her seeming helplessness at the moment, the zebra can't help but feel a twinge of fear from the threatening tone of her voice.
Expertly, Portia is able get her feet planted and lift herself up to break the hold. Ivy doesn't resist it, but instead again takes advantage of her adversary's moment of defenselessness; as they both stand up, the redhead whirls POV around and throws another knee up into her belly, which registers a sharp gasp from the victim. A front headlock and a tight grip of the tights lifts VanBuren's body up, and Armstrong swings her around so that the blonde's legs fall upon the top rope, causing them to bounce up and give added momentum for the suplex.
Spine painfully arched upward, Portia moans. But her body is suddenly flattened out as Ivy dives across her torso, hooking a leg.
1...
2...
KICKOUT!
The redhead is unperturbed, having fully expected her opponent to escape the pin. A wrestler of Portia's caliber is rarely finished off so early in a match. Still, the effort served its purpose of putting an ounce of panic into the haughty mind of the blonde, and as Ivy well knows, a panicky Portia is a desperate Portia, and desperation breeds mistakes.
Straddling VanBuren's body on her knees, the 'Bama Slamma grabs a handful of hair and yanks Portia's head up, at the exact moment Ivy drives her down, delivering a headbutt right between the New Yorker's steely eyes. Ivy gives a smile that turned the knees of many a boy back in Uriah, Alabama to water, confident in her supremacy. But if she looked a bit more closely into those eyes of Portia, she would see a furious determination to seize that supremacy for herself. All she needed was a single moment of opportunity.
Trying to make that opportunity happen, VanBuren swings both of her legs up in order to buck Ivy off, but Armstrong is ready, catching both limbs behind the knees and folding Baby into a tight matchbook, Portia’s shoulders pinned tightly to the canvas.
With her legs corralled, a distraught VanBuren wriggles through ONE…and TWO…and she’s barely able to roll herself over in a back somersault to keep her reign alive. A frantic Alexis, caught tardy, drops from the apron, her late effort to make the match a disqualification unnecessary for the moment.
Armstrong springs to her feet next to a gasping Portia, Baby hyperventilating more from almost giving up her crown than exhaustion. Ivy sinks her nails into VanBuren’s scalp, pulling the slender socialite to her feet.
“Y’are a tough piece of gristle, aren’t ya,” she purrs.
“You don’t know,” Portia mumbles under her breath as she sends her talons toward the Southern Charmer’s emerald eyes to rake the peepers. But while Portia’s as dirty as any, Ivy’s practiced those tactics just as long and she knocks the flashing nails away.
Armstrong only has a moment to be pleased with herself as VanBuren follows with a lifted knee that THUMPS into the juncture of her thighs. A bugeyed Ivy hops into the air, knees locked. She manages a one-point landing, her bare feet tight together, but is frozen in place as Baby draws in deep lungfuls of oxygen.
Grabbing Armstrong by a wrist she points the ‘eeping’ redhead at the far buckles and launches her with an Irish whip. There’s a very noticeable hitch in Ivy’s giddy-up, but she makes it to the corner, turning into the collision. Portia quickly follows her target in and raises a knee, higher this time, driving it into the ivory-skinned cleft of the second generation superstar’s bosom.
The redhead is rocked deeper into the buckles but Portia won’t let her wavering challenger bounce away. Grabbing Ivy’s flowing locks, the Trust Fund Terror exchanges positions with Armstrong, placing her back to the corner. She walks up the cables to the middle ropes and delivers a couple clenched right hands to Ivy’s jawline to sedate the wriggling Armstrong.
Portia leaps off her perch and rides the tumbling Ivy to the deck, her derriere flattening the chest of the Bama Slamma courtesy her signature Boob Job.
Boob Job
www.youtube.com/watch?v=DJs-L1k19lU
The sandwiching of Armstrong’s body reverberates through the arena, drawing a sympathetic, loud ‘OHHH’ out of the crowd. The impact and momentum sends Portia bouncing then skidding to a stop a few feet beyond Ivy’s resting place. In a self-satisfied kneel, she wipes her glistening brow and smirks at the FAWNatics, raising her arms high and wide.
“South Jersey,” Portia shouts. Everything south and west of Staten Island was considered such by VanBuren and by extension so apparently did Ukiah, Alabama, not that Staten Island, NYC didn’t suck.
Baby passes on scurrying back to the splayed Armstrong, knowing Ivy, with the upper hand until recently, wouldn’t be nearly in condition to get the all-important three-count. Instead, Portia rises and turns languidly, waiting for Armstrong to oblige her by getting to her bare tootsies. When the wobbly Ivy does, Baby rotates through a practiced pirouette, her right arm rising as she NAILS the redhead with a wicked Discus Clothesline, sending Ivy hurtling to the deck, her spine and the back of her skull crunching into the thinly-covered plywood.
Discus Clothesline
www.youtube.com/watch?v=95kh2tQSElE
With the follow-through putting Portia on her knees next to the slobberknocked confederate, VanBuren lays her body across that of the alabaster Alabaman in a lateral press, Lyle’s only child hooking a leg for a ONE…TWO…and Ivy safely kicks free with a full second remaining.
With Alexis offering encouragement from the sidelines, Portia contains her frustration. Knowing a FAWN original would have to be half-dead before she’d give up an opportunity to wear the organization’s most precious belt, Baby isn’t surprised when Armstrong rolls to her side, the redhead grunting out a stubborn, breathy ‘nuh uh’.
The verbal response draws a whisper of steam from VanBuren’s ears and she levels a series of five right crosses to Armstrong’s jaw that Ivy only partially blocks, her head twisting violently from the impacts.
“Keep your mouth shut,” Portia insists. “I’ve been your better for a dozen years, I’m better now. You’re better off respecting that.”
As if to defy the Manhattanite, Ivy struggles to her knees when the deluge stops, where she meets VanBuren chest to chest, only for Portia to wrap her left arm around the noggin of the sagging Bama Slamma, The lithe socialite folds her hammies atop her calves as she throws her body backward to drive Ivy’s face into the canvas with a low-level, but effective DDT. The force of the blow sends the redhead flopping to her back and Portia unfolds her legs to scramble on Ivy for another lateral press to get the ONE…TWO…THRNOOO!
Armstrong again keeps hers and the FAWNatics’ Mania hopes alive for a World Title change by kicking free and rolling to her side. VanBuren’s temper flashes as she paintbrushes the ivory-skinned cheek of the Alabaman. The furious head of VB&A rips Ivy to her feet by the hair and transfers that grip to a wrist.
Portia lines up her challenger with the far buckles and whips the woman who had taken her World Title once before to the corner. Armstrong races to the buckles, turning her back to the impact and taking a collision that rocks her frame. Still, she remains upright, throwing her arms over the top ropes on either side.
Porta takes a leisurely stroll after her, passing on a splash to simply sidle up to the redhead and give her foe a taste-removing, open-hand slap that swivels Armstrong’s noggin. When the red-cheeked Ivy’s head snaps back, Portia decides it’s time to provide Belle Butler’s daughter with a little bit of Wall Street. She turns her back to the startled Armstrong and hops to the middle ropes to give the second generation superstar a taste of her Bare Ass Market.
Pulling down her lower togs enough to show the organization’s perfect posterior, no offense to Lisa Dream, Baby backs dat ass up toward the wide-eyed visage of Armstrong.
But before Portia can nestle the glutes around Ivy’s nose and give Armstrong a scrubbing, Ivy wraps her arms around Portia’s waist. It’s Baby’s turn for her emerald eyes to grow very large, perhaps realizing she should have splashed Ivy to take more out of her. Instead, the challenger carries Portia out of the corner and genuflects, DRIVING her knee up into the crease between VanBuren’s bared cheeks, a very personal Atomic Drop delivered to the champ.
