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Old 13-Jun-19, 00:26
urban warrior
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Default (Commission) Armstrong

(Story Contains: mixed wrestling, femdom, headscissors, bodyscissor, OCs)

Synopsis: A cocky, undefeated wrestler challenges Isa Armstrong to a match. Things don't go well for him.


--------------------

This kind of thing wasn't supposed to happen to Kenji. He had never lost a professional fight in the ring - had never lost at anything in his life! - so how was this happening? How was this no-name girl from the boondocks manhandling him as if he were a white belt?

According to the timer on Isa's phone, they were halfway into their thirty-minute-long match. The phone was leaning against a trophy on a nearby shelf, its screen facing the action, allowing both fighters to glance up at the clock whenever they pleased.

Down on the wrestling mat, Isa seized Kenji by his blonde hair and wedged his head, neck and arm between her thighs - again - securing yet another figure-four headscissor. Her pelvis supported the base of his skull, like a headboard wrought from muscle and bone, and her calf bulged and hardened beneath his jaw, driving out a hoarse wheeze as it compressed his windpipe.

"Got you again," she said. "So what's your record now - sixteen and five? I honestly don't know, I stopped keeping track a while ago."

"This match doesn't count!" he whined. "My record is still perfect!"

"The only thing perfect about you is your jawline. I'm not usually into pretty boys, but then, I've never met a guy who didn't look good sandwiched between these beauties." Teasingly, she ran a tan finger from her hip to her knee, tracing the lean ridges of muscle that laced her quadricep.

They really were "beauties," those quads, as were the rest of her luscious features. In fact, Kenji had only accepted Isa's challenge because of her Hollywood-starlet looks. Except for the chance to grope her flat belly, her tight ass, her thick, firm thighs, he had nothing to gain from challenging a fighter with such a mediocre record.

Kenji loved to dominate his opponents, especially the female ones, whom he enjoyed humbling with camel clutches and boston crabs, backbreakers and grounded octopus stretches. Such were his favorite holds - the kind that not only tortured his opponents, but shamed them, putting their contorted, scantily clad bodies on display for a stadium packed with greedy, flesh-devouring eyeballs.

His own eyeballs were greedy as well, which is why, during private matches, he liked to dominate women here in his trophy room. The biggest room in his house, it was rife with reflective surfaces, the largest being a mirror that spanned the full length of one wall, like the kind found in gymnasiums or dance studios.

But now the mirror and polished belts and trophies had turned against him; they forced him to watch his own body writhe within Isa's adamantine grip.

He looked like an absolute mess. An emasculating shade of pink had claimed his boyish face, and several creases marred his normally baby-smooth forehead and cheeks. He couldn't help but dwell on the wrinkles she had forced upon his skin. He hoped they wouldn't become permanent. If he lost even a hint of his pretty-boy looks, what would become of his endorsements? His sponsorships?

With one arm trapped alongside his throat, pinned to a constricted jugular vein, the most he could do was tug at Isa's shin with his free hand. It was like trying to bend a bar on a steel cage.

His efforts brought a smile to her full lips. Leering down at Kenji, she snagged his trapped arm at the wrist and stuffed it into her armpit. Then, with her own arm looped around his and her hands joined in a palm-to-palm grip, she rolled to her side, toward the mirror, and arched her body as she went on starving his brain of oxygen.

"We make a cute couple," she said, ogling herself and her prey in the mirror. "Me with my thick thighs and you with your scrawny neck. Just imagine how good we'll look together in the ring, when I choke you out in front of all your little fan girls."

The thought alone made Kenji's skin crawl. He could hardly imagine the scene: he, the unbeatable Kenji Johnson, throttled in degrading fashion while his legions of adoring fans looked on in disappointment. His career would never recover from such a blow.

Despite his efforts to hold it in, a fit of coughs escaped him in rapid succession, each weaker and softer than the one before. Veins sprang to life across his forehead, bluish-green beneath reddened skin, their slender bodies writhing in place like tortured eels.

His neck muscles writhed as well, their every twitch and spasm a treat for Isa to feast on. Kenji watched her face change in the mirror: the lips parting into a sensual O, the eyelashes fluttering, the cheeks filling up with a rich redness, barely noticeable against her tan skin. Moving slowly enough to savor this moment, this feeling, she seized her own ankle and nestled it deeper in the hollow of her knee, her breath quickening as her legs coiled all the tighter.

