Post by bigfan on Dec 4, 2016 7:20:04 GMT
With the crowd already at a fever pitch, on the edge of their seat for another heaping serving of FAWN goodness, the plucking of a familiar set of Oriental strings courses over the crowd and immediately the assembled explode in a thunderous round of cacophonous boos and catcalls.
It takes but a moment for FAWN’s tiniest, most shrill and arguably most successful manager, Yuko Ogura, to appear. Unsurprisingly, the masses threaten to tear the roof off the arena. Ogura casts her gaze over the FAWNatics with her familiar sneering disdain and the crowd grouses under the thrall of the tiny, devious businesswoman.
As Yuko motions for the fans to bow in subservience, a Rising Sun flag supplants the FAWN logo on the FAWNtron, red sunbeams flowing out of the matching disc on the screen behind her. Ogura turns in the direction she’d just appeared and greets the powerhouse of her organization, Matsumoto-san , the original and perhaps most dangerous Invader of all time.
The volume of the crowd only increases as Sayuki joins her leader and bows to her boss. Yuko nods in response and points toward the ring. Matsumoto leads the way as the Invaders move toward the squared circle, Ogura shrieking over the cantankerous crowd, demanding they show her curvy weapon the proper reverence.
The busty Asian is dressed for battle in her familiar blood red bikini, the scant cloth leaving precious little of her hourglass figure to the imagination. Complementing the curves are white pads and boots, the pads bearing the red discs of her nation’s flag. Her dark hair is arranged into two long pigtails.
Next to her, Ogura leaves many in the crowd buzzing at her cheeky ensemble. Above is a top that appears white satin in front, black-n-white stripes from side to back. Below is the familiar gun metal gray with pinstripes but only in very daring proportions, the tiny ring of cloth held in place with a pair of jaunty suspenders. On her abbreviated but delectable stems are whalenet stockings leading to black business pumps and atop her long chestnut-colored locks is a black fedora.
YUKO OGURA:
Reaching the ring steps, Sayuki leads her boss up, Yuko directly behind, a protective hand on her charge’s right hip. She waits for Sayuki to open the top and middle ropes wide, allowing Ogura to step through. Matusumoto-san joins her with a swing of her hips while Yuko doffs her fedora and plucks a microphone from inside.
The crowd seems less than pleased with the prospect of a monologue from the leader of the Invaders and makes Yuko aware. She waits for something approaching silence.
“Later, my champion, my ninja will show Singh how lucky she was at Delayed Reaction,” Yuko says. “But now, my Sayuki , my ultimate weapon, will make your country-fried gaijin pay for what Singh was able to do. Her defeat of my Sayuki only loads my weapon with more fury.”
The crowd lets loose with another loud set of boos.
“And tonight, the growing list of FAWN originals who are saying sayonara will grow longer.”
Yuko raises her volume to reach over the FAWNatics.
“As the suns will set…ON IVY ARMSTRONG!”
The crowd explodes in angry disagreement as Yuko lets the microphone ‘THUNK’ to the canvas and leads Matsumoto back to the Invasion corner.
The ring announcer picks up where the manager leaves off.
“Tonight’s next match is one fall with a 20-minute time limit. Introducing…accompanied by the leader of the Asian Invasion Yuko Ogura…standing five feet eight inches tall and weighing in at 130 pounds…from Kobe, Japan…Sayuki Matsumoto.”
SAYUKI MATSUMOTO:
Yuko shows off her weapon once more, ignoring the sound of the boos bouncing off the arena walls. She steps through the ropes when Sayuki opens them wide again, and takes her place on the outside, the duo waiting for Matsumoto’s foe.
“And 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!”
The strains of .38 Special's "Wild Eyed Southern Boys" starts to pulse through the arena's speaker system. The curtain at the top of the aisleway tears open, and with a roar of recognition from the crowd and out struts the 'Bama Slamma herself.
IVY ARMSTRONG:
Armstrong has always been a special case in FAWN: it matters not if she’s wrestling as a heel or as a babyface, or someplace in-between…and that equation could change from night to night, or even in the midst of a match…the fans love to cheer the second generation superstar. Even those who roar most fervently for her opponent can’t help but give a rebel yell as the redhead makes her way to the ring.
Working her way down the aisle, her lithe body clad in her signature denim shorts (cut just shy of thong status, really), a black cotton sleeveless halter top with collar tied off at the midriff, Ivy beams a smile, her fingertips reaching out to brush against the outstretched hands of the many fans packed against the guard rail. She halts when she sees one fan holding aloft a poster board sign that reads THE SOUTH WILL RISE AND SET ON THOSE SUNS! She brings both hands up to her lips and blows a big kiss to the fan, then continues down to the ring.
Climbing up the steps, she slips out of her thonged flip-flops and walks barefoot along the ring apron to the middle of the ropes. She then turns to face the crowd as she reaches her arms out to her sides and tightly grasps the top cable. Then, in a display of poise and power, she lifts her body up and slowly turns in 360, letting the spectators take a good long look at her sculpted stems as she makes her leisurely arc into the ring.
As her soles alight to the canvas, the redhead suddenly turns and bolts to the far corner of the ring, where she leaps up on the middle ropes and throws her arms wide as she gives a piercing rebel yell. In response the crowd roars even louder than it had. Having established her bona fides, Armstrong drops down to the mat and saunters over to center ring, where the referee goes over the last minute instructions for the combatants. Neither woman seems to pay him much heed, as instead they lock eyes and stare daggers at one another. Sayuki’s face remains an inscrutable mask, while Ivy doesn’t bother to hide a saucy half-smirk.
Yuko, who has remained alongside her fighter, gives a smirk of her own as she sneers, “You are built like a boy! Look at my Sayuki and see what a real woman looks like. And don’t worry, you will be getting an especially good look at her magnificent setting suns soon enough.” To punctuate her manager’s taunt, Matsumoto thrusts out her admittedly impressive bosom toward her opponent, the barest traces of a smile on her lips.
Armstrong’s green eyes travel from one breast to the other, then she tilts her head down and looks at her own more modest…but nonetheless fully adequate…endowments. She gives an exaggerated pout as her hands cup her 32B’s, her head turning first to the right to look to the crowd for encouragement, then to her left. Then her eyes widen as if she has just had an epiphany.