Portia yelps as she bounds into the air, hands on her naked backside. As Baby settles into a knock-kneed stance pointed away from Ivy, her hands quickly pull her bottoms back into place and she begins to knead her aching behind.
And Ivy decides to help with the massage, striding purposefully behind Portia, she pulls VanBuren’s hands out of the way and sinks an upperhand set of claws a little further into the champ’s undercarriage, Ivy striking at Portia’s kitty. VanBuren lets loose with a silent scream, the blonde rising to tiptoes, patrician face etched in agony as Ivy flexes her digits violently into Portia’s privates, showing just how far she’s willing to go to remove VanBuren of her belt for the second time.
Ivy permits herself a small, tight smile, envisioning victory just that much closer. But her visage twists into a mask of sharp discomfort as Portia suddenly jacks an elbow back, smashing the joint into the side of her adversary’s face. Momentarily stunned, the redhead’s cruel clawhold falls free and she staggers sideways a few steps. And although still throbbing with pain in that most treasured of VanBuren vaults, the blonde manages to whirl around and rake her perfectly manicured nails across Armstrong’s eyes. Shrieking and blinded, the Southern gal stumbles backward.
A pair of hands wrap themselves around the slender throat of the Bama Slamma, guiding her backward with a choke until her spine is slammed into a corner. Grabbing the middle ropes on either side of her challenger, the Champ drives three quick shoulders slams into Ivy’s taut belly, knocking wind from her as the referee makes his count. VanBuren steps back, ostensibly breaking the hold by the guidelines of the FAWN rulebook (such as it is). From center ring, Portia dashes toward her opponent, intent on splashing her. However, grabbing the top ropes for leverage, Ivy brings her legs up, lashing out to deliver a double kick to her onrushing rival.
Or, rather, she would have, had Fortune’s Favorite not managed to grab Armstrong’s ankles and, with a tug, pulled her out of the corner and sending her crashing to the mat. Ivy’s spine arched up and she moaned in obvious pain, while Lyle’s headstrong offspring flattened her to the canvas with a boot stomp to the breadbasket.
Grabbing her adversary by her fiery mane, Portia hair hauls Ivy up, then Irish whips her into the ropes. However, as the Southerner rebounds off of the cables, instead of colliding with the blonde’s clothesline, Armstrong leaps up, tightening her legs around VanBuren’s waist while wrapping her left arm around the Champ’s neck in a reverse chokehold. Seemingly at a loss as to how to respond, the Trust Fund Tyrant can merely stand there, being simultaneously scissors and strangled. However, this predicament only last for a few elongated moments, until Portia suddenly drops to one knee, and with her extended joint she delivers a reverse atomic drop that puts Armstrong back on the mat, curled up in a tight ball as her hands clutch at her aching groin.
That irksome mini-rally halted dead in its track, Portia gets back to the business at hand. Specifically, pulling the redhead up to a seated position, and from behind applying an abdominal stretch/chinlock combo. As the embattled Armstrong whines and gasps, Baby leans in and with a sneer, taunting, “The only reason why you’ve even stayed in FAWN this long is because I couldn’t be bothered to put an end to your miserable career before. Well, trailer park, I’m putting you at the top of my hostile takeover list tonight. But don’t worry about losing your job…I can always use another maid. A downstairs maid, of course…I don’t want your grubby little hands anywhere near my closet or jewels.” Fighting through the pain, Ivy hisses back, “F-fuck….you!”
With her every effort to escape thwarted, Armstrong’s salvation only comes when VanBuren grows bored waiting for the inevitable surrender, and she releases the hold herself. But if Ivy hoped she might enjoy a respite from the torment, she is painfully disabused of that notion as Portia flips her onto her belly and sits on her back. Grabbing the Bama Slamma’s lithe left leg, she bends the limb unnaturally backward in a single leg Boston crab. “These are the legs the rabble rave about?” the heiress intones with obvious contempt as she wrenches back one of Ivy’s best weapons, rendering it useless. “Let’s see what they say when you can’t walk on them anymore, and you have to crawl out of the ring like the gutter snipe you are.”
Portia curls the ivory-skinned stem to the point Armstrong’s heel is within a few inches of her shoulder. Ivy howls in pain as VanBuren sing-songs ‘Row, row, row your boat’ while using the trapped leg as her paddle. With each stroke, Baby pulls back all the further, Ivy caught between sighs when Portia swings her leg forward and shrieks when she sends it back. Apparently, having finally rowed the boat to shore, the Manhattanite releases and lets the Bama Slamma’s leg flop back into place.
The champ strolls around Ivy, talking trash and stomping on the second generation superstar’s spine, hip, and leg as she works her way around, adding a flattening stamp to her foe’s pert ass cheeks when she steps to the opposite side.
“I see I’ll have to get this lazyass South Jersey slut out of bed,” Portia hisses, tugging Armstrong up by a wrist.
“I’m not from Jer…”
The redhead is cut off as Baby pulls her foe up into a knee to the lower, lower abdomen.
“Every stupid bytch is from Jersey. You more than qualify.”
Sliding alongside the stooped and groaning Confederate, VanBuren tugs her challenger’s left arm between her foe’s own thighs, thrusting it into Ivy’s crotch for a little added emphasis. A chirping, slack-jawed Ivy rises to tiptoes while Baby straps her chest across the alabaster back of the Southern Charmer. Slipping her left arm under Ivy’s right, the slender socialite has her pumphandle in place. The blonde flips Armstrong up in front of her A-cups before letting Ivy CRASH to a genuflected knee, busting a bytch’s gut with a little class.
Pumphandle Gutbuster
www.youtube.com/watch?v=xbFqgI6XCz4
A groaning Ivy hugs her tummy as she rolls to her back. Softly, she shifts from side to side as Baby passes on a pin, apparently preparing to continue to show the Mania have-nots what the 1% can do to the 99. Imperiously, Portia scoops the toes of her right boot under Armstrong’s right shoulder and shovels the challenger onto her back.
The blonde strides away, kicking mock dust behind her onto the splayed Ivy. Reaching the corner, Baby, never the world’s most famous high flyer, climbs top the penthouse. She turns to face the ill-equipped, ill-bred and ill-mannered Ivy, measuring her in a window made out of thumbs and forefingers.
With the crowd jeering, dreading the inevitable, Portia lifts off from her perch, sending a diving kneedrop to Ivy’s forehead. Or it would have connected if the Bama Slamma didn’t roll out of range.
Diving Kneedrop
www.youtube.com/watch?v=bzzwZ6SJQq0
Instead, the Trust Fund Terror’s balled joint hits an empty home. A screeching Portia hops to her feet, or more accurately foot. She bounces in jackknife position, tugging her wounded knee tight to her chest, cursing a blue streak for all the FAWNatics’ tender ears.
Not far, Ivy huffs and puffs deep breaths in and out as she shakes the cobwebs out of her attic. VanBuren is still hobbling, trying to put some weight onto the screaming joint while Ivy uses the ropes to pull her way up. She slinks in from the six of the limping blonde.
Dropping to one knee, Ivy swings an uppercut forearm between Portia’s thighs that sends VanBuren hopping into the air, her patrician features instantly transformed with anguish.
On the outside, a long pleased and silent Alexis, enjoying every second of Portia’s dominance, screams in protest, taking the referee’s lineage in vain.
When the socialite lands, knock-kneed, Ivy helps keep her upright, but it’s not for long. Armstrong scoops the frozen blonde off her feet from behind, ‘hupping’ a mewling Portia onto her shoulders. It’s but a momentary stay for Baby as Ivy transitions her off the far shoulder and into a looping grip of VanBuren’s braincase.
