What happens to me isn't like getting knocked out.
I've been knocked out lots of times. Way more than my neurologist likes to think about. It's a pretty simple biological process, really, in a spooky kinda way. You get hit hard enough, usually in the head, that your brain jolts against the inside of your skullcase despite the comfy blanket of cerebrospinal fluid, and pow. Everything shuts down. It can last anywhere from just an eyeblink to long enough to worry people and have them fetch smelling salts.
This isn't like being choked or smothered out. I've got lots of experience with that, too. That's a much slower and more desperate feeling. The way your lungs burn, the way your brain tries to process things faster as it frenzies for a way out, the way your limbs get heavy. The way your senses become intensely aware - which can be kind of a problem all its own if you're being smothered, depending on how and by who ... but either way, that tends to lead to a deep and dreamless sort of sleep.
No. What you do to me is GRAY me out. You work me until my nerves give up on sending signals because they're completely fucking overloaded and just try to shut everything down. It's much fucking worse.
You crush my pussy, working it with a mocking lover's touch and a witch's cruelty, forcing my hips into jolting jerking orgasm against my fucking desires. That's another funny simple sort of biological process - no matter how much you hate someone, if they're touching you just HERE and pressing just THERE, your body just ... reacts. Again ... and again ...
... and you don't stop. Crushing me. Draining me. Nothing takes the fight out of you like an orgasm ripped out against your will - combined with the agonizing, nerve-throbbing pain of your pussy claw. Slumped on my knees. Drool trickling from my lips. Hands fallen to my sides, taped knuckles hitting the mats. And you push me back, rolling me flat. My long legs unfurl as you kneel over me, your hand dominantly crushing my helpless sex. My legs quiver as you finish me off, my eyes fluttering.
Blood running down my face, my skull paint a dripping ruin, mostly gone in a wash of sweat and blood and saliva. It'd be easy for you to roll me into the ring and pin me as cleanly as I pinned you what seems like an eternity ago, when I drove my palm through that twisted little black coal you claim is your heart. So fucking easy.
... it's always been kinda easy for you with me when it comes to sex, hasn't it?
"The fuck do you mean 'sexfighting'?" I'd asked with a wry snort and a giggle, sitting in the little bar of the VFW hall in Yuba City where we'd just performed with some scrap-dog indy fed for 40 paying customers. The beer was a buck and the old vets in their forage caps didn't give us any hassles as we sat there, probably just glad they had pretty girls to look at. We were talking about our training, our backgrounds. How we'd both been to Japan. I'd talked about being in Puerto Rico with Reckless Youth. You'd talked about sexfighting, whatever the fuck that was.
You'd just smiled that smile.
Not long later I was spread out like warm butter across the motel bed, sweatier and more exhausted than I'd ever been in life, my thighs trembling as much as they are now, my head hanging back off the bed as you straddled my hips with a casual, easy dominance.
"Ooo-oh, so ... that's ... that's what it is ..." I'd panted in a soft, throaty purr.
And you'd just smiled that smile.
And again, and again, and again ... throughout our time together. I considered myself pretty sexually experienced - active, imaginative, fit, good-giving-and-game, all that fucking stuff. Plus I'm fuckin' hot. Let's not lie. But with you?
Fuck. You could just ruin me. You could ruin ANYONE, but you just melted me, over and over.
I remembered the time in Jersey, not long before the Cheesesteak Incident in Philly. We were working a show for a regional up there headed up by an old boy who'd been a worker from a long line of workers, from the Gazelli family that went all the way back to Angelo Gazelli back in the '50s. His twin grandsons were just getting started in the biz - couple of 20 year old slabs of Italian-American beefcake, worked a classic Gazelli gimmick with the Italian flag tights and the red boots. They couldn't stop staring at you through the whole show. I caught 'em more than a few times. Apparently they were fans of your work.
I brought them back to the hotel. Both of 'em. Maybe it was a stupid idea, but what the fuck, I'd been drinking with Balls Mahoney before the show, and I was still buzzed even after wrestling a 15 minute madhouse brawl with Jessicka Havok. So I brought them back, as a present. Maybe I thought you'd get a laugh at it, we'd get the nice young boys to get naked, have a giggle, and then send 'em on their way.
Maybe not. Maybe I wanted to see what would happen.
And you showed me.
I remember that night, when you showed me what you could do ... how sex was a weapon for you, an instrument of pure control ... it flashes through me as you drag me on a slick of blood and sweat and my own trickling nectar across the mats.
The audience can't decide between shocked silence and agitated protest, the noise rolling through the Zenith like a wash of static.
You drag me up and hang me on the railing. My arms fall back, hooked over the steel as it bites into my back. My head hangs down, purple punktails soaked black in sweat and blood nearly brushing the floor. Gemma's behind me.
Dreamy and barely conscious, I give her a crooked smile, and start to tell her everything will be okay.
And your fists crash into me.
Sweat mists off me, my body jerking and jolting.
There's no defense. My hands are dangling behind me, my body totally open, my legs splayed, resting on my bootheels like I'm hung in the stocks. You don't even need to be good at punching to hurt me. Your fists crushing into my body, pounding my tits, slamming me in the dripping cxnt just to watch me spasm.
I just hang there, in the gray.
I hear the voices. Tiffany, my darling sheriff, trying to get to me. Thomas, the sculptor in his last desperation trying to stop his beautiful creation from destroying everything. Red, his voice a low rumble. And Gemma. Beautiful Gemma. Seeing her upside down through shudders of breathless pain as blood runs down my face and drips near her expensive shoes.
She looks so fucking beautiful tonight.
