Isabel sat on a chair in the locker room waiting to be called. The room was surprisingly clean, a stark contrast to the rest of the warehouse they had taken her to. Isabel stood up and began to pace nervously around the room, her gaze stopping at her reflection in the mirror and thinking about how she was dressed and what she was about to do, for the umpteenth time she wondered how she had ended up in this situation
"Because you are poor as shit" a little voice in her mind answered.
And it was true. At 21 years old Isabel had no money and no support. Her family had disowned her because she had refused to marry a man of their choosing, they had kicked her out of their home and cut off her college funding. She had managed to find a job as a waitress; but the money was too little to allow her to live alone and pay for her studies.
When Isabel had talked about her situation with her classmates, one of them had told her that maybe there was a way to raise a nice sum of money in a short time and put her in touch with a man named Albert.
Albert, who looked like a typical butler of a movie, politely questioned her about her situation and her life. He asked her with a certain insistence if she had experience with martial arts or had ever fought in a fight. A question that had almost made Isabel laugh. She explained to Albert that she came from an extremely traditionalist and religious family that would never have allowed her to end up in certain situations or practice certain activities. Satisfied with the answers, Albert explained to her what she would have to do in exchange for the money. Isabel was shocked by the proposal; but she knew that, at that moment, it was the only way not to give up on her dreams.
There was a knock on the door, a voice telling her it was her turn. Isabel left the locker room and headed into the main hall of the warehouse.
The crowd roared with excitement as she entered, a deafening sound that almost paralyzed Isabel. The noise of the crowd was drowned out by the voice of the announcer.
"First contender: standing at five feet six inches tall and weighing 140 pounds, she is Isabel!"
Isabel walked through the crowd, aware of the effect she had on them. She knew she was a very beautiful girl, she had a curvy, hourglass figure, with full breasts and a firm ass. Her olive skin was smooth, her facial features were soft and delicate, framed by long, softly wavy dark hair. Her Latin femininity was enhanced by the only two items of clothing she wore: a matching red babydoll and thong.
As she was entering the cage, Isabel scanned the audience: there were at least two hundred people around the cage, Isabel had not expected such a diverse crowd: she saw people of all ages and social backgrounds. And above all she had not expected there would be so many women: almost a third of the audience. Enthusiastic and thirsty for action as much as the men.
The announcer's voice boomed in the air again. "Standing at five feet nine inches and a weighing 132 pounds, from Great Britain: she is Lady Daphne!"
Her opponent, Lady Daphne, sauntered in with a smirk, her icy blue eyes scanning the room as if she owned it. A stark contrast to Isabel, Daphne was an ethereal beauty, with a tall, slender, and graceful physique. Her porcelain-like complexion was almost glowing in the dimly lit warehouse. She had blonde, straight hair cascading down her back, her toned body showcased in a blue babydoll and matching thong.
The 38-year-old English noblewoman was a veteran of underground catfights; but few outside the league knew that the very wealthy noblewoman was actually one of the Underground Catfight League sponsors: she provided financial and logistical support to the league and in return she could use the shows to indulge her hobby.
Her recruiters (and Albert was one of them) found her young, attractive, desperate and inexperienced opponents, whom she enjoyed defeating and humiliating in public. Lady Daphne enjoyed seeing women so hopeless as to agree to fight her in public and she loved hearing their pleas as she subdued them, breaking their spirit.
Once, she had happened to meet one of her opponents, the young woman had looked away in front of her, while her eyes watered remembering the humiliation she suffered. Even years later the memory of that fleeting encounter still gave Daphne a shiver of pleasure.
The referee, a tall and muscular woman with a buzz cut and tattoos snaking up her arms, called them both to the center of the cage. Her steely gaze was the only thing that could command the attention of the rowdy crowd as she went over the rules. No biting, no eye-gouging, and the fight was to be stopped when one of them surrendered or could no longer stand. Isabel nodded, her eyes locked on Lady Daphne's, refusing to show fear. Lady Daphne simply smirked, her eyes glinting with amusement as she took her position across from the younger fighter.
As the bell clanged to signal the start of the match, Isabel advanced cautiously with her hands raised in guard, an awkward imitation of a professional boxer. She threw a wild and clumsy punch, aiming for Daphne's perfect nose, but the Englishwoman's experience shone through. Daphne effortlessly sidestepped the blow, her movements as fluid as a dancer's. The crowd's roar turned into a collective gasp as Isabel's fist swiped through the air, leaving her off balance.
The second and third strikes from Isabel were met with similar grace. Daphne's arms moved like a blur as she blocked and parried each one, her smirk never wavering. The elegant blonde's confidence was palpable, and it only served to fuel Isabel's rage. She tried throwing a middle kick, a slow and predictable blow that Lady Daphne blocked with a chuckle, catching Isabel's leg mid-air. The crowd's excitement grew as they watched the power dynamics play out before them, the seasoned fighter toying with the newcomer.
With a swift twist, Daphne yanked Isabel's leg out from under her, sending her crashing to the mat with a thud. The impact was jarring, but Isabel's instincts kicked in, and she rolled away from her opponent's grasp. The crowd roared, their bets hanging in the balance. Lady Daphne straightened up, her posture flawless, and gestured to Isabel with a flourish of her hand. It was clear she wanted the young woman to get up and attack again, to provide more entertainment for her twisted amusement.