The second generation superstar does Belle Butler proud, SPIKING Lyle VanBuren’s only child into the thinly-sheathed plywood with a vicious Argentine DDT.
Argentine DDT
www.youtube.com/watch?v=6q-7JwUo8jk
Portia splatters onto her side, perhaps broken beyond repair. Alexis seems unsure as she moves to slide under. But she’s on the wrong side of the ring when Ivy shoves VanBuren to her back and climbs aboard in a tight lateral press. The challenger hooks a leg, ready to celebrate her second World Title run after the ONE…TWO…THRNOOO!
Fortune’s Favorite shoves a shoulder up out of instinct or spite, both ingredients of which she has an ample supply.
One ingredient she doesn’t usually have, two fingers up her nostrils. Ivy Armstrong, some forgetting her reputation as the dirtiest player in the game in FAWN’s early years, inserts the index and middle fingers of her right hand up Portia’s nose and forces her foe’s head up with the unusual hooks.
Baby’s eyes water, a high-pitched yelp escaping her lips as she follows Ivy to her feet, not wanting her flawless features to get the wrong type of nose job.
The redheaded rebel removes her tines and transfers her grip to a wrist. She stretches out the length of VanBuren’s left arm and lifts a vaunted, ivory-skinned stem, thrusting a boot tight to Portia’s jaw. From there it’s a strong taste of Sole Food.
Ivy lays out and when she stops fast at the canvas, Portia’s mandible does so at Armstrong’s raised boot.
Alexis turns, not wanting to look. And for good reason, as Baby’s body follows her head, whipping away from the impact at warp speed, Portia staggering through a half-turn to end splayed on the canvas.
Suguitan moves to help, reaching under the bottom rope to grab a wrist and tug her mentor to safety. But Ivy doesn’t want to let a semiconscious World Champion out of her possession. Not without a tug-of-war.
Taking Portia be her other wrist, Ivy engages in 'armed conflict' with Suguitan, yanking back and forth on the Champ. The sharp pains to her deltoids...with her trapezius caught in the middle...plucks the Trust Fund Tyrant from her stupor, and she snarls "LET GO!" through gritted teeth.
However, although the command was directed at Suguitan, it's Armstrong who with seeming innocence says, "Okey-doke," releasing her hold just as the Filippino makes a mighty tug. With all resistance gone, Alexis tumbles backward to the arena floor, pulling Portia along with her. The two lay in a crumpled heap on the cold cement as a smirking Ivy turns and saunters almost casually to the other side of the ring.
She bides her times until she sees Suguitan painfully make her way to her feet, bending over to help the even more dazed VanBuren up as well. Suddenly, dashing like a bat out of hell, the redhead races across the length of the ring, diving between the top and middle ropes, and delivering a suicide crossbody to both the socialite and her sycophant, sending them crashing back to the floor. A bit winded, the Bama Slamma nonetheless jumps back up to her feet, to the cheers of the spectators.
With an agonized groan, Portia pushes herself up to her hands and knees, but is helped the rest of the way my Ivy's handhold of the blonde's matted mane. An Irish whip delivers the Champ to the nearest ringpost; thankfully for her, she was able to spin around, so that it was her back with took the not-inconsiderable impact. The twisting of her patrician features made it plain just how much pain she was in.
And Armstrong looked to heap even more pain on the pile. First however, she quickly rolled into the ring under the bottom strand, and just as quickly rolled back out again, breaking the ref's count as he reached sixteen. With the zebra sent back to zero, Ivy had time to make further use of the ringside area.
Grabbing Baby by the hair yet again, the redhead dragged her over to the next ring post, pulled her head backward, and then shoved her face directly toward the unyielding steel. BUT...at the last instant, VanBuren managed to bring her leg up, planting her foot against the post and breaking the momentum, and sparing herself months of nose reconstruction and dental surgery. Startled by the sudden turn of events, Ivy was a tick too slow to react as now Portia grabbed her by her long hair and threw her toward the post. Luckily...academically, at least...the impact came to Armstrong's forehead, and not her far more fragile face. But the end result was the same, as the Southern gal was left seeing stars as she dropped to her knees. Portia rolled into the ring and immediately engaged the referee in a litany of complaints...taking great care to keep his back turned to Armstrong. For if he did turn around, he would see the seething Suguitan menacingly approaching the battered Bama lass.
Alexis sidles from Ivy’s six, the crowd trying to make the redhead aware. But the collision with the post has Armstrong in a daze and the Filipino catfighter plays Portia’s muscle to the hilt, punting the dirtiest player in the game in the privates.
The sympathetic groan from the crowd covers Ivy pitiful ‘eep’ as she rises to frozen tiptoes, the agonizing pain clearing away the fog in an instant and replacing it with a tidal wave of anguish from deep below.
“Ah do believe,” Alexis taunts with a not unconvincing drawl, “that Miss Ivy has a case of the vapahs.”
Suguitan waves some air in front of the wilting Armstrong, Ivy’s hands buried between her thighs, eyes watering, the more cruel in the crowd unable to contain a chuckle at the challenger’s expense.
Inside the ring, Baby ends her conversation with the official and Alexis immediately grabs garment on the Southern Charmer at the shoulder and hip, shoving Baby’s bottle back into the squared circle under the bottom rope.
The none-the-wiser zebra tries to hold VanBuren back but the Trust Fund Terror won’t have it. Her protégé has set the table and she is going to feast. Plucking a stricken Ivy off the canvas, she stands the slumping redhead. Portia wrenches a hammerlock of Armstrong’s left arm in place before wrapping her left arm around the back of the second generation superstar’s neck.
With a practiced pop of her slender hips, the World Champion ‘hups’ her captured confederate into the air, Ivy’s infamous alabaster legs locking around the slender socialite on instinct. And that instinct proves terrifyingly incorrect. Portia leans forward with her gorgeous bundle then throws her body back, absolutely SPIKING the crown of Armstrong’s skull into the thinly-sheathed plywood.
The emerald-clad Portia shows Ivy the ‘Color of Money’, the signature cradle hammerlock DDT sapping all hope from the crowd and apparently all but a sliver of consciousness from the demolished Bama Slamma.
Color of Money
www.youtube.com/watch?v=jeENkUBLt1I
In a sickening headstand for a split-second, Armstrong tumbles to her back as a delighted Portia watches with barely restrained glee. She flashes a quick ‘hi’ sign to Alexis who grins in return, a bonus no doubt coming the way of the junior partner. And though it certainly appears Baby could cover to keep her crown, she instead rips Armstrong’s baby doll tank off her frame, stripping Ivy to a black lacy bra on top.
Portia tosses the discard into the front rows where several FAWNatics fight over the souvenir. Everyone else’s attention is rapt on the longtime superstars in the ring as Baby slips the midnight-hued straps off Ivy’s shoulders and relieves the burbling Armstrong of her under-gear, the redhead’s arms briefly signaling for a Crimson Tide TD as her brassiere is pilfered, leaving her bare to the waist.
Portia tosses this prize to Alexis for safekeeping with an evil smirk and there’s no hesitation. She TEARS into Ivy’s ivory-skinned jubblies, her field day drawing a squealing Ivy back to life, the Bama Slamma desperately trying to fight off the champ but failing miserably. Portia’s perfect pearlies grind as Lyle’s only child proves she’s not necessarily opposed to manual labor. With Ivy’s gurls rife with welt lines and rosy abuse, Baby relents and a sobbing Armstrong cradles her chest with an arm, hugging her bosom protectively.