Turning her back to her adversary, Armstrong bends over, placing her hands on her knees and thrusting her rear end out. As the redhead possesses one of the most lauded derrière’s in all of FAWN, the meaning is as plain as the freckles on the ‘Bama Slamma’s face: The Asian may have her Setting Suns, but this Southern gal has a vaunted means of smothering at her disposal as well. The crowd hoots and cheers at the prospect, while a wide smile crosses Ivy’s face.
But then, Ogura gives a sharp command to Sayuki and steps back. An instant later, Matsumoto sledgehammers a double axe blow between the unsuspecting American’s shoulder blades, dropping the suddenly stunned Armstrong to one knee with a loud grunt of pain. The ref, recognizing the inevitable, calls for the opening bell as Yuko scurries out of the ring.
As Armstrong gasps for breath and tries to gather her wits, she suddenly gives a yelp as the Asian grabs her fiery mane close to the roots and pulls her head back, followed by drilling an elbow square into Ivy’s forehead, leaving her glassy eyed. From ringside, Yuko jeers at the American, “The only thing that ass is suitable for is being kicked, which my Sayuki will now proceed to do!”
Matsumoto-san parts Ivy’s ivory cheeks with her right knee between, blasting the bony ball into Armstrong’s rump. The redhead lurches forward with a yip, but doesn’t get too far away, Sayuki’s hand keeping her under control.
“You are my show,” the Invader says, “my chance to finish another of the dying breed.”
If Armstrong hadn’t been suffering from a shockwave pulsating in her tailbone, she might have been shocked at Sayuki’s effort at English. Matsumoto was known for her Sphinx-like verbosity, at least in English, but after years in FAWN, she apparently had gained more vocabulary than had been let on.
Yuko screeches out ‘ATTACK’, apparently trying to cover Sayuki’s knowledge. Matsumoto does as she’s told by the tiny businesswoman. The Kobe native latches onto a shoulder and the rim of Ivy’s Daisy Dukes and bum-rushes the Bama Slamma to the corner, using the crown of Armstrong’s skull as a battering ram into the top buckle.
The green-eyed wonder bounces off the thinly padded buckle in a drunken 180, Sayuki’s power registering less than a minute into the match. Matsumoto strides after the staggering Armstrong. She stomps a boot into the redhead’s backside and Ivy stumbles further afield, Sayuki making a point of embarrassing her foe rather than taking full advantage to beat her early.
Ivy catches her balance in the opposite corner, leaning in deep, blinking her peepers wide. The crafty veteran waves Sayuki in and Matsumoto obliges. As she does, Armstrong shoves her way out before the Invader can press her in tight. She comes directly at Matsumoto, surprising no one but Sayuki who seems shocked Ivy takes her head-on.
The auburn-haired grappler brings a stiff forearm to the Suns with her and Sayuki is halted. Ivy is wide-eyed that the blow doesn’t receive more of a result. Armstrong loads again and this forearm smash brings a wince and a step back from Matsumoto-san. Ivy draws her limb to her lips and smooches it, then throws again, a meaty THWACK accompanying the connection of arm to bosom and Sayuki almost takes a knee.
Apoplectic, Yuko shrieks at her weapon and a growling Matsumoto launches out of her dipped stance with a clothesline that might have relieved Ivy’s body of its head, but Armstrong neatly ducks under. Spinning quickly, she rakes her ruby-tipped nails down the golden back of the Invader.
Sayuki squeals in pain, arching as ten little trails grow red from shoulders to tush. Cursing under her breath in Japanese, she fails to notice as Ivy swings a leg over and around her own on the left. On the right, the Slamma slips her torso under Sayuki’s right arm, drawing the limb back and the meaty right side of Matsumoto with it. Violently straightening the doubled Asian, Ivy works her Ab Stretch perfectly, like the second-gen star she is, adding a claw of Sayuki’s tummy for good measure.
<B> Abdominal Stretch</B>
(http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=grYQ9GfvwcA )
Armstrong’s focus is laser-like and even Yuko’s cries of cheating don’t distract the Southern Belle. She yanks and pulls Matsumoto like a shapely block of taffy. Ivy cleverly has the Invader dead center, with no easy escape. She drains the bigger grappler in the Stretch, working the point of an elbow deep into Sayuki’s side to intensify the anguish.
“Ask her,” Ivy demands.
Almost instantaneously, a sharp “no” erupts from between Sayuki’s lips.
Rotating, slowly but surely, Sayuki works her way from around Ivy’s bracketing lower limb and, with that accomplished, she starts to power her trapped arm up and forward. Ivy shakes her head in disbelief, emerald eyes growing to saucers until she’s finally hiptossed to her ass. Landing on her coccyx once more, Armstong’s pert cheeks aren’t enough padding to prevent a wave of pain from moving up her spinal column. She reflexively reaches for her booty, slipping her hands as a cushion beneath.
Next to the redhead, Sayuki is on all fours, working to unknot the muscles in her abdomen. Both women seem to realize simultaneously, control of the match is there for the taking. They force their way to vertical.
Ivy proves the quicker on the draw, however, as she launches a roundhouse kick to Matsumoto’s temple that connects and staggers the Asian brute.
<B> Roundhouse Kick</B>
(http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nSAM_1SuZOQ ).
The Invader refuses to topple and Ivy pirouettes into another that catches every bit of Sayuki’s jaw. But again, Yuko’s most reliable weapon refuses to go down.
Matsumoto wobbles on rubbery legs, dark eyes glassy. In front of her, Ivy seems at a loss as to how to deck the Japanese grappler. Finally, she turns and surges to the corner behind her. Climbing up nimbly, the redhead turns and faces her foe, perched on the penthouse.
Armstrong launches high and far, her infamous gams leading the way. Both bare feet THUNK into Sayuki’s chink, the Missile Dropkick a nuclear blast that not only sends Matsumoto to the mat, but drives her through a backward somersault. The curvy Asian lies obliterated, her Suns setting on the canvas, right cheek pressed to the mat, spit bubbles burbling from barely parted lips.