Ignoring the pain radiating from her bruised tailbone, Isabel pushed herself to her feet, her eyes burning with determination. She charged at Daphne, her fists balled up in front of her, but the Englishwoman's reflexes were lightning quick. She stepped aside, letting Isabel's momentum carry her forward, and before the Latina could recover her balance, Daphne's hand shot out and slapped her across the face. The sound reverberated through the warehouse, a stark reminder of the power she wielded.
The crowd roared with a mix of shock and excitement as Lady Daphne began to rain slaps down upon Isabel. Each one landed with a sharp crack, leaving a pink handprint on her olive skin. The sting of the slaps brought tears to Isabel's eyes, but she refused to go down. Instead, she clenched her teeth and took it, her body tensing with each hit, waiting for the moment to strike back.
The slaps grew in speed and intensity, and Isabel stumbled backward, trying to cover her face with her arms. The crowd's jeers grew louder as they watched her desperate attempts to protect herself. But through the pain, Isabel understood the twisted game Lady Daphne was playing. It wasn't about knocking her out; it was about breaking her spirit. Daphne's blows were calculated, aimed not to harm but to humiliate.
Her cheeks burning and her pride stinging, Isabel's eyes narrowed. She knew that to win, she had to get past the slaps, had to show Lady Daphne she couldn't be broken. She dropped her guard slightly, baiting Daphne into throwing another slap. As the Englishwoman's hand shot forward, Isabel ducked, letting it whistle past her ear, and drove her fist into Daphne's stomach. The crowd's laughter turned to gasps as the air whooshed out of Daphne's lungs.
The blonde stumbled back, her smile faltering for the first time. The crowd's energy shifted, now unsure of who to cheer for. Isabel took advantage of the momentary lull in Daphne's attack and struck again, her fist connecting with the side of the woman's head. Lady Daphne's smile grew wider, though this time, it was tinged with a hint of surprise. "You do have some spirit," she murmured, her voice thick with the thrill of the fight. Her eyes danced with excitement as she stepped back into a defensive stance, her hands up to protect herself. The crowd leaned in, hungry for the underdog's victory. The smirk on Lady Daphne's face grew into a full-blown smile, her eyes gleaming with a mix of amusement and sadistic pleasure. "Oh, this is going to be fun," she murmured, the sound barely carrying over the roar of the audience.
Isabel's heart pounded in her chest as she studied her opponent, waiting for an opening. She knew she had to be smart; brute force alone wouldn't win this fight. The Englishwoman was a predator, waiting for her to make the first mistake. With a sudden burst of speed, Isabel charged at Daphne, her arms outstretched to grab hold of her. But Lady Daphne was ready. She sidestepped with ease, her movements as smooth as a serpent's, and her hand shot out to slap Isabel's face once more.
Isabel's head snapped to the side, the sting of the slap fueling her rage. But she didn't let it slow her down. Instead, she used the momentum to pivot and swipe at Daphne's legs. The crowd's cheers grew as the two women danced around the cage, each trying to outwit the other. Then, Daphne's knee shot up like a coiled spring, catching Isabel in the stomach. The air left her lungs in a painful whoosh, and she doubled over, gasping for breath.
With a cruel grin, Lady Daphne grabbed Isabel's hair, yanking her head back. She locked her arm around Isabel's neck, securing a front headlock that left the younger woman's butt exposed to the rabid audience. The crowd's cheers grew wilder as they sensed the shift in power, their money leaning heavily towards the elegant blonde. Daphne tightened her grip, her bicep bulging as she controlled Isabel's movements. As the younger woman struggled to free herself, Daphne decided i was time to get dirty. After all, she thought, the people wanted to see a catfight, not an MMA fight.
Her left hand reached down and hooked into the waistband of Isabel's black thong. With a malicious twist of her wrist, she pulled up hard, giving her a wedgie that made the fabric dig painfully into her skin. The sudden discomfort made Isabel yelp, her body jerking in an attempt to escape the humiliating grip. The crowd's laughter grew louder, their lewd comments piercing the air. Daphne felt a thrill of power surge through her as she watched Isabel squirm, her pride and dignity slipping away with each painful pull of the fabric.
Isabel's face contorted with pain and anger, but she remained on her toes, her movements erratic as she tried to dislodge the wedgie without giving Daphne the satisfaction of seeing her break.
Lady Daphne's eyes gleamed with sadistic pleasure as she watched Isabel's futile attempts to ease the pain. Her grip on Isabel's hair tightened, the younger woman's squirms only adding to the entertainment value. "Dance for me, little peasant," she taunted, her voice dripping with condescension.
The crowd was in a frenzy, their chants and catcalls mixing into a cacophony of sound that seemed to urge Lady Daphne on. With a sudden, vicious yank, she gave the wedgie a powerful pull that lifted Isabel off her feet. The fabric of the thong stretched taut, a stark black line against Isabel's pale skin, before finally giving way with a loud rip. The sound echoed through the warehouse like a gunshot, silencing the rabble for a split second before the crowd erupted into a roar of laughter and applause.
Isabel's face burned with humiliation as she crashed to the mat, her buttocks fully exposed to the leering audience. She scrambled to the nearest corner, her hands desperately trying to cover herself. Her eyes searched the crowd for a shred of dignity, but all she found were leering faces and outstretched phones, eagerly capturing every moment of her degradation.