“Bytch,” she sniffles. “Ah am so gonnaUMMMPHHH.”
Armstrong’s vain threat is muffled under the flawless seat of the slender socialite, Portia spinning to mount Ivy in a reverse face straddle.
Ivy’s cries are swallowed by the champ’s taut ass and when the redhead spasms to buck her way free, she gets caught further in the spiderweb when VanBuren catches both pumping legs behind the knees and matchbooks the challenger into the ultimate compromising position, Portia’s 911.
The crowd jeers relentlessly when Alexis calls for some respect for the titleholder. She bows to her boss, but Portia is otherwise distracted, the blonde starting to thrust back and forth across Ivy’s face, getting ‘old school’ with her finisher on the ensnared Armstrong.
Slowly, Ivy’s hands, pressed against Portia’s glutes and thighs, slide away, arms becoming as reeds in the wind, her legs changing from pistons to rubbery noodles, all four limbs seemingly have their string cut simultaneously, falling limp. And Baby’s thrusts and parries of undercarriage against Ivy’s delicate, ravaged features quickens and deepens.
The spellbound official watches mesmerized, as do most in the crowd, and only when Portia, reveling in the most enthralling of Mania crescendos, lets loose with a loud moan of satisfaction, leaving a sizable deposit seeping through her lower togs, glazing Ivy’s face, does the official remember to slide to the mat and slap it…ONE…TWO…THREE!
A panting Portia barely lasts to the final ‘thwap’ of palm to canvas and she flops forward, exhausted, before spinning so her back reclines on Ivy’s torso, the moist juncture of VanBuren’s legs still dripping honey onto the shining, sleepy visage of the conquered confederate.
Alexis races around the ring to collect Portia’s belt, scooping it up and sliding into the squared circle. She crawls on all fours to the spent VanBuren, brushing matted flaxen strands off Portia’s forehead, Baby looking up at her protégé with a weary grin.
“That’s how a legend makes a mark.”
Alexis looks at the varnished redhead, gurgling and spitting back to life, tasting defeat in a literal sense.
“Believe me, boss,” Alexis says, “I’m taking mental notes.”
The Filipino beauty offers Portia a hand and Suguitan helps a wobbly Baby from her mattress. She hands the gold over to its owner just as the PA blares to life.
“Your winner…and STILL…FAWN World Champion…Portia Ophelia VanBuren the Fourth.”
Baby places a boot atop Ivy’s crotch and grinds it in deep until the redhead squirms back to semi-awareness. Armstrong tries to raise her hands to wipe away some of the juice, but the limbs have a tough time obeying and she has to blink the leavings out from her teary eyes.
“You and every other Jersey are mine for the taking, Armstrong. Don’t EVER forget it,” Portia informs.
And from the look on the face of the inconsolable Ivy, it appears the Slamma never would.
Championship success can do funny things to people. Take the women of FAWN, for instance. In striving for the World title, Shea London can be one of the toughest, most accomplished women in the sport. But winning a belt seems to take a little something out of her, and it isn’t long before someone comes along and upsets her.
Or then there’s Kylie Sanders, whose lust for recognition as the Champion of the world…along with a whole stew of self-esteem issues, it seems…drove her to completely re-invent herself, to the point of virtually trying to exorcize her old self, seemingly a the expense of everything she had accomplished in her past career.
And one can’t forget Portia Ophelia VanBuren IV, who feels positively gauche if she isn’t accessorizing with ten pounds of leather and gold around her pampered waist. It had to be particularly bitter for the trust fund tyrant when one of her title reigns was abruptly ended by a li’l ol’ redhead from Alabama.
As for Ivy Armstrong, wrestling was never about titles. Oh sure, it’s fun to be Champ, but it’s almost just as much fun to be denying certain other gals the opportunity to be the Champion. With or without a crown, the ‘Bama Brawler was a headliner in FAWN, and a hell of a lot more popular with the fans than a lot of other so-called “stars” in the company. For Armstrong, a match was about winning, whether there was a strap on the line or not.
But she had to admit, winning tonight…and depriving VanBuren once again of a golden destiny…was going to be oh, so sweet…!
The redhead is jolted out of her musings by the voice blaring over the arena’s PA system. Bellowing to be heard over the strains of .38 Special’s “Wild Eyed Southern Boys”, the announcer proclaims, “Introducing first…from Uriah, Alabama…standing five feet, eight inches tall and weighing in at one hundred and twenty pounds…she is the former inaugural FAWN Television Champion…the former Intercontinental Champion…and a former FAWN World Champion…she is the ‘Bama Slamma herself….IIIIIIVVVVVYYYY ARRRRRRRMSTRONNNNNG!!!”
IVY ARMSTRONG:
The lights go out, and the spotlight hits the curtain at the head of the ramp. The redhead, clad in denim cut-off's and a slightly tattered black babydoll tank with "Belle of the Ball" emblazoned across the front in fancy pink script, tears open the curtains and begins strutting toward the ring, slapping the occasional outstretched hand, a wily grin on her ruby red lips and a mischievous sparkle in her emerald eyes.
One fan holds aloft a sign that reads <bold>I-V-Y OVER P-O-V!</bold> and he is rewarded with the redhead cupping his cheeks in her hands and planting a kiss on his lips, his knees buckling from the bounty. Ivy saunters up the ring steps and onto the apron. Her cutoffs, already an immodest length more akin to a thong than anything else, ride dangerously further up as the Southern Belle bends and slips through the ropes and into the ring, making sure to linger in this position for just an extra heartbeat as the camera focuses on her shapely backside.
Once in the ring, she pulls a dainty lace handkerchief…a jab at her silver spoon rival, perhaps?...from the back pocket of her shorts, dabs nonexistent beads of sweat from her forehead and chest, and then makes a saucy production out of throwing the cloth to the crowd, where a knot of young men fall over themselves attempting to retrieve it. Sauntering over to her corner, she leans almost casually against the ropes as she awaits her opponent for this evening.
With the Bama Slamma lookin’ slammin’ and ready to take up arms…and legs against Fortune’s Favorite, one of the very few franchise members of FAWN bounces from boot sole to boot sole backstage. Beside her is the Associates’ heavy artillery, Alexis Suguitan. The Filipino catfighter rubs the boss’ shoulders, whispering compliment after compliment in the blonde’s ear. And after the genius move to relieve the World Title belt from Emily West via her now tossed aside puppet Kylie Sanders, who could blame VanBuren for believing every word.
PORTIA VANBUREN:
ALEXIS SUGUITAN:
“The Yankees win for a reason,” Portia murmurs to herself, though she might as well be talking to the Southern Charmer. “No Crimson Tide is going to change that.”
Outside the curtain, the sounds of ‘How You Like Me Now' from Heavy, the drumbeating clarion call of FAWN’s infamous socialite begin and the crowd roars to its feet, not in support of the icon and champion, but to jeer Baby at the moment of her greatest triumph, reclaiming FAWN’s ultimate position for the first time in damn near a decade.
( www.youtube.com/watch?v=sVzvRsl4rEM )
The assembled don’t wait long and they let Lyle VanBuren’s only child have it with both barrels. The head of VB&A floats like a feather over the hatred, the enormous gold plate on the belt around her waist lifting her rather than weighing her down. Next to her, Alexis leads a vain effort to gain the titleholder some support. She relents and instead points at belt, letting everyone know the hardware is back where it belongs.
Beaming, Baby starts down the aisle, slapping her faceplate and making sure everyone knows the loss of a quarter of her father’s fortune to Gretchen Vaughn is an aggravating but increasingly distant memory. She was and now IS the best. The belt screamed it for her.
