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  #11  
Old 28-Aug-19, 02:18
Korn Korn is offline
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Default Re: SFL vs ECL: Sexfighting Crossover

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Originally Posted by Gruman [Only Registered Users Can See LinksClick Here To Register]
And we're off to the races!! Another great entry. Nice to see more into Melody's character and what makes her tick. She did great in a match that I thought would be a shutout. That's what I get for underestimating "Mighty" Mel lol. Killer Queen's got a great ring attitude, pulls no punches. The first person perspectives are a great touch. I wonder, will we see one from a ECL wrestler? The plot thickens and the excitement is building.
In a sense, you did see one from an ECL wrestler; it’s just that La Diabla has a tendency to dissociate her real self from her in-ring character to a degree that a lot of other fighters don’t. But I have one or two ideas that are definitely designed for a first person ECL POV.
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Old 28-Aug-19, 02:25
Gruman Gruman is offline
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Default Re: SFL vs ECL: Sexfighting Crossover

That's a very good point, my mistake for overlooking that. I actually really enjoyed that aspect of La Diabla's match so I'm looking forward to those ideas you have planned.
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Old 29-Aug-19, 23:07
Korn Korn is offline
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Default Re: SFL vs ECL: Sexfighting Crossover

For the record, it’s my understanding that this story is “canon” to the larger SFL universe, which means that Lac, Valen, and batman4life can choose to have events from it affect their own stories if they wish.
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  #14  
Old 19-Oct-19, 20:42
Korn Korn is offline
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Default Re: SFL vs ECL: Sexfighting Crossover

The Cowgirl vs The Mantaur

It probably tells you a lot about me that my first reaction to being told I would face the man who broke the Unbreakable Sara Steele was excitement.

And it didn’t go away when I saw him for the first time. Oh yes, he’s a big man for sure, and I’m realizing as I stare him down from across the ring that he’s even bigger up close. Six foot nine of pure dense muscle, and the way he looms over everything around him makes him look well over seven. You’re probably thinking this is a David vs Goliath sort of a match, a plucky underdog girl out to use her wits and her speed to bring down the giant.

Nope.

Any other girl in this league would be telling that story, for certain. But all those other girls didn’t spend so much time working out that the ECL bought new equipment specifically for them.

Some people hit the gym. But me? I fucking clobbered it. And what I got out of it was a figure that, well...let’s just say the word “Amazon” gets thrown around quite a lot.

This isn’t a plucky underdog story. This is a motherfucking clash of the titans.

I can see that the Mantaur’s excited for it too. His big barrel chest heaves deep breaths in and out, and his cock stirs at the sight of my ripped, yet buxom body in its skimpy American flag bra and thong.

Our handshake would have left anyone else’s hand hanging limp and useless as we try to crush the fight out of each other before the match even starts.

“You think you can take me on just because you can flex a bit?” Even the Mantaur’s normal voice is practically a shout. “I’ll break you like I do everyone else who crosses me.”

“Go ahead and try, big man,” I say with a lopsided grin. “I wanna see if I can wrangle this bull.”

There’s no more posturing beyond that; we’re too eager to get down to it to waste much time on talk. The Mantaur and I stride towards each other, and as we get ready to find out once and for all who’s stronger, he—

—grabs my tits?!

Confusion quickly turns to pain as he squeezes with all his might, and I let out a yell that’s as much annoyed as it is hurt. My boobs may be a tempting target—that tends to happen when they’re double-Ds and my bra doesn’t do much to keep them from bouncing around—but going straight for them is just plain rude.

“You dirty rotten bastard, I’ll—”

I’m halfway through swearing revenge when the Mantaur rears back and slams his head into mine. It’s usually not a great tactic, but this big lug doesn’t seem to think too much about tactics...which works out nicely for him right now, because he was expecting the blow and I wasn’t. I stumble back, still cussing him out, and he seizes the opportunity to Irish whip me into the corner.

His whole body follows me a second later, and his chest slams into mine in a tremendous collision of muscle. I grip the ropes tightly for support, but I manage not to slide down. Thank God for that; there’s no telling what he could do to me if he had me down there.

Instead, he apparently just decides to beat me into submission (or try to, anyway). Specifically, he targets my abs, sending punch after punch into them as he uses his bulk to keep me trapped in the corner.

“The Mantaur seizes the initiative with an unorthodox bit of offense,” the announcer narrates, “and he looks primed to keep it if he can keep up this level of punishment.”

“How’s it feel, bitch?!” he roars, powerful arms pistoning as he does his level best to tenderize my belly.