Meanwhile, Lady Daphne held up the tattered remnants of Isabel's thong like a trophy. "Look at what happens when you can't afford quality, darlings," she shouted to the crowd, her voice dripping with fake sympathy. The crowd's laughter grew more raucous as she twirled the shredded fabric around her finger, her smile wide and smug. She tossed the panties into the stands, where they were caught by a grinning man who held them up like a prize, the elastic snapping back like a rubber band.
But Isabel's humiliation had reached its peak. A primal roar of fury erupted from her chest, and she charged at Lady Daphne like a bull in a China shop, her eyes a blazing inferno of anger and determination. The Englishwoman's smug grin faltered for a brief moment, her surprise palpable as she realized she might have underestimated her opponent.
Daphne tried to dodge, but Isabel's rage-fueled tackle was too fast, too powerful. They collided with a bone-jarring thud, and both women tumbled to the ground. The crowd's laughter morphed into shocked gasps as they saw the tide of the fight begin to turn. On the mat floor, Isabel straddled Lady Daphne, her bare breasts pressing against the blonde's toned stomach. With a snarl, she grabbed Daphne's wrists, pinning them above her head.
Confusion clouded Isabel's mind as she knelt on the woman who had so casually degraded her. Her heart hammered in her chest, adrenaline pumping through her veins like liquid fire. She had never been in a fight before, much less one like this. The only thing that kept her going was the burning need to make Lady Daphne feel a fraction of the humiliation she had just endured. Her eyes searched Daphne's, looking for fear, for a sign that she had broken the elegant façade. But Daphne's smile only grew wider, her eyes gleaming with excitement. She could see the rage in Isabel's gaze, the desperation to win back her dignity. "What do you want to do now, my dear?" she purred, her voice a taunt. "You've got me right where you want me. Will you be the cat or the mouse?"
The crowd held its collective breath, the tension in the air so thick it could be cut with a knife. Isabel's eyes searched Daphne's, looking for any sign of weakness, any crack in the noblewoman's armor. But all she saw was a cold, calculating gaze that told her she had a lot to learn about the world of underground fighting. "Yield," Isabel grunted through gritted teeth, the word sounding more like a plea than an order.
But Lady Daphne had no intention of letting her opponent off so easily. Her laughter grew louder, the sound echoing through the warehouse like a taunt. With a sudden twist of her hips, she managed to flip Isabel over, reversing their positions. Now, it was Daphne straddling the younger woman, her thighs squeezing Isabel's waist tightly. The crowd's cheers grew to a fever pitch as they watched the blonde climb on top of her opponent, her blue babydoll riding up to reveal the muscles in her thighs.
"Is that what you call a catfight?" Lady Daphne sneered, her voice dripping with disdain. With a swift movement, she reached down and tore open Isabel's red babydoll, exposing her full breasts to the eager eyes of the onlookers. The fabric ripped easily under her nails, revealing the large, round mounds that bounced slightly as she moved. The crowd's excitement grew to a crescendo, their shouts and whistles piercing the air.
"This," Daphne said, her voice low and menacing, "is what a real catfight looks like." She leaned forward, her blue babydoll riding up even further, and dug her nails into Isabel's breasts. The sharpness of the pain made Isabel's eyes widen, and she let out a guttural scream. Daphne's nails sank deep into the tender flesh, her grip like a vice. She began to squeeze, her eyes never leaving Isabel's, watching the pain and horror play out on her face.
Isabel's hands shot up to protect herself, but Daphne was too quick. With a twist of her wrists, she pinned them above her head, her nails digging deeper. The crowd's cheers grew wilder, their excitement feeding Daphne's sadistic nature. She began to knead Isabel's breasts like dough, her cruel touch leaving red marks and trails of blood. The Latina's breath came in ragged gasps as she tried to find some semblance of control over her body, over the pain that threatened to consume her.
Daphne leaned down, her full breasts pressing against Isabel's sweat-slicked chest, and whispered into her ear. "You're nothing but a desperate whore, aren't you?" she hissed. "You're here because you think you can win. But all you're going to do is entertain me and these good people." Her voice was like a serpent, smooth and cold, sending shivers down Isabel's spine.
Isabel's eyes widened with a mix of pain and fury. She couldn't believe what she was hearing, but she knew she had to stay focused. With a mighty heave, she arched her back and bucked her hips, trying to dislodge the woman on top of her. Lady Daphne's eyes lit up with excitement, her grip tightening around Isabel's wrists as she leaned back, using her body weight to keep her opponent pinned down.
With a vicious twist of her wrists, Daphne pulled at Isabel's nipples, stretching them to their limits. Isabel's screams grew louder, the sound a symphony of pain and outrage. Daphne's smirk deepened as she watched the agony play out on the younger woman's face. "Scream for me," she whispered, her voice a dark caress. "Let them all hear how much you hate this, how much you hate losing."
But Isabel had had enough. With a surge of strength fueled by her burning desire to win, she reached up and grabbed a fistful of Daphne's blonde hair. The Englishwoman's eyes went wide with shock, and she yelped in surprise as Isabel gave a violent yank, pulling her head back and unseating her from her dominating position. The crowd's roar grew louder, their excitement reaching a fever pitch as they watched the underdog fight back.