Portia unsnaps the leather and lifts it overhead, the familiar, eardrum-injuring cascade of jeers echoing through the confines like the sound of a jet engine.
The sinewy blonde reaches the ring, smiling and offering a queenly wave to Armstrong. She offers a familiar toss of her flaxen mane from one side to the other as she makes her way down the aisle.
VanBuren is garbed in her alternate wear for her first defense, daringly scant emerald two-piece with black dollar sign on her infamous and flawless derriere. Baby’s uva-nourished, ivory skin glows next to the bright green swatches, her attire completed with black pads and green boots, the footwear containing the black outline of the state of New Jersey, an iconic red circle with a slash superimposed atop the Garden State.
The blonde patrician reaches the ring, making a predatory walk-by on Ivy as she circles the battleground. Alexis waits patiently beneath the Associates’ corner in her skin-tight, red mini and pumps, the copper skin of her arms and legs resplendent. The ring announcer breaks in as Lyle’s baby girl steps up to the apron.
“And her opponent… accompanied to the ring by her partner in VanBuren & Associates, Alexis Suguitan…from Manhattan and Easthampton, New York and Monaco City, Monaco, standing five feet seven inches tall and weighing in at 120 pounds, she is the THREE, THREE, THREE TIME FAWN World Champion… Portia Ophelia VanBuren IV!”
Portia slips through the ropes and shows the gold to Ivy who nods and mouths ‘MINE’. This draws a chuckle from Portia.
“I didn’t wait months to take this from some braindead hick just to give it to another one,” she informs.
Portia turns to her curvy back-up, handing the belt over to Alexis. But the ref instantly demands Suguitan present to him, which she grudgingly does. The man moves to the center and holds the belt high, the crowd growing more excited by the second, particularly when Ivy is allowed to inspect before the zebra hands the prize over to a FAWN flunky for safe storage.
Perhaps surprised there hasn’t been any eruption of hostilities, the official quickly calls for the bell and out Portia comes, circling away from her corner, Ivy doing likewise. The orbits grow closer until the two legends come together in an enthusiastic collar-and-elbow tie-up to start off the Mania dream main event and battle of titans.
The two combatants, as experienced as they may be, and as well-versed in the tactics of the other that they are, have no need for any preening, nor to test the defenses of the other. Both strain against the other, their feet digging into the canvas, with Ivy’s bare soles perhaps finding somewhat better purchase than Portia’s boots. Although the difference is marginal, VanBuren’s keen battle instincts inform her of it, and not one to toil at any sort of disadvantage, she suddenly shifts tactics. With a blur of motion, she breaks the lock-up and wraps her right arm around her opponent’s neck, pulling her face in tight alongside Fortune’s Favorite body, and giving the redhead an unwanted and up-close view of alabaster-skinned side boob.
But not for long, as the agile Alabamian wriggles out, grasping the rich bltch’s right wrist as she goes, and applying an armlock. Portia deftly reverses it, but an instant later Ivy does the same, and so it goes, seesawing for a few moments more, until finally Armstrong wraps both hands around her opponent’s wrist, straightens out the arm, and then starts to jump up and down, whip cracking the limb. Portia gasps in discomfort, her free hand pressed against her right shoulder…and leaving her taut midriff wide open as the redhead suddenly swings her right leg up, landing a side kick square in the breadbasket. The blonde gives a sharp whoosh of air as she partially doubles over. Armstrong swings her right leg back like a pendulum, then fires another kick, this one connecting directly under VanBuren's fine Knickerbocker chin.
With a violent backward snap of her head, Portia stumbles until she feels herself pressed against the ropes. She gives her head a shake, her luxurious hair flowing as she gathers her wits, there's a long second where she can discern nothing externally...and in that ever-so-brief span of time, the redhead strikes. Lunging at her rival, Ivy grabs the top rope alongside POV and fires a kneelift up around the equator between the New Yorker's navel and her vault of precious jewels...high enough to not be considered bad sportswomanship so early in the match, but low enough to cause some genuine discomfort. "You should have just bought yourself a ticket and watched the show from ringside, sugah," the Southerner purrs in her honeyed drawl. "Because inside this ring is that last place y'all want to find yourself tonight." A handful of flaxen mane pulls VanBuren away from the ropes. Dipping her knees, Ivy scoops up her opponent in a swift fireman's carry, slamming her to mat and instantly applying an armbar...while simultaneously keeping Portia in place my pressing her right knee down against the side of VanBuren's head.
Twisting her body, Portia's legs flail wildly, trying to build the momentum needed to pull free. Ivy decides to help her, suddenly releasing her armbar, and while the blonde's own momentum causes her to roll over, Armstrong moves with a blur of motion. When the dust settles, Portia is seated upon the mat, and the redhead is pressing a knee between her shoulder blades while her cupped hands jerk the head of the heiress back to an agonizing angle.
"How about it, Portia?" the referee intones. "Never...ask...me...that...again!" POV growls through clenched teeth, and in spite of her seeming helplessness at the moment, the zebra can't help but feel a twinge of fear from the threatening tone of her voice.
Expertly, Portia is able get her feet planted and lift herself up to break the hold. Ivy doesn't resist it, but instead again takes advantage of her adversary's moment of defenselessness; as they both stand up, the redhead whirls POV around and throws another knee up into her belly, which registers a sharp gasp from the victim. A front headlock and a tight grip of the tights lifts VanBuren's body up, and Armstrong swings her around so that the blonde's legs fall upon the top rope, causing them to bounce up and give added momentum for the suplex.
Spine painfully arched upward, Portia moans. But her body is suddenly flattened out as Ivy dives across her torso, hooking a leg.
1...
2...
KICKOUT!
The redhead is unperturbed, having fully expected her opponent to escape the pin. A wrestler of Portia's caliber is rarely finished off so early in a match. Still, the effort served its purpose of putting an ounce of panic into the haughty mind of the blonde, and as Ivy well knows, a panicky Portia is a desperate Portia, and desperation breeds mistakes.
Straddling VanBuren's body on her knees, the 'Bama Slamma grabs a handful of hair and yanks Portia's head up, at the exact moment Ivy drives her down, delivering a headbutt right between the New Yorker's steely eyes. Ivy gives a smile that turned the knees of many a boy back in Uriah, Alabama to water, confident in her supremacy. But if she looked a bit more closely into those eyes of Portia, she would see a furious determination to seize that supremacy for herself. All she needed was a single moment of opportunity.
Trying to make that opportunity happen, VanBuren swings both of her legs up in order to buck Ivy off, but Armstrong is ready, catching both limbs behind the knees and folding Baby into a tight matchbook, Portia’s shoulders pinned tightly to the canvas.
With her legs corralled, a distraught VanBuren wriggles through ONE…and TWO…and she’s barely able to roll herself over in a back somersault to keep her reign alive. A frantic Alexis, caught tardy, drops from the apron, her late effort to make the match a disqualification unnecessary for the moment.
Armstrong springs to her feet next to a gasping Portia, Baby hyperventilating more from almost giving up her crown than exhaustion. Ivy sinks her nails into VanBuren’s scalp, pulling the slender socialite to her feet.
“Y’are a tough piece of gristle, aren’t ya,” she purrs.
“You don’t know,” Portia mumbles under her breath as she sends her talons toward the Southern Charmer’s emerald eyes to rake the peepers. But while Portia’s as dirty as any, Ivy’s practiced those tactics just as long and she knocks the flashing nails away.
Armstrong only has a moment to be pleased with herself as VanBuren follows with a lifted knee that THUMPS into the juncture of her thighs. A bugeyed Ivy hops into the air, knees locked. She manages a one-point landing, her bare feet tight together, but is frozen in place as Baby draws in deep lungfuls of oxygen.