If I’m being honest, it hurts like a motherfucker. Being punched in the gut isn’t fun at the best of times, and it shouldn’t be too shocking that the Mantaur hits hard. Still, I know I can take what he dishes out—and there’s no reason he has to know how it really feels.

“Tickles,” I snark at him, trying not to clench my teeth. “I guess someone was jealous of this beautiful bod? Didja get worried that your flabby stomach wouldn’t measure up to my six-pack? Awwww, don’t worry. You’re not the first guy to feel a little less manly looking at me.”

The taunt works like a charm. His face twists into a mask of rage, and he stops his assault and backs up. The bull is about to charge—he wants to flatten me between his bulk and the turnbuckle, to teach me a lesson once and for all.

Sucker.

He launches into motion and covers the distance quick. A fighter caught unawares by one of his charges would have a hard time getting out of the way. But I’m ready for him...and dodging isn’t my plan.

As he gets close, I lean back suddenly against the turnbuckle, raising my legs sharply into the air—and then snap them out in a mule kick, slamming him right in the chin just as he gets up to speed.

“I felt that from all the way over here,” says the announcer with a wince, as the Mantaur reels in pain.

I’m quick to take advantage, springing off the ropes and bounding over to him in two long strides. For a second I consider doing some pummeling of my own, in revenge for his attack earlier, but I quickly decide on a different tactic. I’m gonna hit him where it really hurts: right in the ego.

So I grab his head, and with all the force I can muster…I shove his face right in between my bouncing breasts.

The audience cheers as the Mantaur screams uselessly into my cleavage. He writhes to try to get free, but I’ve got him locked in, and he only manages to shove his face even deeper into my bust. I notice with amusement that he’s still as hard as ever—but then, who wouldn’t be when they were getting up close and personal with a rack like mine?

Giggling, I shift my hips forward to grind my thong-clad pussy against his shaft. It doesn’t really have any actual use in this match, since I’m already winning a domination point with this breast smother, but a little teasing never hurt anybody.

He finally manages to wrench himself free with just a few moments to spare before I’d have racked up two more points for a KO, and stumbles away, heaving deep breaths while he tries to get his bearings back. I blow some kisses to the crowd and flex dramatically, figuring he’ll need a little bit to recover.

Figuring wrong, as it turns out. By the time I turn back to him he’s already halfway through a spear tackle and it’s long past too late to counter him. The only thing I can do is tighten up and take it as he slams into me like, well, a fuck-off huge pro wrestler charging at me at full speed. He throws me to the ground roughly and drops down onto my back, grabbing my legs and wrenching them viciously.

“A Boston Crab?” The announcer’s excitement is mixed with curiosity. “We don’t see this kind of ground game very often from the Mantaur. He must be really pissed off if he’s getting out of his comfort zone like this.”

He certainly is, and if he’s out of his comfort zone then it’s nothing compared to what I’m going through. His punches earlier were painful, but this hold is excruciating, and I bite back on a scream of agony as he puts all of his massive strength into bending my legs and back.

I’m a tough woman by anyone’s measure, but even I have my limits, and it feels like the Mantaur is about to snap me clean in half. Gritting my teeth, I tap out on the mat beneath me, and the buzzer awards him a point for a submission.

“And the Mantaur ties up the score,” the announcer observes as my opponent stands up. “Submitting the Cowgirl isn’t something you see every day, but can he—”

The commentary is interrupted by the Mantaur stomping brutally on my back, smashing me back to the mat as I struggle to rise.

“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?!” he roars. “I’m not fucking done with you, bitch!”

As I try to recover from the cheap shot, he grabs my hair and yanks me up to my hands and knees. One of his big, meaty hands delivers a stinging smack to my nearly-bare ass before grabbing my patriotic thong and yanking it down to my knees, baring my snatch to the world.

I barely have a second of warning before he plunges his dick in from behind, doggy-style, thrusting balls-deep inside me. Good thing I got myself wet with all that grinding earlier. This could have ended up being a bitch and a half to go through.

Not that it’s a walk in the park as it is. The Mantaur treats my pussy exactly as gently as you’d expect him to, gripping my hips and pounding me fiercely with thrusts so strong they nearly knock me down.

He definitely doesn’t need to know that I like it this way.

By the time he’s finally done, the pulsing pain in my legs and especially my back is starting to subside. The scoreboard shows him up 2-1 now, earning a domination point from his rough fucking, and he caps it off with a shuddering, explosive orgasm deep inside my cunt.