Daphne's nails released their grip on Isabel's breasts, and she stumbled backward, her legs slipping in the sweat that coated the mat. Isabel didn't waste a moment. She scrambled to her feet, the crowd's cheers echoing in her ears like a battle cry. As Daphne tried to recover, Isabel lunged at her, her hands balled into fists.
But Lady Daphne was a seasoned fighter, her reflexes honed to perfection by years of sadistic amusement. She barely avoided Isabel's swinging fist, the wind from the blow fanning her hair. With a swiftness that belied her age, Daphne shot her hand out and wrapped it around a handful of Isabel's dark locks. The crowd's excitement grew as they watched the blonde use the grip to pull the younger woman towards the cage mesh.
With a wicked smirk, Daphne slammed Isabel's forehead into the unforgiving steel mesh, the impact leaving a red imprint behind. The sound was sickening, and the crowd's cheers grew even louder. Isabel's eyes rolled back in her head for a moment, stars dancing before her vision. The pain was intense, but she clung to consciousness, refusing to give Daphne the satisfaction of knocking her out cold.
Daphne didn't let up, her hand still wrapped in Isabel's hair as she pulled back and slammed her forehead into the cage again. The metal bars rattled with the force, and Isabel's knees buckled. But she remained standing, her body held upright by Daphne's iron grip. The Englishwoman's smile grew wider with each blow, the crowd's energy feeding her sadistic nature. She could feel the power surging through her, the thrill of dominating her opponent so palpable it was almost intoxicating.
The crowd's cheers grew wilder as Daphne slammed Isabel's head against the mesh over and over, each impact leaving a crimson blossom on the metal. The noise was deafening, a symphony of bloodlust and excitement that filled the air. Isabel's eyes watered, and her vision swam with each hit, but she didn't go down. Her teeth were clenched, her jaw set in a grimace of pain, but she held on, her mind racing for a way to turn the tide of the battle.
The metal mesh pressed into Isabel’s breasts, the sharp edges digging painfully into her sensitive flesh. She could feel the bruises forming, the pain a constant, throbbing reminder of her opponent's dominance. Her breath came in ragged gasps as she tried to keep her balance, her body pushed against the unyielding cage by Daphne's relentless strength. The blonde's grip on her hair was like a vice, pulling her back for each brutal slam into the steel.
As Isabel's breasts bulged through the mesh, the leering men in the audience grew bolder. Hands reached out, eager to touch the young fighter's exposed flesh. Their fingers groped and squeezed, adding to the pain and humiliation. Isabel felt their touch like a violation, a stain on her soul that no amount of money could ever wash away. Yet she remained standing, refusing to let them see her fall.
The abuse fueled a fire deep within her, a rage that grew hotter with each sickening thud of her forehead against the steel. It was a rage born of desperation and a fierce need to protect what little dignity she had left. And with that rage, she found her strength. Isabel pushed back against the cage with all her might, her breasts smearing against the cold mesh as she swung her arm back. The crowd's lecherous hands retreated as she cocked her elbow, a look of pure fury etched into her features. The Englishwoman's grip on her hair didn't loosen, but Isabel was beyond caring about the pain. In a swift, brutal motion, she swung her elbow back and up, catching Lady Daphne's temple with a crack that was heard even over the cacophony of the crowd.
The blow dazed Daphne for a brief moment, the shock of the hit momentarily blurring her vision. It was enough. With a roar of rage, Isabel pulled herself free from the cage and spun around, her hair a tangled mess around her face. The sudden release from the cage's embrace made Daphne stumble backward, her grip on Isabel's hair lost in the chaos. The crowd's cheers grew louder, the atmosphere in the warehouse now electric with the scent of a real fight.
Seizing the opportunity, Isabel lunged forward, her legs wrapping around Daphne's waist like a python. The Englishwoman's eyes widened in surprise, but she had no time to react as Isabel's powerful thighs crushed her midsection, driving the air from her lungs. With a grunt, Isabel slammed Daphne to the mat, her body weight pinning her down. The crowd's roars grew to a crescendo as the tables turned, the tide of the battle visibly shifting. Ignoring the pain in her own chest, Isabel reached and grabbed Daphne's firm, toned breasts, her hands closing into a vice-like grip. The blonde's eyes narrowed; the smug look of amusement replaced with a snarl of anger. But Daphne was not one to go down without a fight. She bucked her hips, trying to dislodge the younger woman, but Isabel's legs remained wrapped around her like steel bars.
With a growl, Isabel squeezed Daphne's breasts even harder, her nails digging into the flesh until they broke the skin. The crowd's cheers grew more intense as blood began to well up around her fingers, the metallic scent of it mixing with the coppery tang of sweat. Lady Daphne's eyes widened in shock and pain, her own sadistic grin fading as she realized the tables had turned.
Isabel's teeth clenched as she kneaded Daphne's breasts with a fierce intensity, her eyes never leaving her opponent's face. She could feel the power flowing through her as the crowd's roar grew more frenzied with every twist and squeeze. The blonde's face contorted, a snarl of rage and agony that only served to fuel Isabel's determination to win. But despite her desperation to cause pain, Isabel's mind was racing. She knew she had to find a way to end this, to make Lady Daphne understand that she wouldn't be toyed with. The Englishwoman's smug smile had been etched into her mind, a constant reminder of the humiliation she'd endured. With each squeeze, she hoped to wipe that smug expression away.