<B>MISSILE DROPKICK </B>
(https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=brIier3lZEA )
Sensing she’s gotten all of an ICBM-like strike, Ivy hustles to the demolished Sayuki and shovels the deadweight over. Laying her ivory frame in a crossbody of the golden-skinned Invader, Ivy hooks the far leg for ONE…TWO…THRNOOO!
With Yuko pulling at her locks in a panic, Sayuki throws a shoulder to the side and saves herself from a Mania beating at the hands of the Slamma. But for how long?
The Invader rolls to her chest and starts to push up, only to have a double axhandle to the small of her back splatter the Invader back to the canvas. Ivy sinks her right hand into one of Matsumoto’s long ebony pigtails and draws up Sayuki’s noggin with a yank, eliciting a shriek of “HAIR” from Ogura and a yelp of pain from Yuko’s weapon. Ivy forces eye contact with Matsumoto.
“Don’t feel bad, sugah. Lot bettah women than you have been Comforted by yours truly.”
With a devious grin blossoming to pearly whites, Ivy SLAMS Sayuki’s face into the thinly-sheathed plywood.
The head of Yuko’s powerhouse bounces away from the deck, her dark eyes glassy. Armstrong sinks her ruby-tipped nails into the scalp of the Invader and turns to Ogura with a pucker.
“Seems like your girl’s, heck, you whole Invasion’s run out of steam and still the Crimson Tide rolls.”
Ogura shrieks at the official about the second-generation superstar’s grip rather than replying to the redhead and, with an actual case this time, the ref begins his count.
The green-eyed troublemaker uses all of her four seconds to pull the rubber-legged Sayuki to her feet and aim her at the far corner. Ivy whips away, Matsumoto sent in a bouncy sprint to the buckles, the Japanese grappler turning into a solid connection of back to corner.
Throwing her arms over the top rope on either side, Sayuki manages to remain upright and that seems the cue for Ivy to take off like a shot. The ivory-skinned, redhead races to her foe, dipping a shoulder and DRIVING it into the golden midriff of the curvy Asian. Sayuki folds around the spear, her tush pressed between the top and middle buckles.
Ivy steps back only to throw her right shoulder in again, Yuko howling for the zebra to get Armstrong and her weapon out of the corner. The pleas don’t stop Armstrong from thumping in another set of three shoulderblocks to tummy. When Ivy steps to the side, Sayuki stumbles drunkenly out, gasping for breath.
After getting three steps clear, Ivy grasps Sayuki’s wrist and spins the Invader toward her. Wrapping her foe’s right arm behind the Invader’s neck, Ivy balls her right fist tight and gives it a smooch. The crowd’s pitch rises in anticipation as does the sound of Yuko’s wails for Matsumoto to block the blow. But Ivy barrels the heart punch into the cleft of Sayuki’s bosom unimpeded. The dark eyes of the curvy Japanese grappler cross as her blood pumper skips a beat from the brawny impact.
Matsumoto’s legs give a shudder and she flops forward, bonelessly, into Ivy’s arms. Grinning like a Cheshire cat, the FAWN original pivots, lifting and twisting Sayuki around her body, slamming her to the canvas. Following behind, Armstrong dives atop her foe in a crossbody pin and gets the ONE…TWO…THRNOOO!
Yuko’s shrieks might break any glass nearby and they certainly seem to reach Sayuki’s addled mind, Matsumoto thrusting a shoulder up in the nick of time. Ivy flexes her brow at the ref, unsure of his count. The man raises two fingers. Armstrong waggles her head and turns to Ogura.
“Ah do believe it’s time for y’all to learn some manners,” Ivy imparts. “And since y’don’t have a lick of courage to get in the ring, this sweet thing will do all the learnin’ for ya.”
The redhead maneuvers toward the softly stirring Sayuki’s noggin. Seated, she spreads her legendary stems slightly and rolls Sayuki from back to chest, in so doing, plopping Matsumoto’s chin on her crotch. Even those living under a rock know what’s coming next and they erupt in a cheer for the Southern Charm.
Ivy’s lower limbs snap shut around Sayuki’s head in a figure four, the pressure of her head scissors awakening Sayuki from her a-fib induced stupor only to start to be sent into another daze. The lithe limbs squeeze tight around Sayuki’s braincase, her face quickly growing rosy as the Invader stares worriedly up Ivy’s body into her emerald eyes.
Sayuki pries at the locked legs, at least until Ivy finally corrals both at the wrists to eliminate any remaining chance at escape. Or so the Bama Slamma believes. For while the redhead does that, Sayuki manages to get her knees beneath her. Fighting the leaking consciousness, she knee-walks forward, forcing Ivy onto her shoulders and, within four seconds, Yuko’s weapon is free if mightily disabled, absently shaking cobwebs as she lolls on her side next to a disappointed Armstrong.
Yuko hops to the apron, shouting and pointing, chattering so quickly the ref seems unaware what she’s complaining about. Ivy seems interested however. And she strolls over to Ogura, the official sliding between them just in case.
The little businesswoman jumps and reaches over the man’s shoulder to swipe a slap at Armstrong’s cheek. She clips it lightly, barely more than a touch, but it’s enough to provide the impetus for Ivy to shove the referee aside, the redhead grabbing Yuko by her ebony locks and flipping the manager up and over the ropes, the diminutive general landing on her tailbone.
Yuko yelps in pain, bouncing on her bum, her hands reaching beneath her derriere to soothe the throbbing. The official gets in the grill of the redhead, preventing Armstrong from taking any more liberties despite the wishes of the crowd.
Armstrong throws her palms high and turns to a rising Sayuki, Matsumoto on her knees but head bowed. Ivy wraps her digits in one of Matsumoto’s long pigtails. But before she can use the handle to rip Sayuki to her feet, Matsumoto-san throws a haymaker of an uppercut forearm between Ivy’s legs. The massive low blow is missed by the official, as the man continues to usher Yuko through the ropes. Meanwhile a bug-eyed Ivy, mouth agape, slinks to her haunches, hands buried in her privates.
With Yuko put back in place, the ref returns to the two downed grapplers. Knowing full well she is not yet recovered enough to make a sustained effort to defeat the Gaijin, Sayuki has a contingency plan when she needs to take a breather.