Grabbing Armstrong by a wrist she points the ‘eeping’ redhead at the far buckles and launches her with an Irish whip. There’s a very noticeable hitch in Ivy’s giddy-up, but she makes it to the corner, turning into the collision. Portia quickly follows her target in and raises a knee, higher this time, driving it into the ivory-skinned cleft of the second generation superstar’s bosom.
The redhead is rocked deeper into the buckles but Portia won’t let her wavering challenger bounce away. Grabbing Ivy’s flowing locks, the Trust Fund Terror exchanges positions with Armstrong, placing her back to the corner. She walks up the cables to the middle ropes and delivers a couple clenched right hands to Ivy’s jawline to sedate the wriggling Armstrong.
Portia leaps off her perch and rides the tumbling Ivy to the deck, her derriere flattening the chest of the Bama Slamma courtesy her signature Boob Job.
Boob Job
www.youtube.com/watch?v=DJs-L1k19lU
The sandwiching of Armstrong’s body reverberates through the arena, drawing a sympathetic, loud ‘OHHH’ out of the crowd. The impact and momentum sends Portia bouncing then skidding to a stop a few feet beyond Ivy’s resting place. In a self-satisfied kneel, she wipes her glistening brow and smirks at the FAWNatics, raising her arms high and wide.
“South Jersey,” Portia shouts. Everything south and west of Staten Island was considered such by VanBuren and by extension so apparently did Ukiah, Alabama, not that Staten Island, NYC didn’t suck.
Baby passes on scurrying back to the splayed Armstrong, knowing Ivy, with the upper hand until recently, wouldn’t be nearly in condition to get the all-important three-count. Instead, Portia rises and turns languidly, waiting for Armstrong to oblige her by getting to her bare tootsies. When the wobbly Ivy does, Baby rotates through a practiced pirouette, her right arm rising as she NAILS the redhead with a wicked Discus Clothesline, sending Ivy hurtling to the deck, her spine and the back of her skull crunching into the thinly-covered plywood.
Discus Clothesline
www.youtube.com/watch?v=95kh2tQSElE
With the follow-through putting Portia on her knees next to the slobberknocked confederate, VanBuren lays her body across that of the alabaster Alabaman in a lateral press, Lyle’s only child hooking a leg for a ONE…TWO…and Ivy safely kicks free with a full second remaining.
With Alexis offering encouragement from the sidelines, Portia contains her frustration. Knowing a FAWN original would have to be half-dead before she’d give up an opportunity to wear the organization’s most precious belt, Baby isn’t surprised when Armstrong rolls to her side, the redhead grunting out a stubborn, breathy ‘nuh uh’.
The verbal response draws a whisper of steam from VanBuren’s ears and she levels a series of five right crosses to Armstrong’s jaw that Ivy only partially blocks, her head twisting violently from the impacts.
“Keep your mouth shut,” Portia insists. “I’ve been your better for a dozen years, I’m better now. You’re better off respecting that.”
As if to defy the Manhattanite, Ivy struggles to her knees when the deluge stops, where she meets VanBuren chest to chest, only for Portia to wrap her left arm around the noggin of the sagging Bama Slamma, The lithe socialite folds her hammies atop her calves as she throws her body backward to drive Ivy’s face into the canvas with a low-level, but effective DDT. The force of the blow sends the redhead flopping to her back and Portia unfolds her legs to scramble on Ivy for another lateral press to get the ONE…TWO…THRNOOO!
Armstrong again keeps hers and the FAWNatics’ Mania hopes alive for a World Title change by kicking free and rolling to her side. VanBuren’s temper flashes as she paintbrushes the ivory-skinned cheek of the Alabaman. The furious head of VB&A rips Ivy to her feet by the hair and transfers that grip to a wrist.
Portia lines up her challenger with the far buckles and whips the woman who had taken her World Title once before to the corner. Armstrong races to the buckles, turning her back to the impact and taking a collision that rocks her frame. Still, she remains upright, throwing her arms over the top ropes on either side.
Porta takes a leisurely stroll after her, passing on a splash to simply sidle up to the redhead and give her foe a taste-removing, open-hand slap that swivels Armstrong’s noggin. When the red-cheeked Ivy’s head snaps back, Portia decides it’s time to provide Belle Butler’s daughter with a little bit of Wall Street. She turns her back to the startled Armstrong and hops to the middle ropes to give the second generation superstar a taste of her Bare Ass Market.
Pulling down her lower togs enough to show the organization’s perfect posterior, no offense to Lisa Dream, Baby backs dat ass up toward the wide-eyed visage of Armstrong.
But before Portia can nestle the glutes around Ivy’s nose and give Armstrong a scrubbing, Ivy wraps her arms around Portia’s waist. It’s Baby’s turn for her emerald eyes to grow very large, perhaps realizing she should have splashed Ivy to take more out of her. Instead, the challenger carries Portia out of the corner and genuflects, DRIVING her knee up into the crease between VanBuren’s bared cheeks, a very personal Atomic Drop delivered to the champ.
Portia yelps as she bounds into the air, hands on her naked backside. As Baby settles into a knock-kneed stance pointed away from Ivy, her hands quickly pull her bottoms back into place and she begins to knead her aching behind.
And Ivy decides to help with the massage, striding purposefully behind Portia, she pulls VanBuren’s hands out of the way and sinks an upperhand set of claws a little further into the champ’s undercarriage, Ivy striking at Portia’s kitty. VanBuren lets loose with a silent scream, the blonde rising to tiptoes, patrician face etched in agony as Ivy flexes her digits violently into Portia’s privates, showing just how far she’s willing to go to remove VanBuren of her belt for the second time.
Ivy permits herself a small, tight smile, envisioning victory just that much closer. But her visage twists into a mask of sharp discomfort as Portia suddenly jacks an elbow back, smashing the joint into the side of her adversary’s face. Momentarily stunned, the redhead’s cruel clawhold falls free and she staggers sideways a few steps. And although still throbbing with pain in that most treasured of VanBuren vaults, the blonde manages to whirl around and rake her perfectly manicured nails across Armstrong’s eyes. Shrieking and blinded, the Southern gal stumbles backward.
A pair of hands wrap themselves around the slender throat of the Bama Slamma, guiding her backward with a choke until her spine is slammed into a corner. Grabbing the middle ropes on either side of her challenger, the Champ drives three quick shoulders slams into Ivy’s taut belly, knocking wind from her as the referee makes his count. VanBuren steps back, ostensibly breaking the hold by the guidelines of the FAWN rulebook (such as it is). From center ring, Portia dashes toward her opponent, intent on splashing her. However, grabbing the top ropes for leverage, Ivy brings her legs up, lashing out to deliver a double kick to her onrushing rival.
Or, rather, she would have, had Fortune’s Favorite not managed to grab Armstrong’s ankles and, with a tug, pulled her out of the corner and sending her crashing to the mat. Ivy’s spine arched up and she moaned in obvious pain, while Lyle’s headstrong offspring flattened her to the canvas with a boot stomp to the breadbasket.
Grabbing her adversary by her fiery mane, Portia hair hauls Ivy up, then Irish whips her into the ropes. However, as the Southerner rebounds off of the cables, instead of colliding with the blonde’s clothesline, Armstrong leaps up, tightening her legs around VanBuren’s waist while wrapping her left arm around the Champ’s neck in a reverse chokehold. Seemingly at a loss as to how to respond, the Trust Fund Tyrant can merely stand there, being simultaneously scissors and strangled. However, this predicament only last for a few elongated moments, until Portia suddenly drops to one knee, and with her extended joint she delivers a reverse atomic drop that puts Armstrong back on the mat, curled up in a tight ball as her hands clutch at her aching groin.