The Mantaur pulls himself out slowly and raises his fists in victory, before flexing and showing off for the crowd. I feel a flash of annoyance as he steals my thunder, and it escalates to genuine anger as I realize he thinks the match is over. He doesn’t seem to think I can even come back from being one point behind.

I’ll teach this arrogant motherfucker what happens when you try to write off the Cowgirl.

“Hey!” I shout, climbing to my feet. “Get your ass back over here.”

The Mantaur whips around with an almost comical look of shock on his face.

“You think you’re such a stud? Prove it,” I challenge him. “Let’s see who’s really got what it takes.” With that, I raise my arms to the starting position for a test of strength.

His face breaks into a grin like I’ve just offered him the match on a silver platter as he stomps over and locks fingers with me. “I’m gonna enjoy—”

“Shut the fuck up,” I tell him flatly, and start pushing.

He shoves back immediately, and his muscles bulge and ripple as he tries to force me back. He’s incredibly powerful, stronger than any other opponent I’ve faced, and worry flickers through my mind as I start to wonder whether I’ve finally met my match. Putting every ounce of strength I can muster into the challenge, I struggle to stand my ground.

And then I notice something interesting: his arms are starting to shake.

The Mantaur is strong, all right. But he’s not strong enough to hold me off forever. No one is.

The grin vanishes from his face at the exact same time that one appears on mine, and then I push him back a step. And then another. And another.

“Are you seeing this?!” the announcer shouts, but I’m not paying attention to him anymore. All of my focus is locked into driving the Mantaur clean into the mat. I can tell that he’s panicking as I start to literally gain the upper hand, bearing down on him from above. He pushes back with all his might, but it’s not enough.

I don’t brag to him about how much stronger I am. He knows. Actions speak louder than words.

I can feel wetness pooling between my thighs as I drive him down to his knees. Overpowering a man this way never fails to drive me wild—especially a man as powerful as the Mantaur. He looks up at me in terrified awe, and I grin down at him smugly.

Then, I knee him as hard as I can in the face.

He topples over with a groan. I’d like to say that he crashes to the ground as I finally bring down the giant, but there’s actually just a fairly unimpressive thump as he keels over backwards from a kneeling position. Whatever. I’ve still got him at my mercy. And I know exactly what I plan to do to him.

“Who’s the bitch now?” I ask, grabbing his hair and hauling him to his feet. He lets out a subdued noise in protest, but I don’t really give a shit about that right now. It’s time to send a message.

I wrap my arms around his waist in a crushing bearhug, and start squeezing with all my might. There’s a very particular reason I chose this hold, and the announcer has noticed it too: “The Cowgirl continues her spectacular dominance by attacking the Mantaur with his own finishing move!”

And even that’s not all of it. Even as I’m crushing him with my huge biceps, he’s getting hard again. Maybe it’s my tits against his chest, maybe it’s my thighs and crotch grinding against his shaft, or maybe he just secretly gets off to being dominated. Whatever the reason, it gives me a chance to step up my game even more.

Trapping his cock between my thighs, I start giving it a very different kind of squeeze.

He moans in surprised arousal, and the domination clock starts ticking. I start getting into a rhythm: squeeze and crush, squeeze and crush. It’s a powerful rush, having such a specimen of a man completely under my control.

The Mantaur’s a tough nut to crack by anyone’s measure, and he holds out against my bearhug for an impressively long time, but that just means my thighs have time to finish their work. I don’t see it with my own eyes, but I hear the crowd give a huge cheer for me and feel his cock spasming against my legs as he blows a huge load onto the mat, handing me a domination point.

“Looks like your dick gave out,” I taunt him. “Now how ‘bout the rest of ya?”

He struggles a little more—they always do when they’ve got something to prove—but he’s demoralized from being overpowered, forced to cum, and attacked with his own finisher, and he can’t take any more of the hold. He taps out on my arm with a growl of frustrated rage.

I drop him. He lands on his feet in front of me as the announcer shouts something about the Mantaur being beaten at his own game, but once again, I’m too distracted to listen. Because if looks could kill, the glare the Mantaur fixes me with would have kicked me clean through the afterlife and out the other side.

“YOU FUCKING BITCH, I’M GONNA KILL YOU!” he roars, rushing into me and raining down blows. It’s incredible that he has this much energy at all so late into a match, let alone after cumming and tapping out, but maybe he’s just so pissed off at me that it doesn’t matter that he’s tired.