Daphne, however, remained eerily calm. Despite the pain, her mind raced with strategies, searching for a way to turn the tide of the fight back in her favor. She had underestimated Isabel's raw strength, her unbridled passion. But she knew that Isabel was acting purely on instinct, with no real fighting technique to back her up. It was a dangerous combination, but it was also a weakness that Daphne intended to exploit.
The crowd's chant grew more frenetic as the two fighters rolled around on the ground, their naked flesh sliding against each other. The mat was slick with sweat and blood, their limbs entangled in a dance of pain and anger. Isabel's grip on Daphne's breasts never faltered, her teeth clenched as she dug her nails into the soft flesh. But Lady Daphne had her own weapon: her nails. With a sudden, vicious movement, Daphne raked her nails across Isabel's inner thighs, leaving a trail of crimson behind her. The pain was searing, a stark contrast to the pressure on her chest. Isabel's grip on Daphne's breasts loosened, her eyes widening in shock and agony. The crowd's roar grew wilder, the sight of blood only serving to inflame their desire for a brutal end to the fight.
The sudden pain brought Isabel back to reality, the fog of anger dissipating just enough for her to realize the tactical error she had made. Her legs, which had been wrapped tightly around Daphne's waist, loosened their grip slightly. Daphne took full advantage of the opportunity, pushing the younger woman's legs away with surprising strength and rolling out from under her. The blonde was on her feet in a flash, her eyes gleaming with the thrill of the fight.
Isabel scrambled to her knees; her hands pressed to her throbbing thighs. The fabric of her babydoll was shredded, revealing the deep scratches Daphne had left behind. She glared at the Englishwoman through the tangles of her hair, her breath coming in ragged gasps. The crowd had gone wild, their shouts and cheers echoing off the warehouse walls, the energy palpable as they anticipated the next move.
Lady Daphne looked down at her opponent with a mix of surprise and admiration. She hadn't expected this level of ferocity from one of her usual prey. The recruiter had assured her that Isabel would be just another desperate girl, eager to make a quick buck, but the fiery spirit in her eyes suggested she was much more than that. The blonde's heart raced, the thrill of an actual challenge invigorating her like nothing she had felt in a long time.
Slowly, painfully, Isabel pushed herself to her feet. Her legs trembled from the exertion, her breasts aching from Daphne's brutal mauling. The crowd watched in anticipation, their eyes glued to the two combatants as the tension grew palpable. The warehouse air was thick with the smell of sweat and blood, the neon lights casting an eerie glow over the grimy mat.
With a snarl of pure malice, Lady Daphne outstretched her hand, her nails sharpened into deadly points. She lunged forward, aiming for Isabel's exposed midsection. The crowd leaned in, their breaths collectively held as the blonde's clawed hand swiped through the air. Isabel saw the move coming, her instincts now honed by the brutal dance of the fight. She twisted her body at the last possible second, the nails grazing her side and leaving a trail of fire in their wake.
A crimson line blossomed on her skin. The crowd's cheers grew wilder as Daphne's attacks grew more frenzied. She slashed at Isabel's arms and legs, leaving a tapestry of shallow wounds that stung like a swarm of angry bees. Each time her nails connected, a jolt of pain shot through Isabel's body, but she refused to go down. But the slashes were a diversion, a dance of pain to distract from the real blow. Daphne's eyes never left Isabel's, watching for the slightest hint of weakness, the smallest opening. And when it came, it was swift and brutal. With a grace that belied her rage, she swung her leg back and launched a kick that connected squarely with Isabel's crotch.
The Latina's eyes bulged as the breath was driven from her lungs. The pain was unlike anything she had ever felt before, a crushing pressure that sent stars spiraling through her vision. She crumpled to the mat, her body spasming involuntarily as the crowd's cheers grew to a fever pitch. Lady Daphne stood over her, one foot planted firmly on her chest, her nails digging into the soft flesh of Isabel's neck.
"Is this what you wanted?" she sneered, her voice echoing through the warehouse. "To be nothing more than a plaything for me?" The crowd's laughter grew louder, their excitement feeding the Englishwoman's ego. She reached down and grabbed the shredded fabric of Isabel's babydoll, her eyes gleaming with sadistic pleasure. With one swift, vicious motion, she tore it from her body, leaving the younger woman completely exposed.
Isabel’s world narrowed to the pressure on her abdomen as Lady Daphne knelt atop her, her knees pressing into the soft flesh just below her breasts. Each breath she took was a battle against the crushing weight, her lungs begging for air. The pain in her crotch was a dull throb now, the new agony of Daphne's knees digging into her stomach stealing her focus. She felt the coldness of the floor through her sweat-soaked skin, the mat sticking to her back
The Englishwoman's nails were still sunk into her neck, a reminder of who was in control. Isabel's eyes watered, but she never took her gaze off her opponent, her own anger and determination burning as brightly as ever. Despite the pain, she managed to arch her back slightly, pushing Daphne's foot away from her throbbing crotch. The gesture was small, but it was a declaration of defiance. Lady Daphne's smile grew, the sadistic glint in her eyes sharpening. She knew she had Isabel where she wanted her: vulnerable, exposed, and at her mercy. With a sudden twist, she brought her other knee up, pressing it down on Isabel's abdomen. The younger woman's eyes rolled back in her head, a muffled scream escaping her lips. The crowd's roars grew more intense, their excitement palpable as they watched the blonde dominate the fight.