That irksome mini-rally halted dead in its track, Portia gets back to the business at hand. Specifically, pulling the redhead up to a seated position, and from behind applying an abdominal stretch/chinlock combo. As the embattled Armstrong whines and gasps, Baby leans in and with a sneer, taunting, “The only reason why you’ve even stayed in FAWN this long is because I couldn’t be bothered to put an end to your miserable career before. Well, trailer park, I’m putting you at the top of my hostile takeover list tonight. But don’t worry about losing your job…I can always use another maid. A downstairs maid, of course…I don’t want your grubby little hands anywhere near my closet or jewels.” Fighting through the pain, Ivy hisses back, “F-fuck….you!”
With her every effort to escape thwarted, Armstrong’s salvation only comes when VanBuren grows bored waiting for the inevitable surrender, and she releases the hold herself. But if Ivy hoped she might enjoy a respite from the torment, she is painfully disabused of that notion as Portia flips her onto her belly and sits on her back. Grabbing the Bama Slamma’s lithe left leg, she bends the limb unnaturally backward in a single leg Boston crab. “These are the legs the rabble rave about?” the heiress intones with obvious contempt as she wrenches back one of Ivy’s best weapons, rendering it useless. “Let’s see what they say when you can’t walk on them anymore, and you have to crawl out of the ring like the gutter snipe you are.”
Portia curls the ivory-skinned stem to the point Armstrong’s heel is within a few inches of her shoulder. Ivy howls in pain as VanBuren sing-songs ‘Row, row, row your boat’ while using the trapped leg as her paddle. With each stroke, Baby pulls back all the further, Ivy caught between sighs when Portia swings her leg forward and shrieks when she sends it back. Apparently, having finally rowed the boat to shore, the Manhattanite releases and lets the Bama Slamma’s leg flop back into place.
The champ strolls around Ivy, talking trash and stomping on the second generation superstar’s spine, hip, and leg as she works her way around, adding a flattening stamp to her foe’s pert ass cheeks when she steps to the opposite side.
“I see I’ll have to get this lazyass South Jersey slut out of bed,” Portia hisses, tugging Armstrong up by a wrist.
“I’m not from Jer…”
The redhead is cut off as Baby pulls her foe up into a knee to the lower, lower abdomen.
“Every stupid bytch is from Jersey. You more than qualify.”
Sliding alongside the stooped and groaning Confederate, VanBuren tugs her challenger’s left arm between her foe’s own thighs, thrusting it into Ivy’s crotch for a little added emphasis. A chirping, slack-jawed Ivy rises to tiptoes while Baby straps her chest across the alabaster back of the Southern Charmer. Slipping her left arm under Ivy’s right, the slender socialite has her pumphandle in place. The blonde flips Armstrong up in front of her A-cups before letting Ivy CRASH to a genuflected knee, busting a bytch’s gut with a little class.
Pumphandle Gutbuster
www.youtube.com/watch?v=xbFqgI6XCz4
A groaning Ivy hugs her tummy as she rolls to her back. Softly, she shifts from side to side as Baby passes on a pin, apparently preparing to continue to show the Mania have-nots what the 1% can do to the 99. Imperiously, Portia scoops the toes of her right boot under Armstrong’s right shoulder and shovels the challenger onto her back.
The blonde strides away, kicking mock dust behind her onto the splayed Ivy. Reaching the corner, Baby, never the world’s most famous high flyer, climbs top the penthouse. She turns to face the ill-equipped, ill-bred and ill-mannered Ivy, measuring her in a window made out of thumbs and forefingers.
With the crowd jeering, dreading the inevitable, Portia lifts off from her perch, sending a diving kneedrop to Ivy’s forehead. Or it would have connected if the Bama Slamma didn’t roll out of range.
Diving Kneedrop
www.youtube.com/watch?v=bzzwZ6SJQq0
Instead, the Trust Fund Terror’s balled joint hits an empty home. A screeching Portia hops to her feet, or more accurately foot. She bounces in jackknife position, tugging her wounded knee tight to her chest, cursing a blue streak for all the FAWNatics’ tender ears.
Not far, Ivy huffs and puffs deep breaths in and out as she shakes the cobwebs out of her attic. VanBuren is still hobbling, trying to put some weight onto the screaming joint while Ivy uses the ropes to pull her way up. She slinks in from the six of the limping blonde.
Dropping to one knee, Ivy swings an uppercut forearm between Portia’s thighs that sends VanBuren hopping into the air, her patrician features instantly transformed with anguish.
On the outside, a long pleased and silent Alexis, enjoying every second of Portia’s dominance, screams in protest, taking the referee’s lineage in vain.
When the socialite lands, knock-kneed, Ivy helps keep her upright, but it’s not for long. Armstrong scoops the frozen blonde off her feet from behind, ‘hupping’ a mewling Portia onto her shoulders. It’s but a momentary stay for Baby as Ivy transitions her off the far shoulder and into a looping grip of VanBuren’s braincase.
The second generation superstar does Belle Butler proud, SPIKING Lyle VanBuren’s only child into the thinly-sheathed plywood with a vicious Argentine DDT.
Argentine DDT
www.youtube.com/watch?v=6q-7JwUo8jk
Portia splatters onto her side, perhaps broken beyond repair. Alexis seems unsure as she moves to slide under. But she’s on the wrong side of the ring when Ivy shoves VanBuren to her back and climbs aboard in a tight lateral press. The challenger hooks a leg, ready to celebrate her second World Title run after the ONE…TWO…THRNOOO!
Fortune’s Favorite shoves a shoulder up out of instinct or spite, both ingredients of which she has an ample supply.
One ingredient she doesn’t usually have, two fingers up her nostrils. Ivy Armstrong, some forgetting her reputation as the dirtiest player in the game in FAWN’s early years, inserts the index and middle fingers of her right hand up Portia’s nose and forces her foe’s head up with the unusual hooks.
Baby’s eyes water, a high-pitched yelp escaping her lips as she follows Ivy to her feet, not wanting her flawless features to get the wrong type of nose job.
The redheaded rebel removes her tines and transfers her grip to a wrist. She stretches out the length of VanBuren’s left arm and lifts a vaunted, ivory-skinned stem, thrusting a boot tight to Portia’s jaw. From there it’s a strong taste of Sole Food.
Ivy lays out and when she stops fast at the canvas, Portia’s mandible does so at Armstrong’s raised boot.
Alexis turns, not wanting to look. And for good reason, as Baby’s body follows her head, whipping away from the impact at warp speed, Portia staggering through a half-turn to end splayed on the canvas.
Suguitan moves to help, reaching under the bottom rope to grab a wrist and tug her mentor to safety. But Ivy doesn’t want to let a semiconscious World Champion out of her possession. Not without a tug-of-war.
Taking Portia be her other wrist, Ivy engages in 'armed conflict' with Suguitan, yanking back and forth on the Champ. The sharp pains to her deltoids...with her trapezius caught in the middle...plucks the Trust Fund Tyrant from her stupor, and she snarls "LET GO!" through gritted teeth.
However, although the command was directed at Suguitan, it's Armstrong who with seeming innocence says, "Okey-doke," releasing her hold just as the Filippino makes a mighty tug. With all resistance gone, Alexis tumbles backward to the arena floor, pulling Portia along with her. The two lay in a crumpled heap on the cold cement as a smirking Ivy turns and saunters almost casually to the other side of the ring.