Rising and grabbing the referee firmly by the shoulders, she turns him so that his back is to Armstrong and, belying her reputation for stoicism, Matsumoto begins to berate him in a steady stream of Japanese. Not speaking Japanese, it's all the harried zebra can do to slip an occasional "But..." in between the onslaught of indecipherable verbiage.
The official has no conception of what is occurring behind his back...again. Having traded roles, Yuko slides viper-like into the ring and, with sudden swiftness, grasps the ankles of the still-crouched redhead from behind. An instant later, Ivy yelps out as her feet are yanked out from under her and she flops face-first to the canvas, and is dragged closer to the corner.
Slipping outside and positioning herself behind the ring post, Yuko reaches around either side of the metal pole, regains her grips upon the startled American’s ankles, and yanks with all of her might. Ivy is pulled back and doesn’t stop until her already throbbing womanhood slams into the unyielding steel post! Insidiously, Ogura now tucks a leg under each of her arms, then lifts one of her own legs up, pressing the sole of her shoe against the ring post. Leaning back, she causes the metal to press more agonizingly into Armstrong’s honeypot. The pain is so overwhelming, the redhead can’t even scream…she can only make a high-pitched squeak as her hands tear at her own fiery locks, trying to counter the pain to her nether region, but to little avail. The arena is rocked with boos from the crowd, but still the referee doesn’t grasp his attention is needed elsewhere.
After one last vicious tug, the maniacal manager releases her grasp, and Ivy gives an audible sigh of relief. But her respite is short-lived, for even as she places her left arm out on the mat in anticipation of dragging herself forward, Matsumoto suddenly breaks off from her ‘chat’ with the ref, bumps him aside, and stalks her opponent. Lifting her right foot, she stomps it down upon her adversary’s hand, eliciting a sharp shriek from the ‘Bama Slamma. A mewling Ivy squirms on the canvas as her hand is trapped and flattened beneath the boot of her oppressor.
At long last doing his job, the ref warns the Japanese juggernaut and starts to count. Matsumoto-san lifts her boot and releases her opponent's digits, but one senses she’s done so simply of her own volition and not because the official is demanding it. Armstrong clutches her aching fingers with her other hand, but moments later has a bigger worry, as she feels a hand in her hair, grasping firmly near the roots, and ripping her up bodily off of the mat.
Spinning the redhead to face her, Sayuki's flashes her right hand, clenching her palm tightly around Ivy's alabaster throat. With a small grunt, the Asian lifts the startled Armstrong up off of her feet and delivers her back to the canvas with a spine-jarring choke slam. Ivy's upper body arches in anguish as Yuko barks commands at her minion from ringside. One does not need to understand the Japanese tongue to interpret their meaning: Make an example of this bitch!
An evil smile emerges on Sayuki’s lips as she moves to the redhead. Grabbing a handful of auburn mane and a shoulder, Matsumoto tugs a wincing, pliant Armstrong to her feet. Dipping, Sayuki wraps her arms around Ivy’s ivory midriff, surrounding and cinching tight. The Invader draws a breathy grasp and mewl from the FAWN original before lifting her foe’s toes off the canvas in a front bearhug.
The glistening Weapon tightens her embrace, widening Armstrong’s emerald eyes, the exhausted Ivy having the oxygen forced from her. Armstrong’s right arm rises, at the end a balled fist. But a flex of Sayuki’s biceps and a further closing of the loop around her tummy sends the limb falling limp to Armstrong’s side.
Before the Bama Slamma can muster her reserves, Sayuki walks her cargo toward the Invasion corner and, as she closes with the buckles, surges into them to sandwich Ivy into a huggy splash. Bouncing out of the buckles, Sayuki spins her airborne dance partner and rushes to the middle. Matsumoto dives forward, Ivy still in her clutches, and CRUSHES the redhead beneath her, an avalanche of golden-skinned grappler dropping atop Armstrong.
In a motionless, drained single file beneath Matsumoto-san, Ivy’s lids flutter. She softly squirms, her instincts offering fight her body cannot. Slowly, a huffing Sayuki slides up the alabaster form of Armstrong. Yuko is oddly quiet but confident as she points into the ring, explaining the situation to anyone in the stands who’ll listen.
The slithering Sayuki, apparently deciding to ‘set her Suns’ in modified fashion, forgoes the standard reverse smother and slips her skin over Armstrong’s, dipping her arms under Ivy’s shoulders to break a ONE…TWO… by the referee to prop the wobbly head of her foe, Ivy’s chin resting in the cleavage of the approaching Invader.
Rightly motivated by the look in Sayuki’s eyes and the closeness of her Suns, Armstrong pushes against the hips of her foe but doesn’t budge Matsumoto.
A grinning Sayuki offers Ivy a “good night” and glides into place, Sayuki’s breasts mounting the lips and nose of the second-generation superstar.
A squeaky ‘no’ from Ivy becomes a breathless ‘nmmmph’ as Armstrong is left to suck bosom instead of air, Sayuki riding out Ivy’s weak bucking and twisting like she’s done to hundreds of women throughout the years.
And the great Ivy Armstrong succumbs like the rest, struggling for a dozen seconds before falling limp beneath the sweat-soaked Sayuki, Ivy’s limbs lifeless.
Yuko cheerily encourages the official to check on the Bama Slamma and he hastily lifts an arm, the limb falling leaden to the mat. He dispenses with the meaningless seconds and thirds and leaps to his feet, immediately calling for the bell.
Ogura is halfway up the ring steps and Sayuki is peeling her airtight seal from Ivy’s greasy face when the official verdict is provided.
“Your winner…by knockout…Sayuki Matsumoto!”
Yuko enters and strides to her Weapon, the tiny businesswoman grabbing a wrist and helping lift a weary Matsumoto to her feet. Sayuki places a boot atop the softly rolling chest of the unconscious Armstrong and Yuko places a pump on Ivy’s face, pushing it to the side and leaving her shoe on a flattened cheek. Pulling a microphone to her lips, the manager waits for a lull in the jeers.
“My Sayuki guards belts no longer. She will wear them. This gaijin is only the first step for my Sayuki to take the World.”