But Isabel's spirit was not so easily broken. Through gritted teeth, she managed to push herself up onto her elbows, her breasts bouncing with the effort. Her eyes never left Daphne's, a silent challenge in her gaze. The Englishwoman's smile grew wider, her knee pressing harder into Isabel's stomach, the fabric of her torn babydoll sticking to her sweat-slicked skin. She reached down, her nails grazing the younger woman's inner thighs, leaving faint trails of red behind.
With a swift, deliberate motion, Daphne straddled Isabel's chest, her knees pressing down on her arms, pinning them to the ground. The Latina's breath was forced from her lungs, leaving her gasping for air as Daphne leaned forward, her breasts dangling tantalizingly close to her opponent's face. "Look at me," she whispered, her voice a seductive purr. "Look into the eyes of the woman who will break you."
Isabel's eyes burned with fury, her teeth bared in a snarl. With every ounce of strength she had left, she raised her head and spat directly into Lady Daphne's face. The saliva hit Daphne's cheek, running down to her chin in a thin line. The Englishwoman's eyes widened with surprise, and for a brief moment, the smugness left her features. The crowd's roar grew to a crescendo, their cheers a mix of shock and excitement.
Their gazes locked, and in that instant, Isabel knew that she had crossed a line. The air between them crackled with tension, the electricity of an impending storm. Daphne's eyes narrowed, her grip on Isabel's neck tightening as she pulled her head up even further. And then she slapped her. The sound echoed through the warehouse, a sharp crack that sent a shockwave through the audience. The slap was not just a simple act of dominance; it was a furious expression of Daphne's anger. Her hand connected with Isabel's cheek with a force that made it feel like her skin was on fire. The impact sent her head snapping to the side, the pain exploding in her face like a supernova. The crowd gasped collectively, the sudden violence sending a ripple of excitement through them.
But Isabel was not one to back down. She jerked her head back and spit in Daphne's face again, her eyes blazing with a newfound hatred. The Englishwoman's smile twisted into a snarl, her eyes flashing with something dark and primal. Her hand shot out again, the nails on her other hand extended like talons. This time, she didn't slap; she clawed. Her nails raked across Isabel's cheeks, leaving deep, bloody furrows that stung like a thousand bees. The Latina's scream of agony filled the warehouse, the sound a symphony of pain that seemed to resonate with every spectator's soul. The crowd's cheers grew wilder, their eyes glued to the raw, brutal display before them. The blood ran down Isabel's face, mixing with her sweat, painting a crimson mask of rage and defiance. Despite the pain, she continued to fight, her body writhing beneath Daphne's weight.
With a feral growl, Isabel bucked her hips, trying to dislodge the Englishwoman. Her legs flailed, her bare feet kicking out at anything they could connect with. Daphne grabs Isabel's neck with her left hand holding her head down, then she slowly lifted her right hand in the air. Daphne slap came down like a lighting, the palm perfectly hitting Isabel scratched cheeck.
Isabel's face contorted with pain as the slap echoed through the warehouse. Despite her agony, she managed to keep her eyes locked on Daphne's, the fire in her gaze burning brighter than ever. The crowd was in a frenzy, the air thick with the scent of sweat, blood, and desire. Daphne's hand was a blur as she delivered another slap, the sound echoing like a gunshot. Isabel's head jerked back, her eyes watering, but she never once broke eye contact.
Isabel's defiant gaze enraged Lady Daphne, with a swift movement, the noblewoman changed her position and turned around, facing her opponent's legs. Isabel was too exhausted and she dind't have time to react and Daphen was able to change her position and keep the latina's arm tightly blocked under her knees.
"You think you know pain, little girl?" Lady Daphne sneered, her voice dripping with contempt as she straddled Isabel's neck. "You haven't even begun to suffer."
With a sadistic smile, Daphne reached down with her free hand, her fingers caressing Isabel's bruised crotch with surprising tenderness. The touch was a stark contrast to the pain she had just inflicted, and it caught Isabel off guard. She uttered a shriek of indignation, her eyes widening in shock and horror as Daphne's digits traced the contours of her most intimate area, her nails lightly grazing the swollen flesh. The Englishwoman's touch grew bolder, her thumb sliding into the folds of Isabel's sex, the sensation sending a bolt of electricity through her body.
The crowd's cheers grew frenetic. Isabel's breath hitched, a mix of disgust and fear as Daphne's thumb found its way to her clit, stroking it with a cruel finesse. Her body betrayed her, responding despite the agony, a traitorous pulse of pleasure mingling with the pain. The Englishwoman whispered, "You like this, don't you? Being used, being broken."
Daphne's grip tightened, her fingers curling into a claw, and she squeezed, the sharp nails piercing the tender flesh. Isabel's scream was one of agony, a sound that seemed to fuel the sadistic fire in the Englishwoman's eyes. The crowd's roar grew louder, the spectators' excitement reaching a fever pitch. The pain was unbearable, a white-hot poker stoked by Daphne's twisted desires, and Isabel's body squirmed beneath her, a silent plea for mercy that Daphne had no intention of granting.