She bides her times until she sees Suguitan painfully make her way to her feet, bending over to help the even more dazed VanBuren up as well. Suddenly, dashing like a bat out of hell, the redhead races across the length of the ring, diving between the top and middle ropes, and delivering a suicide crossbody to both the socialite and her sycophant, sending them crashing back to the floor. A bit winded, the Bama Slamma nonetheless jumps back up to her feet, to the cheers of the spectators.
With an agonized groan, Portia pushes herself up to her hands and knees, but is helped the rest of the way my Ivy's handhold of the blonde's matted mane. An Irish whip delivers the Champ to the nearest ringpost; thankfully for her, she was able to spin around, so that it was her back with took the not-inconsiderable impact. The twisting of her patrician features made it plain just how much pain she was in.
And Armstrong looked to heap even more pain on the pile. First however, she quickly rolled into the ring under the bottom strand, and just as quickly rolled back out again, breaking the ref's count as he reached sixteen. With the zebra sent back to zero, Ivy had time to make further use of the ringside area.
Grabbing Baby by the hair yet again, the redhead dragged her over to the next ring post, pulled her head backward, and then shoved her face directly toward the unyielding steel. BUT...at the last instant, VanBuren managed to bring her leg up, planting her foot against the post and breaking the momentum, and sparing herself months of nose reconstruction and dental surgery. Startled by the sudden turn of events, Ivy was a tick too slow to react as now Portia grabbed her by her long hair and threw her toward the post. Luckily...academically, at least...the impact came to Armstrong's forehead, and not her far more fragile face. But the end result was the same, as the Southern gal was left seeing stars as she dropped to her knees. Portia rolled into the ring and immediately engaged the referee in a litany of complaints...taking great care to keep his back turned to Armstrong. For if he did turn around, he would see the seething Suguitan menacingly approaching the battered Bama lass.
Alexis sidles from Ivy’s six, the crowd trying to make the redhead aware. But the collision with the post has Armstrong in a daze and the Filipino catfighter plays Portia’s muscle to the hilt, punting the dirtiest player in the game in the privates.
The sympathetic groan from the crowd covers Ivy pitiful ‘eep’ as she rises to frozen tiptoes, the agonizing pain clearing away the fog in an instant and replacing it with a tidal wave of anguish from deep below.
“Ah do believe,” Alexis taunts with a not unconvincing drawl, “that Miss Ivy has a case of the vapahs.”
Suguitan waves some air in front of the wilting Armstrong, Ivy’s hands buried between her thighs, eyes watering, the more cruel in the crowd unable to contain a chuckle at the challenger’s expense.
Inside the ring, Baby ends her conversation with the official and Alexis immediately grabs garment on the Southern Charmer at the shoulder and hip, shoving Baby’s bottle back into the squared circle under the bottom rope.
The none-the-wiser zebra tries to hold VanBuren back but the Trust Fund Terror won’t have it. Her protégé has set the table and she is going to feast. Plucking a stricken Ivy off the canvas, she stands the slumping redhead. Portia wrenches a hammerlock of Armstrong’s left arm in place before wrapping her left arm around the back of the second generation superstar’s neck.
With a practiced pop of her slender hips, the World Champion ‘hups’ her captured confederate into the air, Ivy’s infamous alabaster legs locking around the slender socialite on instinct. And that instinct proves terrifyingly incorrect. Portia leans forward with her gorgeous bundle then throws her body back, absolutely SPIKING the crown of Armstrong’s skull into the thinly-sheathed plywood.
The emerald-clad Portia shows Ivy the ‘Color of Money’, the signature cradle hammerlock DDT sapping all hope from the crowd and apparently all but a sliver of consciousness from the demolished Bama Slamma.
Color of Money
www.youtube.com/watch?v=jeENkUBLt1I
In a sickening headstand for a split-second, Armstrong tumbles to her back as a delighted Portia watches with barely restrained glee. She flashes a quick ‘hi’ sign to Alexis who grins in return, a bonus no doubt coming the way of the junior partner. And though it certainly appears Baby could cover to keep her crown, she instead rips Armstrong’s baby doll tank off her frame, stripping Ivy to a black lacy bra on top.
Portia tosses the discard into the front rows where several FAWNatics fight over the souvenir. Everyone else’s attention is rapt on the longtime superstars in the ring as Baby slips the midnight-hued straps off Ivy’s shoulders and relieves the burbling Armstrong of her under-gear, the redhead’s arms briefly signaling for a Crimson Tide TD as her brassiere is pilfered, leaving her bare to the waist.
Portia tosses this prize to Alexis for safekeeping with an evil smirk and there’s no hesitation. She TEARS into Ivy’s ivory-skinned jubblies, her field day drawing a squealing Ivy back to life, the Bama Slamma desperately trying to fight off the champ but failing miserably. Portia’s perfect pearlies grind as Lyle’s only child proves she’s not necessarily opposed to manual labor. With Ivy’s gurls rife with welt lines and rosy abuse, Baby relents and a sobbing Armstrong cradles her chest with an arm, hugging her bosom protectively.
“Bytch,” she sniffles. “Ah am so gonnaUMMMPHHH.”
Armstrong’s vain threat is muffled under the flawless seat of the slender socialite, Portia spinning to mount Ivy in a reverse face straddle.
Ivy’s cries are swallowed by the champ’s taut ass and when the redhead spasms to buck her way free, she gets caught further in the spiderweb when VanBuren catches both pumping legs behind the knees and matchbooks the challenger into the ultimate compromising position, Portia’s 911.
The crowd jeers relentlessly when Alexis calls for some respect for the titleholder. She bows to her boss, but Portia is otherwise distracted, the blonde starting to thrust back and forth across Ivy’s face, getting ‘old school’ with her finisher on the ensnared Armstrong.
Slowly, Ivy’s hands, pressed against Portia’s glutes and thighs, slide away, arms becoming as reeds in the wind, her legs changing from pistons to rubbery noodles, all four limbs seemingly have their string cut simultaneously, falling limp. And Baby’s thrusts and parries of undercarriage against Ivy’s delicate, ravaged features quickens and deepens.
The spellbound official watches mesmerized, as do most in the crowd, and only when Portia, reveling in the most enthralling of Mania crescendos, lets loose with a loud moan of satisfaction, leaving a sizable deposit seeping through her lower togs, glazing Ivy’s face, does the official remember to slide to the mat and slap it…ONE…TWO…THREE!
A panting Portia barely lasts to the final ‘thwap’ of palm to canvas and she flops forward, exhausted, before spinning so her back reclines on Ivy’s torso, the moist juncture of VanBuren’s legs still dripping honey onto the shining, sleepy visage of the conquered confederate.
Alexis races around the ring to collect Portia’s belt, scooping it up and sliding into the squared circle. She crawls on all fours to the spent VanBuren, brushing matted flaxen strands off Portia’s forehead, Baby looking up at her protégé with a weary grin.
“That’s how a legend makes a mark.”
Alexis looks at the varnished redhead, gurgling and spitting back to life, tasting defeat in a literal sense.
“Believe me, boss,” Alexis says, “I’m taking mental notes.”
The Filipino beauty offers Portia a hand and Suguitan helps a wobbly Baby from her mattress. She hands the gold over to its owner just as the PA blares to life.
“Your winner…and STILL…FAWN World Champion…Portia Ophelia VanBuren the Fourth.”
Baby places a boot atop Ivy’s crotch and grinds it in deep until the redhead squirms back to semi-awareness. Armstrong tries to raise her hands to wipe away some of the juice, but the limbs have a tough time obeying and she has to blink the leavings out from her teary eyes.
“You and every other Jersey are mine for the taking, Armstrong. Don’t EVER forget it,” Portia informs.
And from the look on the face of the inconsolable Ivy, it appears the Slamma never would.