Somehow, even in the throes of her own dominance, she managed to look... vulnerable? The range of emotions that had animated her face reprised themselves within her body. Kenji spied them, or at least their silhouettes, in the steady rise and fall of her chest, and in the way her hips rolled every time she adjusted her position.

Still gazing into the mirror, she caught his glassy-eyed reflection staring at her face. Not her hips or breasts or thighs - those usual targets of male attention - but her face, her mouth, even her eyes. Raw contempt flashed across her countenance.

"The hell are you looking at?"

Kenji failed to answer, his lips flapping in slow motion as he struggled to draw a single breath - let alone speak. Glaring now, Isa decided to really put the clamps on him.

Rolling face down, she deepened the arch in her spine and drove her hips toward the floor, using her pelvic bone to grind his nose and mouth into the mat, smothering his breath. At the same time, her fibrous quads inched even closer together. Kenji felt they might touch at any moment, might slam all the way shut to rend his neck and arm.

"That's it, you're done," he heard her say, voice sounding far off as his consciousness waned. "Don't be a hero. Just tap out."

He refused to give her the satisfaction.

"Don't play games with me," she warned. "I'm being patient with you as it is."

Her fingers coiled as tightly as her legs, gripping and tugging at his hair, the way he secretly wished all his one-night-stands would. His girlfriends, in addition to coming in every flavor of groupie and gold-digger imaginable, were also timid women, subs, the kind of old-fashioned girls who wanted to be held down and ravished by a big, strong man.

Kenji never shied away from this dominant role, whether in the bedroom or the ring. But in the back of his mind, as he took the girls as hard and fast as they expected him to, he often wondered how it might feel to switch places with them. To be taken. To receive instead of always giving.

Thanks to Isa, he finally knew.

So far, he had mixed feelings about the experience.

"Don't even think about passing out on me," she said. "If you do, don't be surprised if you wake up in the most brutal, most demeaning submission hold I can imagine. And trust me, you do not want to test my imagination."

Or did he?

Every pain receptor above his shoulders cried out for him to submit, but instead he pushed himself into a turtle position with his free arm, his legs folded beneath him now, back rounded, nylon-clad backside raised in humiliating fashion for an audience he was grateful didn't exist. All the while, his nose and mouth remained pinned to the mat.

Face down, ass up: a pose he associated with the easy girls that warmed his bed most weekend nights. Not exactly the most flattering position for a Brazilian jiu jitsu black belt to find himself in.

Still, he wasn't ready to submit just yet. Unlike the previous falls, he was happy to go on fighting until he passed out.

Isa, however, refused to accept such an outcome. She didn't want to KO him. She could do that whenever and however she liked, and by now, after scoring the first six falls in rapid succession, she knew it without a shadow of a doubt. But she wanted him to know it. Wanted him to swallow his pride and admit that a no-name grappler had come into his home - and worse, his trophy room, the place where he'd enshrined the evidence of his greatness - and utterly dominated him.

She had wanted to do it in the ring, but he denied her on the grounds that she hadn't earned the right to face him on a grander stage. Which, in all fairness, was true enough.

Still, fair or not, his refusal had irked Isa.

"Well now I can't just beat you, can I," she had said after he rejected her proposal. "Now I have to hurt you."

She hadn't done so just yet. But she was getting close.

Before he blacked out, Isa freed his neck and then took her time sliding into position on his back, well aware that he was too fatigued - both physically and mentally - to stop her. She held onto his hair throughout the lazy transition, not pulling the way he liked, but driving her palm into his skull, keeping his face pinned to the mat.

Then she slapped on a figure-four bodylock and squeezed, her quads clamping around his trunk like the jaws of a sprung bear trap. A burst of pain made Kenji jerk into an upright position. His knees splayed for balance, his haunches weighed painfully on two upturned heels.

Isa remained glued to his back, vertical now, her fingers still tangled up in his hair, legs still binding his middle like a tortuously snug straightjacket. Kenji's belly sucked inward under the pressure, like that of a bodybuilder performing a vacuum pose. Immediately, he seized her shin with his right hand while the left hovered near her hip, open and flirting with the prospect of tapping out.

His pride ached more than his ribs, his spine - which was saying a lot.

"Nobody likes a tease," said Isa, just before giving his hair a sharp tug that sent them both toppling backwards.

He tapped out during the fall.