The duo removes their footwear from atop Ivy’s carcass and bow to the unappreciative FAWNatics, accepting their scorn stoically.
It takes but a moment for FAWN’s tiniest, most shrill and arguably most successful manager, Yuko Ogura, to appear. Unsurprisingly, the masses threaten to tear the roof off the arena. Ogura casts her gaze over the FAWNatics with her familiar sneering disdain and the crowd grouses under the thrall of the tiny, devious businesswoman.
As Yuko motions for the fans to bow in subservience, a Rising Sun flag supplants the FAWN logo on the FAWNtron, red sunbeams flowing out of the matching disc on the screen behind her. Ogura turns in the direction she’d just appeared and greets the powerhouse of her organization, Matsumoto-san , the original and perhaps most dangerous Invader of all time.
The volume of the crowd only increases as Sayuki joins her leader and bows to her boss. Yuko nods in response and points toward the ring. Matsumoto leads the way as the Invaders move toward the squared circle, Ogura shrieking over the cantankerous crowd, demanding they show her curvy weapon the proper reverence.
The busty Asian is dressed for battle in her familiar blood red bikini, the scant cloth leaving precious little of her hourglass figure to the imagination. Complementing the curves are white pads and boots, the pads bearing the red discs of her nation’s flag. Her dark hair is arranged into two long pigtails.
Next to her, Ogura leaves many in the crowd buzzing at her cheeky ensemble. Above is a top that appears white satin in front, black-n-white stripes from side to back. Below is the familiar gun metal gray with pinstripes but only in very daring proportions, the tiny ring of cloth held in place with a pair of jaunty suspenders. On her abbreviated but delectable stems are whalenet stockings leading to black business pumps and atop her long chestnut-colored locks is a black fedora.
YUKO OGURA:
Reaching the ring steps, Sayuki leads her boss up, Yuko directly behind, a protective hand on her charge’s right hip. She waits for Sayuki to open the top and middle ropes wide, allowing Ogura to step through. Matusumoto-san joins her with a swing of her hips while Yuko doffs her fedora and plucks a microphone from inside.
The crowd seems less than pleased with the prospect of a monologue from the leader of the Invaders and makes Yuko aware. She waits for something approaching silence.
“Later, my champion, my ninja will show Singh how lucky she was at Delayed Reaction,” Yuko says. “But now, my Sayuki , my ultimate weapon, will make your country-fried gaijin pay for what Singh was able to do. Her defeat of my Sayuki only loads my weapon with more fury.”
The crowd lets loose with another loud set of boos.
“And tonight, the growing list of FAWN originals who are saying sayonara will grow longer.”
Yuko raises her volume to reach over the FAWNatics.
“As the suns will set…ON IVY ARMSTRONG!”
The crowd explodes in angry disagreement as Yuko lets the microphone ‘THUNK’ to the canvas and leads Matsumoto back to the Invasion corner.
The ring announcer picks up where the manager leaves off.
“Tonight’s next match is one fall with a 20-minute time limit. Introducing…accompanied by the leader of the Asian Invasion Yuko Ogura…standing five feet eight inches tall and weighing in at 130 pounds…from Kobe, Japan…Sayuki Matsumoto.”
SAYUKI MATSUMOTO:
Yuko shows off her weapon once more, ignoring the sound of the boos bouncing off the arena walls. She steps through the ropes when Sayuki opens them wide again, and takes her place on the outside, the duo waiting for Matsumoto’s foe.
“And 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!”
The strains of .38 Special's "Wild Eyed Southern Boys" starts to pulse through the arena's speaker system. The curtain at the top of the aisleway tears open, and with a roar of recognition from the crowd and out struts the 'Bama Slamma herself.
IVY ARMSTRONG:
Armstrong has always been a special case in FAWN: it matters not if she’s wrestling as a heel or as a babyface, or someplace in-between…and that equation could change from night to night, or even in the midst of a match…the fans love to cheer the second generation superstar. Even those who roar most fervently for her opponent can’t help but give a rebel yell as the redhead makes her way to the ring.
Working her way down the aisle, her lithe body clad in her signature denim shorts (cut just shy of thong status, really), a black cotton sleeveless halter top with collar tied off at the midriff, Ivy beams a smile, her fingertips reaching out to brush against the outstretched hands of the many fans packed against the guard rail. She halts when she sees one fan holding aloft a poster board sign that reads THE SOUTH WILL RISE AND SET ON THOSE SUNS! She brings both hands up to her lips and blows a big kiss to the fan, then continues down to the ring.
Climbing up the steps, she slips out of her thonged flip-flops and walks barefoot along the ring apron to the middle of the ropes. She then turns to face the crowd as she reaches her arms out to her sides and tightly grasps the top cable. Then, in a display of poise and power, she lifts her body up and slowly turns in 360, letting the spectators take a good long look at her sculpted stems as she makes her leisurely arc into the ring.
As her soles alight to the canvas, the redhead suddenly turns and bolts to the far corner of the ring, where she leaps up on the middle ropes and throws her arms wide as she gives a piercing rebel yell. In response the crowd roars even louder than it had. Having established her bona fides, Armstrong drops down to the mat and saunters over to center ring, where the referee goes over the last minute instructions for the combatants. Neither woman seems to pay him much heed, as instead they lock eyes and stare daggers at one another. Sayuki’s face remains an inscrutable mask, while Ivy doesn’t bother to hide a saucy half-smirk.
Yuko, who has remained alongside her fighter, gives a smirk of her own as she sneers, “You are built like a boy! Look at my Sayuki and see what a real woman looks like. And don’t worry, you will be getting an especially good look at her magnificent setting suns soon enough.” To punctuate her manager’s taunt, Matsumoto thrusts out her admittedly impressive bosom toward her opponent, the barest traces of a smile on her lips.
Armstrong’s green eyes travel from one breast to the other, then she tilts her head down and looks at her own more modest…but nonetheless fully adequate…endowments. She gives an exaggerated pout as her hands cup her 32B’s, her head turning first to the right to look to the crowd for encouragement, then to her left. Then her eyes widen as if she has just had an epiphany.