Isabel's eyes squeezed shut, tears mixing with the blood that streaked her face. Her legs kicked out wildly, trying to dislodge the blonde's weight, but Daphne was too strong, too determined. The Englishwoman’s hands were relentless in assaulting the young Latina’s most private parts. Lady Daphne scratched Isabel' snatch, pulled her labia, pinched her clit. Her fingers entered the opponent's pussy, nails scratching the tender flesh inside.
Through clenched teeth, Lady Daphne growled, "Say it! Say you submit!" Her voice was a mix of anger and pleasure, her eyes alight with the thrill of her dominance. But Isabel was not so easily broken. Despite the agony that ravaged her body, she found the strength to whisper a 'no' that seemed to fuel Daphne's rage even more.
Suddenly, a jolt of pain shot through the Englishwoman's scalp, snapping her out of her sadistic reverie. Her eyes widened with surprise as she felt a powerful pull at her hair. She hadn't noticed Isabel's hand slipping free from under her knee, nor the burning determination that had fueled her.
With a feral snarl, Isabel grasped a fistful of Daphne's golden locks, tugging with all her might. The older woman's eyes watered, the pain a stark reminder that she wasn't the only one who could dish out punishment. Daphne's grip on Isabel's pussy loosened, and she was forced to lean backward to alleviate the pressure. The crowd's roars grew wilder, sensing the shift in power.
Lady Daphne felt the hair being pulled out from her scalp and rolled off Isabel, her nails scoring the mat as she tried to maintain some semblance of dignity. She scrambled away from the opponent and stood up, turning to face Isabel and resume the offensive. The once elegant blonde now had her own hair in disarray, her own bruises blooming on her skin, and her babydoll was torn to shreds. She stared at Isabel in shock as the Latina got to her feet, her body a mat of pain and determination.
Isabel's naked form was a terrifying sight to behold, her muscles coiled like a jungle cat ready to pounce. Her breasts heaved with each furious breath she took, the bruises and scratches on her body standing out like a grim tapestry. Her eyes, once filled with hope and desperation, now burned with the hatred of a thousand suns. Her hands were stretched out like claws, her teeth bared like fangs ready to tear in Daphne's flesh.
Daphne felt a peculiar sensation in her chest, something she hadn't felt in the cage before. Fear. It was a strange emotion, one she had long forgotten in her reign of brutal domination. Her opponents had always been carefully selected, desperate and powerless, eager to please, to survive. But Isabel, oh Isabel, was something else entirely. She had been broken, humiliated, but she had not been conquered. And now, she stood before Daphne, a creature of pure, unbridled fury.
The chant grew louder, reverberating through the warehouse, shaking the very foundations of the cage itself. "I-sa-bel! I-sa-bel!" The crowd had turned, their allegiance shifting like a tide of hungry sharks. They no longer craved the spectacle of the elegant Englishwoman toying with her prey; they hungered for something more primal, more visceral. They craved the victory of the underdog, the triumph of the desperate.
Daphne took a step back, then another, her eyes never leaving Isabel's. Her chest heaved with the effort of controlling her breathing, her hands flexing into fists at her sides. The crowd's energy was a living, breathing entity, and it had turned against her. She could feel it, the shift in the air, the sudden tension that crackled like a whip. She had underestimated this girl, this fiery Latina with a will of steel and a heart full of rage. But she would not be denied. This was her world, her domain, and she was the queen of it all. With a snarl, she launched herself at Isabel, her nails poised to strike again. But Isabel was ready. Her body was a blur of motion, her hands shooting out to grasp Daphne's breasts. The Englishwoman's eyes went wide with shock as Isabel's strong grip squeezed her sensitive flesh.
With a bellow of rage, the Latina hauled Lady Daphne off her feet, the blonde's legs tiptoeing wildly . The crowd's roar grew louder as Isabel dragged Daphne across the mat, the sound of their bare feet on the ground like the beat of a war drum. Each step brought a fresh wave of pain to the Englishwoman's chest, her breasts feeling as if they were being ripped from her body.
The cage rattled as Isabel slammed Daphne's back into the metal mesh, the impact echoing through the warehouse. The crowd's eyes widened in shock and awe as they watched the tables turn. The Englishwoman's nails dug into Isabel's arms, but the younger woman didn't flinch. Instead, she leaned into the pressure, her teeth bared in a snarl as she increased the intensity of her grip.
Again and again, she rammed Daphne into the unforgiving cage, each collision sending a jolt of pain through the Englishwoman's body. The sound of flesh on metal was a symphony of brutality, a stark contrast to the elegant poise she had displayed earlier. The crowd's chants grew louder with each slam, their excitement building like a crescendo of raw, primal energy.
With a grunt of exertion, Isabel released Daphne's breasts and stepped back, her eyes wild with fury. Her hands flew up in a flurry of motion, slapping and punching in a frenzy that lacked the precision of Lady Daphne's earlier attacks. Each blow was more humiliating than painful, a display of unbridled rage that painted Daphne's body with a mottled pattern of red. The Englishwoman's face was a mask of shock and disbelief as she stumbled backward against the cage.
Daphne's cheeks stung from the slaps The crowd's frenzy as Isabel kept assaulting Daphne, their cheers a deafening cacophony that seemed to feed Isabel's strength. Her nails slashed through the air, leaving thin trails of blood wherever they connected with Daphne's flesh. The Englishwoman's skin was marred with fresh scratches and bruises, a testament to the ferocity of her opponent's counterattack.