She felt it, sighed with pleasure, continued squeezing.

They hit the mat together in a tangle of sweaty limbs and heated emotions. Without missing a beat, Isa wrapped an arm around Kenji's face, wedging his mouth into the bend of her elbow. He inhaled sweat fumes instead of air. Then she seized her own bicep with one hand and his hair with the other, pulling it again, limbs flexing to crunch his skull between her bicep and forearm.

Now, unlike during his time spent in the original chokehold, Kenji was wide awake. He could feel Isa crunching his skull, cranking his neck out of alignment, but the headlock, he knew, was only meant to hold him still. His rib cage was her true target.

"Ssttmmpphh!" he bellowed into the crook of her elbow, earning a head-shake and a firmer crunch from his tormentor.

"That's two," she said, grunting, panting, smiling. "One more and I'll set you free. Maybe..."

Kenji groaned in protest.

"Don't try to back out now. You agreed to do this my way; the least you can do is see it through to the end."

True - he had foolishly allowed Isa to set the terms of the match. The rules were simple: they were to wrestle nonstop for thirty minutes, and whoever scored the most subs within that timeframe would be declared the winner. Also, both fighters were allowed to maintain the same hold for three consecutive tap outs, before disengaging and starting again in the referee position.

That last caveat had sealed Kenji's fate. He hadn't expected Isa to score a single sub, but once she got the first one, two more followed in slow, grinding succession. She had used his own pride against him. Knowing he would fight his hardest to escape each sub, she managed to stretch one scissorhold into three, to extend a single minute of punishment into almost nine. And in doing so, she had secured the momentum of the entire match.

A clever strategy. Kenji never stood a chance; he was beaten the second he agreed to fight Isa's fight.

He tapped out once more for her, this time on her outer thigh. She quickly slid out from beneath him.

"Get up," she demanded, kneeling above him. "Hurry, or you'll run out of time before you can mount a comeback."

Panting, Kenji grinned ruefully up at his tormentor. "Fuck you."

"So you're forfeiting then? What a shame. I always knew you were a loser, but a quitter...?" She let the words hang in the air.

Grumbling, Kenji tottered up to his hands and knees, assuming the submissive end of the referee position. Isa slid into place behind him. She wrapped an arm around his trunk, her open palm coming to rest on his belly, and then seized his near elbow with her free hand.

"We've got just enough time for one more ride," she said, breath warm on the side of his face. Then she nestled her cheek between his shoulder blades and said, "Ready?"

"No," he admitted - and then Isa gave his elbow a sharp yank. His arm swung out from under him. She shoved his face into the mat and cinched in a double chicken-wing, controlling his arms, then rolled him face up, snaked both legs around his head and used a figure-four to pin his nose against her backside.

Kenji snorted into the sweaty trunks pressed to his face, not to mention the rock-hard glutes beneath them. Like so much putty in a mold, his cheeks and throat warped between Isa's quads, their shapes changing to accommodate every invasive band of thigh muscle.

He immediately wanted to submit but couldn't, not with his mouth covered and his arms pinioned behind his back. Isa looked over her shoulder to watch him pale and wilt between her thighs, against her backside. To get a better view, she arched her body and raised her hips, lifting his head in triumph like a fisherman reveling in a fresh catch.

With no way to escape or even submit, all Kenji could do was lie still and take his punishment. Feeling him go slack in her grip, Isa parted her thighs, seized him by the hair again, and wedged his nose deeper between the orbs of her backside. Then she extended both legs and crossed her ankles, trading the figure-four for a straight-legged headscissor.

Kenji instantly blacked out, then woke up just as quickly to find himself face up on the mat with his legs splayed in a mortifying banana split. As promised, Isa intended to punish him for fainting with the most brutal, most demeaning hold she could imagine.

"We still have some time left on the clock," she said. "You aren't going to break this hold. But if you can last until the timer goes off, you'll have earned my respect."

Not much of a consolation prize, but he'd take it. In fact, he was already mentally preparing himself for their inevitable rematch. He had wholly underestimated her this time, a mistake he vowed to never make again.

With her arms hugging his left thigh, her legs triangled around his right, Isa straightened her back and drove her hips skyward, grimacing from the effort it took to stretch Kenji's legs into a wide V.

Kenji grimaced as well, and panted and moaned in pain. A wildfire broke out within his groin muscles. Reflexively, he sat forward and reached down the plane of his own trunk, toward the splayed V, as if he meant to beat down the flames with both open palms.