Turning her back to her adversary, Armstrong bends over, placing her hands on her knees and thrusting her rear end out. As the redhead possesses one of the most lauded derrière’s in all of FAWN, the meaning is as plain as the freckles on the ‘Bama Slamma’s face: The Asian may have her Setting Suns, but this Southern gal has a vaunted means of smothering at her disposal as well. The crowd hoots and cheers at the prospect, while a wide smile crosses Ivy’s face.
But then, Ogura gives a sharp command to Sayuki and steps back. An instant later, Matsumoto sledgehammers a double axe blow between the unsuspecting American’s shoulder blades, dropping the suddenly stunned Armstrong to one knee with a loud grunt of pain. The ref, recognizing the inevitable, calls for the opening bell as Yuko scurries out of the ring.
As Armstrong gasps for breath and tries to gather her wits, she suddenly gives a yelp as the Asian grabs her fiery mane close to the roots and pulls her head back, followed by drilling an elbow square into Ivy’s forehead, leaving her glassy eyed. From ringside, Yuko jeers at the American, “The only thing that ass is suitable for is being kicked, which my Sayuki will now proceed to do!”
Matsumoto-san parts Ivy’s ivory cheeks with her right knee between, blasting the bony ball into Armstrong’s rump. The redhead lurches forward with a yip, but doesn’t get too far away, Sayuki’s hand keeping her under control.
“You are my show,” the Invader says, “my chance to finish another of the dying breed.”
If Armstrong hadn’t been suffering from a shockwave pulsating in her tailbone, she might have been shocked at Sayuki’s effort at English. Matsumoto was known for her Sphinx-like verbosity, at least in English, but after years in FAWN, she apparently had gained more vocabulary than had been let on.
Yuko screeches out ‘ATTACK’, apparently trying to cover Sayuki’s knowledge. Matsumoto does as she’s told by the tiny businesswoman. The Kobe native latches onto a shoulder and the rim of Ivy’s Daisy Dukes and bum-rushes the Bama Slamma to the corner, using the crown of Armstrong’s skull as a battering ram into the top buckle.
The green-eyed wonder bounces off the thinly padded buckle in a drunken 180, Sayuki’s power registering less than a minute into the match. Matsumoto strides after the staggering Armstrong. She stomps a boot into the redhead’s backside and Ivy stumbles further afield, Sayuki making a point of embarrassing her foe rather than taking full advantage to beat her early.
Ivy catches her balance in the opposite corner, leaning in deep, blinking her peepers wide. The crafty veteran waves Sayuki in and Matsumoto obliges. As she does, Armstrong shoves her way out before the Invader can press her in tight. She comes directly at Matsumoto, surprising no one but Sayuki who seems shocked Ivy takes her head-on.
The auburn-haired grappler brings a stiff forearm to the Suns with her and Sayuki is halted. Ivy is wide-eyed that the blow doesn’t receive more of a result. Armstrong loads again and this forearm smash brings a wince and a step back from Matsumoto-san. Ivy draws her limb to her lips and smooches it, then throws again, a meaty THWACK accompanying the connection of arm to bosom and Sayuki almost takes a knee.
Apoplectic, Yuko shrieks at her weapon and a growling Matsumoto launches out of her dipped stance with a clothesline that might have relieved Ivy’s body of its head, but Armstrong neatly ducks under. Spinning quickly, she rakes her ruby-tipped nails down the golden back of the Invader.
Sayuki squeals in pain, arching as ten little trails grow red from shoulders to tush. Cursing under her breath in Japanese, she fails to notice as Ivy swings a leg over and around her own on the left. On the right, the Slamma slips her torso under Sayuki’s right arm, drawing the limb back and the meaty right side of Matsumoto with it. Violently straightening the doubled Asian, Ivy works her Ab Stretch perfectly, like the second-gen star she is, adding a claw of Sayuki’s tummy for good measure.
<B> Abdominal Stretch</B>
(http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=grYQ9GfvwcA )
Armstrong’s focus is laser-like and even Yuko’s cries of cheating don’t distract the Southern Belle. She yanks and pulls Matsumoto like a shapely block of taffy. Ivy cleverly has the Invader dead center, with no easy escape. She drains the bigger grappler in the Stretch, working the point of an elbow deep into Sayuki’s side to intensify the anguish.
“Ask her,” Ivy demands.
Almost instantaneously, a sharp “no” erupts from between Sayuki’s lips.
Rotating, slowly but surely, Sayuki works her way from around Ivy’s bracketing lower limb and, with that accomplished, she starts to power her trapped arm up and forward. Ivy shakes her head in disbelief, emerald eyes growing to saucers until she’s finally hiptossed to her ass. Landing on her coccyx once more, Armstong’s pert cheeks aren’t enough padding to prevent a wave of pain from moving up her spinal column. She reflexively reaches for her booty, slipping her hands as a cushion beneath.
Next to the redhead, Sayuki is on all fours, working to unknot the muscles in her abdomen. Both women seem to realize simultaneously, control of the match is there for the taking. They force their way to vertical.
Ivy proves the quicker on the draw, however, as she launches a roundhouse kick to Matsumoto’s temple that connects and staggers the Asian brute.
<B> Roundhouse Kick</B>
(http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nSAM_1SuZOQ ).
The Invader refuses to topple and Ivy pirouettes into another that catches every bit of Sayuki’s jaw. But again, Yuko’s most reliable weapon refuses to go down.
Matsumoto wobbles on rubbery legs, dark eyes glassy. In front of her, Ivy seems at a loss as to how to deck the Japanese grappler. Finally, she turns and surges to the corner behind her. Climbing up nimbly, the redhead turns and faces her foe, perched on the penthouse.
Armstrong launches high and far, her infamous gams leading the way. Both bare feet THUNK into Sayuki’s chink, the Missile Dropkick a nuclear blast that not only sends Matsumoto to the mat, but drives her through a backward somersault. The curvy Asian lies obliterated, her Suns setting on the canvas, right cheek pressed to the mat, spit bubbles burbling from barely parted lips.