But it was not the pain that brought Lady Daphne to her knees. It was the fear. The cold, paralyzing terror that gripped her as she realized Isabel's spirit was unbreakable. The fear that she might not be the predator anymore but the prey. She slumped to the floor, her legs giving out beneath her, and curled into a tight ball, her arms shielding her face from the incoming storm. Isabel's eyes gleamed with triumph as she watched Daphne crumble. She took a step forward, her bare feet thudding against the mat, and kicked the Englishwoman's side with all the power she could muster. Daphne's body jerked with the impact, the air leaving her lungs in a painful whoosh. The crowd's chant grew even louder, the rhythm of their voices pulsing through Isabel's veins like a battle cry.
Isabel’s hands shot out, grabbing the cage's mesh for balance as she raised one leg high in the air. Her foot descended in a swift arc, the sole of her foot connecting with Daphne's ribs with a sickening crunch. The blonde's scream was muffled by her arms, but her eyes bulged with agony. The metal bars of the cage trembled with the force of Isabel's rage; each kick a concentrate of hatred and fury.
Daphne's body was a mat of red and purple bruises, her once elegant posture reduced to a trembling heap on the mat. Her breaths were shallow gasps, her chest rising and falling erratically. The crowd's cheers grew more rabid, urging Isabel on, their chants a symphony of bloodlust. The Englishwoman's eyes searched the arena for an escape, for salvation from the torrent of pain, but she found none.
Isabel's rage was a living entity, a beast that had been unchained. Her kicks grew more vicious, each one aimed with precision at Daphne's most vulnerable points. Her fists pummelled the blonde's sides and stomach, leaving her gasping for air. The once confident and composed Daphne was now a broken doll, her eyes wide with fear and defeat.
The Englishwoman's screams grew more desperate, her voice cracking with each pained cry. "Stop! Please, Isabel, stop! I give up!" she begged, her voice hoarse from the abuse. But Isabel was deaf to her pleas, driven by the roars of the crowd and the fire in her soul. She knew that this was the moment she had been fighting for, the moment she would prove herself the victor.
But suddenly, the referee was between them, her arms wrapping around Isabel's waist, pulling her back with ease. "You win!" she shouted over the din, her voice cutting through the air like a knife. "Let her go!"
Isabel's eyes snapped into focus, her breaths coming in ragged gasps. She looked down at Daphne, who was curled on the floor crying, her body trembling with pain and defeat. The crowd's roars grew deafening, their cheers a symphony of victory. But the only sound that filled Isabel's ears was the pounding of her own heart, the rush of blood in her veins.
Her body felt like it was made of lead, the weight of her own exhaustion suddenly too much to bear. Her legs trembled, threatening to give out beneath her. With a groan that was half-triumph and half-agony, she allowed the referee to pull her away from Daphne. The referee raised Isabel's hand high into the air, her own voice lost in the cacophony of the crowd. The gesture was almost a formality; the outcome of the match had been clear for moments now. The Latina had claimed victory not just over her opponent but over the very essence of despair that had brought her to this grimy, dimly-lit warehouse.
Isabel's arm felt like it weighed a ton, but she held it aloft, her fist clenched in a symbol of triumph. Despite the agony that coursed through her bruised and battered body, she felt a rush of adrenaline, a glorious high that seemed to light her up from within. Her muscles quivered, the pain a distant throb that she could almost ignore as the crowd's roars washed over her like a tidal wave of vindication.
Exhaustion and pain made the post-match a blur. Two sturdy female staffers helped Isabel to the locker room, where a female doctor tended to her wounds and bruises. The two women helped her clean up and get dressed and gently laid her out on a cot.
"Take a nap," one of them said. "They'll wake you up in a couple hours."
Isabel was woken up by the referee. The woman handed her a bottle of energy drink, which Isabel downed in a few gulps while the referee counted the money into a thick envelope.
"Here you go. Your prize."
Isabel took the envelope, appreciating its weight, and stuffed it into her purse. The money was a breath of fresh air and would keep her going until at least half the semester.
"It's late and this area isn't safe for a girl alone." The referee said. "Do you want a ride home?"
Isabel was about to refuse; but the thought of losing the money she had earned with so much pain and humiliation made her change her mind and accept. In the car, the two women were silent, Isabel was too tired to speak, and she could feel the throbbing pain of her wounds, barely kept at bay by the drugs.
"You know," the referee said. "You did great in there and the crowd loved you. You're talented and if you decided to stick with it and get some experience you could become very good and make a lot more money than that."
“Yeah, sure." Isabel scoffed. "I can't wait to get my pussy mangled like that again."
The referee chuckled. "I admit, Daphne is a real bitch; but I can assure you that not all matches are that...extreme."
"Listen. I don't want to sound ungrateful after all the money you guys gave me; but this was probably the worst night of my life."
"Are you sure? I saw the look on your face when I raised your arm. You've never felt more alive, right?"
Isabel didn't answer. The rest of the car ride was in silence. When they finally arrived in front of Isabel's apartment building, she hesitated for a moment before getting out.
"If I wanted to continue." She asked. "What should I do?"
The referee handed her a business card with only a phone number and a name "Bruno."
"Call this number. He'll explain everything to you."
Isabel took the card and thanked the woman for the ride. The referee waited until Isabel was inside the building and then drove off to go home. Something told her she would see that fierce Latina again.