However, in truth, he was only trying to cover up his exposed crotch, his tented trunks, his shame.

"Seriously?!" she growled. "That's what you're worried about? Here then, let me help with that."

With a buck and a roll and a monstrous show of force, Isa flipped from her back to her stomach, so that both she and Kenji ended up face down on the mat. Immediately, Kenji palmed the mat with both hands and tried to extend his arms, to push himself into a kind of push-up position, maybe even crawl away.

He didn't get far.

With the banana-split still firmly in place, Isa bridged all over again. She flattened Kenji's splayed crotch against the mat, even as her arms and legs wrenched his knees skyward. Kenji screamed into the knuckle of his glove - but resisted the urge to tap.

His flexibility surprised her.

Hell, it surprised him too.

Somehow, despite the ass-kicking he had been taking all night, he managed to muster enough bravado for a cocky yet broken, "Is that... all you got...?"

No, in fact, it wasn't. By now he really should have known better.

While still bridging and stretching him wide, Isa flexed her hamstrings to crush the thigh ensnared between her own. On his right leg, he lost all sensation from hip to knee. The loss of feeling made him panic, and the panic only intensified the wildfire that was steadily burning away within his groin muscles, his hip flexors.

At long last, he found the inner fortitude to discard whatever remained of his cheap, damaged pride. He gave up all three tap outs at once. But just before he swatted her hip for the third submission, the buzzer sounded. Thank Christ. He exhaled with relief the second Isa let him go.

Well, she let go of his legs anyway.

She gave his ass a congratulatory smack, then flipped him face up, straddled his waist and seized his wrists to pin them to the mat.

"You did alright there... towards the end..." she said, her voice lovely as she spoke between heavy pants. "I'm impressed."

"Me too," said Kenji. "With you, I mean." The sincerity in his tone made Isa smile demurely and turn away, embarrassed by such earnest flattery. She pretended to brush an errant strand of hair from her face - a cheap stall tactic, and one that Kenji easily saw through.

He found the gesture cute.

"Ughhh. Why do you have to be so damn adorable?" Sitting up on his chest, she crossed her arms beneath her bust and pouted. "See my phone up there on that shelf? It's recording, dummy. Has been the whole time. I'm shocked you didn't notice and call me out for it."

Waves of ice water crashed through Kenji's veins. This was bad. If footage of this match ever reached the public, he would be ruined. His reputation, his fame, his career - and all the endorsements and sponsorships that came with it. They would all go up in smoke over night.

"Wait," he said in a sudden panic. "You can't... can't just..."

He searched her expression for signs of pity or remorse, and in doing so, he realized how pathetic he sounded. He was supposed to be a fighter, after all, not some powdered celebrity. When had he forgotten that? When had he gotten so soft?

"You can't upload that video," he said sternly. "Let me. I'll post it myself, on all my social media accounts."

Isa's face lit up with the best kind of surprise, like a kid on Christmas after she unwraps the perfect gift. "You can drop the tough guy act. I know you're about three seconds away from pissing yourself right now."

"I'm serious," said Kenji. "Give me the video so I can post it. I want everyone out there to see me at my worst. And, frankly, I want them to see you at your best. I want -"

She pressed a finger over his lips, hushing him. "Don't make a decision like that now, while you're staring up at the pretty girl who just owned your sorry ass. Your emotions are still running wild. Take some time, let your head clear."

Kenji nodded at her, smiled. "I never said you were pretty."

"Not out loud, no." She smiled back. "Tell you what: let's do this again in a few months. After I kick your ass a second time, if you still feel like posting the video, then post it. I won't try to stop you."

"You won't be able to," he said. "Not with my legs wrapped around your neck."

She rolled her eyes. "I really hope you learned a lesson from all this."

"Then it's a date." Still on his back, Kenji reached up for an awkward handshake.

Isa rolled her eyes again, ignoring it. "Men," she said dismissively. Then she inclined her head, pecked him on the cheek. He couldn't tell whether the kiss was platonic or not.

"You said it was a date, right?" she said plainly. Then she stood up, grabbed her phone and her things and shoved them into a gym bag. Kenji offered to let her use his shower before she left, but she declined with an impish grin. Their date hadn't begun just yet, she reminded him.
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bodyscissors, femdom, headscissors, mixed wrestling fiction, scissorhold

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