<B>MISSILE DROPKICK </B>
(https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=brIier3lZEA )
Sensing she’s gotten all of an ICBM-like strike, Ivy hustles to the demolished Sayuki and shovels the deadweight over. Laying her ivory frame in a crossbody of the golden-skinned Invader, Ivy hooks the far leg for ONE…TWO…THRNOOO!
With Yuko pulling at her locks in a panic, Sayuki throws a shoulder to the side and saves herself from a Mania beating at the hands of the Slamma. But for how long?
The Invader rolls to her chest and starts to push up, only to have a double axhandle to the small of her back splatter the Invader back to the canvas. Ivy sinks her right hand into one of Matsumoto’s long ebony pigtails and draws up Sayuki’s noggin with a yank, eliciting a shriek of “HAIR” from Ogura and a yelp of pain from Yuko’s weapon. Ivy forces eye contact with Matsumoto.
“Don’t feel bad, sugah. Lot bettah women than you have been Comforted by yours truly.”
With a devious grin blossoming to pearly whites, Ivy SLAMS Sayuki’s face into the thinly-sheathed plywood.
The head of Yuko’s powerhouse bounces away from the deck, her dark eyes glassy. Armstrong sinks her ruby-tipped nails into the scalp of the Invader and turns to Ogura with a pucker.
“Seems like your girl’s, heck, you whole Invasion’s run out of steam and still the Crimson Tide rolls.”
Ogura shrieks at the official about the second-generation superstar’s grip rather than replying to the redhead and, with an actual case this time, the ref begins his count.
The green-eyed troublemaker uses all of her four seconds to pull the rubber-legged Sayuki to her feet and aim her at the far corner. Ivy whips away, Matsumoto sent in a bouncy sprint to the buckles, the Japanese grappler turning into a solid connection of back to corner.
Throwing her arms over the top rope on either side, Sayuki manages to remain upright and that seems the cue for Ivy to take off like a shot. The ivory-skinned, redhead races to her foe, dipping a shoulder and DRIVING it into the golden midriff of the curvy Asian. Sayuki folds around the spear, her tush pressed between the top and middle buckles.
Ivy steps back only to throw her right shoulder in again, Yuko howling for the zebra to get Armstrong and her weapon out of the corner. The pleas don’t stop Armstrong from thumping in another set of three shoulderblocks to tummy. When Ivy steps to the side, Sayuki stumbles drunkenly out, gasping for breath.
After getting three steps clear, Ivy grasps Sayuki’s wrist and spins the Invader toward her. Wrapping her foe’s right arm behind the Invader’s neck, Ivy balls her right fist tight and gives it a smooch. The crowd’s pitch rises in anticipation as does the sound of Yuko’s wails for Matsumoto to block the blow. But Ivy barrels the heart punch into the cleft of Sayuki’s bosom unimpeded. The dark eyes of the curvy Japanese grappler cross as her blood pumper skips a beat from the brawny impact.
Matsumoto’s legs give a shudder and she flops forward, bonelessly, into Ivy’s arms. Grinning like a Cheshire cat, the FAWN original pivots, lifting and twisting Sayuki around her body, slamming her to the canvas. Following behind, Armstrong dives atop her foe in a crossbody pin and gets the ONE…TWO…THRNOOO!
Yuko’s shrieks might break any glass nearby and they certainly seem to reach Sayuki’s addled mind, Matsumoto thrusting a shoulder up in the nick of time. Ivy flexes her brow at the ref, unsure of his count. The man raises two fingers. Armstrong waggles her head and turns to Ogura.
“Ah do believe it’s time for y’all to learn some manners,” Ivy imparts. “And since y’don’t have a lick of courage to get in the ring, this sweet thing will do all the learnin’ for ya.”
The redhead maneuvers toward the softly stirring Sayuki’s noggin. Seated, she spreads her legendary stems slightly and rolls Sayuki from back to chest, in so doing, plopping Matsumoto’s chin on her crotch. Even those living under a rock know what’s coming next and they erupt in a cheer for the Southern Charm.
Ivy’s lower limbs snap shut around Sayuki’s head in a figure four, the pressure of her head scissors awakening Sayuki from her a-fib induced stupor only to start to be sent into another daze. The lithe limbs squeeze tight around Sayuki’s braincase, her face quickly growing rosy as the Invader stares worriedly up Ivy’s body into her emerald eyes.
Sayuki pries at the locked legs, at least until Ivy finally corrals both at the wrists to eliminate any remaining chance at escape. Or so the Bama Slamma believes. For while the redhead does that, Sayuki manages to get her knees beneath her. Fighting the leaking consciousness, she knee-walks forward, forcing Ivy onto her shoulders and, within four seconds, Yuko’s weapon is free if mightily disabled, absently shaking cobwebs as she lolls on her side next to a disappointed Armstrong.
Yuko hops to the apron, shouting and pointing, chattering so quickly the ref seems unaware what she’s complaining about. Ivy seems interested however. And she strolls over to Ogura, the official sliding between them just in case.
The little businesswoman jumps and reaches over the man’s shoulder to swipe a slap at Armstrong’s cheek. She clips it lightly, barely more than a touch, but it’s enough to provide the impetus for Ivy to shove the referee aside, the redhead grabbing Yuko by her ebony locks and flipping the manager up and over the ropes, the diminutive general landing on her tailbone.
Yuko yelps in pain, bouncing on her bum, her hands reaching beneath her derriere to soothe the throbbing. The official gets in the grill of the redhead, preventing Armstrong from taking any more liberties despite the wishes of the crowd.
Armstrong throws her palms high and turns to a rising Sayuki, Matsumoto on her knees but head bowed. Ivy wraps her digits in one of Matsumoto’s long pigtails. But before she can use the handle to rip Sayuki to her feet, Matsumoto-san throws a haymaker of an uppercut forearm between Ivy’s legs. The massive low blow is missed by the official, as the man continues to usher Yuko through the ropes. Meanwhile a bug-eyed Ivy, mouth agape, slinks to her haunches, hands buried in her privates.
With Yuko put back in place, the ref returns to the two downed grapplers. Knowing full well she is not yet recovered enough to make a sustained effort to defeat the Gaijin, Sayuki has a contingency plan when she needs to take a breather.