“YOU THINK YOU CAN FUCK WITH ME?!” he demands as he drives me back across the ring. “I’M GONNA MAKE YOU BEG FOR WHAT I DID TO STEELE!”

Well. This isn’t exactly how I expected this to go, I muse as he drives a punch into my solar plexus. But he’s angry. Angry people make mistakes. I just have to bide my time.

Which, of course, is easier said than done when the Mantaur is beating the tar out of you.

He keeps pummeling me until he’s satisfied that I can’t fight back, then grabs me around the waist and starts climbing up the ropes. The crowd’s enthusiasm builds and builds as they realize they’re about to see a spectacular power move.

This is even more unexpected and less welcome, I think to myself. If he pulls off whatever he’s planning, that’s it for me. He’ll knock me unconscious—if not from the fall, by just stomping my lights out—and then use me like a cheap sex doll. If I want to turn this around, I’ll have to do something, and fast.

He spreads his legs wide to get a good, stable stance for his leap off the top rope, and I see my opportunity. Reaching down with a hand that he thought was limp and motionless, I grab his balls and squeeze.

He gives an almost comically high-pitched yelp of shock and pain, and flinches just long enough for me to take control of the hold, flipping around so that I’m the one who’s got him in the waistlock.

Then, flexing my muscular thighs, I launch us both off the turnbuckle in a devastating superplex!

Even the deafening roar from the audience isn’t loud enough to drown out the tremendous crash, but the announcer’s commentary does get lost in the cheers. The ring shakes hard enough to make the posts rattle in their housings as the Mantaur smashes into the canvas with incredible force.

I get up to survey my handiwork with a grin. The Mantaur is laying splayed out on the ground, spread-eagled and completely defeated. Still conscious, which is impressive as all hell, but this match is over and he knows it.

Wait, did I say “over”? My mistake.

“Tell ya what, stud,” I say, looming over him. “I really oughta make good and sure you’ve learned your lesson ‘bout how to treat a lady. But I’m in a merciful sorta mood, so I’ll give ya a chance to get out of this with a couple scraps of dignity intact.

He stares up at me dully, the arrogance and rage in his eyes completely snuffed out along with all the rest of his resistance.

“Get up,” I say simply. “Just get back to your feet. If ya manage that...I might let ya head out without a finisher. You’ll still lose, mind you. But you’ll lose with some pride.”

He tries, bless his testosterone-fueled heart. He rolls over and gets an arm under himself, trying to push himself back up. But the dense biceps that crushed so many opponents into submission aren’t even strong enough now to get him back to his knees. After a few seconds of struggling, he slumps back to the mat.

My grin gets even wider. “Too bad,” I tell him, picking him up and tossing him into the corner. “Don’t say I didn’t warn ya.” He hits the turnbuckle back-first and collapses down to a sitting position—ready for me to put the final touch on his humiliation.

“Y’ALL READY FOR ME TO BUST THIS BRONCO?!” I yell at the top of my lungs.

Cheers and shouts of “yes” answer me, but I’m already doing it even before the audience reacts. Charging forward, I leap up and grab the middle ropes for support before roughly shoving my pussy up against his mouth, grinding and pumping to my heart’s content. Pent-up and horny from the match, I’m already smearing cum across the Mantaur’s features, and it starts flowing faster and freer as I use his face more and more dominantly.

The domination timer sounds somewhere in the distance, but I ignore it completely as my snatch thrusts against his face and my ass slams heavily down on his chest again and again. It’s just like the announcer said—I’ve beaten him at his own game. Matched him strength for strength and literally came out on top. It’d be a shame not to give him a little something to remember that by, wouldn’t it?

With that incredibly arousing thought, I finally climax, letting out a long, low moan as I squirt onto his face and into his mouth. The taste of my cum is gonna take a long time to wash out—and the taste of defeat will take even longer.

The ref raising my hand is almost a formality, since whether he’s too hurt or too humiliated, the Mantaur still can’t get up. I leave him slumped down and cum-stained in the ring and stride out without a backwards glance.

Just before I duck back behind the curtains, I catch a glimpse of a petite blonde woman at ringside, standing next to the Mantaur and assessing the damage I did to him (though it’s a little harder to tell whether she’s checking on his body or his pride). She looks up at me before I leave, and suddenly Chelsea Cheer is staring daggers at me, looking me right in the eye with an expression that can only be described as murderous.

Well, she can be as angry as she wants. No matter what she does, she can’t take this win away from me. I head back to the locker rooms with an ache in my muscles, cum dripping down my thighs, and a grin a mile wide plastered across my face.
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