Rising and grabbing the referee firmly by the shoulders, she turns him so that his back is to Armstrong and, belying her reputation for stoicism, Matsumoto begins to berate him in a steady stream of Japanese. Not speaking Japanese, it's all the harried zebra can do to slip an occasional "But..." in between the onslaught of indecipherable verbiage.
The official has no conception of what is occurring behind his back...again. Having traded roles, Yuko slides viper-like into the ring and, with sudden swiftness, grasps the ankles of the still-crouched redhead from behind. An instant later, Ivy yelps out as her feet are yanked out from under her and she flops face-first to the canvas, and is dragged closer to the corner.
Slipping outside and positioning herself behind the ring post, Yuko reaches around either side of the metal pole, regains her grips upon the startled American’s ankles, and yanks with all of her might. Ivy is pulled back and doesn’t stop until her already throbbing womanhood slams into the unyielding steel post! Insidiously, Ogura now tucks a leg under each of her arms, then lifts one of her own legs up, pressing the sole of her shoe against the ring post. Leaning back, she causes the metal to press more agonizingly into Armstrong’s honeypot. The pain is so overwhelming, the redhead can’t even scream…she can only make a high-pitched squeak as her hands tear at her own fiery locks, trying to counter the pain to her nether region, but to little avail. The arena is rocked with boos from the crowd, but still the referee doesn’t grasp his attention is needed elsewhere.
After one last vicious tug, the maniacal manager releases her grasp, and Ivy gives an audible sigh of relief. But her respite is short-lived, for even as she places her left arm out on the mat in anticipation of dragging herself forward, Matsumoto suddenly breaks off from her ‘chat’ with the ref, bumps him aside, and stalks her opponent. Lifting her right foot, she stomps it down upon her adversary’s hand, eliciting a sharp shriek from the ‘Bama Slamma. A mewling Ivy squirms on the canvas as her hand is trapped and flattened beneath the boot of her oppressor.
At long last doing his job, the ref warns the Japanese juggernaut and starts to count. Matsumoto-san lifts her boot and releases her opponent's digits, but one senses she’s done so simply of her own volition and not because the official is demanding it. Armstrong clutches her aching fingers with her other hand, but moments later has a bigger worry, as she feels a hand in her hair, grasping firmly near the roots, and ripping her up bodily off of the mat.
Spinning the redhead to face her, Sayuki's flashes her right hand, clenching her palm tightly around Ivy's alabaster throat. With a small grunt, the Asian lifts the startled Armstrong up off of her feet and delivers her back to the canvas with a spine-jarring choke slam. Ivy's upper body arches in anguish as Yuko barks commands at her minion from ringside. One does not need to understand the Japanese tongue to interpret their meaning: Make an example of this bitch!
An evil smile emerges on Sayuki’s lips as she moves to the redhead. Grabbing a handful of auburn mane and a shoulder, Matsumoto tugs a wincing, pliant Armstrong to her feet. Dipping, Sayuki wraps her arms around Ivy’s ivory midriff, surrounding and cinching tight. The Invader draws a breathy grasp and mewl from the FAWN original before lifting her foe’s toes off the canvas in a front bearhug.
The glistening Weapon tightens her embrace, widening Armstrong’s emerald eyes, the exhausted Ivy having the oxygen forced from her. Armstrong’s right arm rises, at the end a balled fist. But a flex of Sayuki’s biceps and a further closing of the loop around her tummy sends the limb falling limp to Armstrong’s side.
Before the Bama Slamma can muster her reserves, Sayuki walks her cargo toward the Invasion corner and, as she closes with the buckles, surges into them to sandwich Ivy into a huggy splash. Bouncing out of the buckles, Sayuki spins her airborne dance partner and rushes to the middle. Matsumoto dives forward, Ivy still in her clutches, and CRUSHES the redhead beneath her, an avalanche of golden-skinned grappler dropping atop Armstrong.
In a motionless, drained single file beneath Matsumoto-san, Ivy’s lids flutter. She softly squirms, her instincts offering fight her body cannot. Slowly, a huffing Sayuki slides up the alabaster form of Armstrong. Yuko is oddly quiet but confident as she points into the ring, explaining the situation to anyone in the stands who’ll listen.
The slithering Sayuki, apparently deciding to ‘set her Suns’ in modified fashion, forgoes the standard reverse smother and slips her skin over Armstrong’s, dipping her arms under Ivy’s shoulders to break a ONE…TWO… by the referee to prop the wobbly head of her foe, Ivy’s chin resting in the cleavage of the approaching Invader.
Rightly motivated by the look in Sayuki’s eyes and the closeness of her Suns, Armstrong pushes against the hips of her foe but doesn’t budge Matsumoto.
A grinning Sayuki offers Ivy a “good night” and glides into place, Sayuki’s breasts mounting the lips and nose of the second-generation superstar.
A squeaky ‘no’ from Ivy becomes a breathless ‘nmmmph’ as Armstrong is left to suck bosom instead of air, Sayuki riding out Ivy’s weak bucking and twisting like she’s done to hundreds of women throughout the years.
And the great Ivy Armstrong succumbs like the rest, struggling for a dozen seconds before falling limp beneath the sweat-soaked Sayuki, Ivy’s limbs lifeless.
Yuko cheerily encourages the official to check on the Bama Slamma and he hastily lifts an arm, the limb falling leaden to the mat. He dispenses with the meaningless seconds and thirds and leaps to his feet, immediately calling for the bell.
Ogura is halfway up the ring steps and Sayuki is peeling her airtight seal from Ivy’s greasy face when the official verdict is provided.
“Your winner…by knockout…Sayuki Matsumoto!”
Yuko enters and strides to her Weapon, the tiny businesswoman grabbing a wrist and helping lift a weary Matsumoto to her feet. Sayuki places a boot atop the softly rolling chest of the unconscious Armstrong and Yuko places a pump on Ivy’s face, pushing it to the side and leaving her shoe on a flattened cheek. Pulling a microphone to her lips, the manager waits for a lull in the jeers.
“My Sayuki guards belts no longer. She will wear them. This gaijin is only the first step for my Sayuki to take the World.”
The duo removes their footwear from atop Ivy’s carcass and bow to the unappreciative FAWNatics, accepting their scorn stoically.