So it’s like this…
I hadn’t written a fight story in several years. There I was, minding my own business and quietly reading a few of Raven’s old catfighting stories from the 1990s. All of a sudden, into my mind barges this story, without so much as a by-your-leave, and then holds my hands hostage, forbidding me to lift a glass of Jack Daniels until such time as I write it down! What’s a guy to do, except...
*****
Tokyo is one of the world’s largest cities, a sprawling metropolis home to more than thirty-seven million people, that continues for hundreds of square kilometers without end. Like any big city, it has its entertainment centers – Roppongi near the embassy district, which caters largely to foreign visitors; Ginza, known for its shopping as well as fine dining and nightclubs, Shibuya, home to a multitude of bars and restaurants, and Shinjuku, perhaps the most famous and notorious nightclub district for Japanese patrons.
Within Shinjuku itself is the smaller district of Kabuki-cho, the most infamous of Tokyo’s red-light districts, known as the Sleepless Town. Here are many hostess clubs and love hotels, as well as establishments catering to more exotic and rarified tastes.
Like many parts of Tokyo where space is at a premium, the bars and clubs of Kabuki-cho stretch upward and, in many cases, downward by as much as eight or ten storeys. Buildings connect to other buildings with bridges and tunnels that span streets, resulting in a labyrinth of narrow passageways where day and night do not exist, and pleasure parlors entice patrons twenty-four hours a day.
Even here, however, there are places that go out of their way to attract customers, and there are those that do not. Some do not even advertise their presence. Those who walk through their doors do so only by invitation.
Among these is a club that caters to those who seek pain as well as pleasure, and those who regard both as two sides of the same coin. Located many levels underground and reachable only by a tortuous maze of corridors and stairways that defy any casual visitor, its name loosely translates in English as ‘Panic’.
Here the upper echelons of Japanese society can indulge their secret fantasies in exclusive anonymity. The women – exclusively women – who make up the club’s staff are well-versed in the erotic arts, and there is almost always at least one show under way for the patrons’ viewing pleasure. Bondage, domination, submission, sadism and masochism – all are on offer, even for participation since the staff are not averse to taking guests ‘in hand’.
These participatory sessions – public or private – are carefully orchestrated of course. None of the staff wishes to be the one who visibly marks a celebrity or a cabinet minister. The ‘exhibition’ sessions however, where one staff member dominates another, are often much more extreme. As the clientele are wont to joke with one another, they put on an entertaining and highly arousing show.
Unknown to any of the patrons however – a secret within a secret – is that the show is not a show. Every stroke of the whip, every cry of pain and perverted pleasure, is real. The women of Panic really are what they appear to be – Dominatrixes and submissives, concealed in plain sight.
Part of the entertainment – at least once each evening – are staged fights between the staff. Sometimes in leather, sometimes naked, often unarmed but occasionally even with whips, they battle on traditional tatami mats, until one combatant or the other submits. Popular among the patrons, these events will often empty the rest of the club.
Also unknown to the guests, however, is that these fights, like the BDSM shows, are not staged but are real in every way. Submission truly means exactly that – the loser belongs to the winner, her property, her slave. Such is how the pecking order is established and maintained within the chambers of Panic. This is the Dantai Neko – the Society of the Cat.
*****
Sanae walked purposefully through the main bar area at Panic, her bare feet silent on the plush red carpet. It was just past the sixteenth hour and preparations were beginning for the evening’s guests. A bartender in a red cotton shift – a simple rectangle of cloth with a hole in the center, placed over the head and falling to her upper thighs, belted with a thin cord – was stocking the shelves behind the glass-and-chrome bar, while two others similarly dressed ran vacuum cleaners over the carpet.
Sanae was dressed as they were. Such was the standard work dress for the dorei – the slaves – of Panic. Sanae’s shift was stretched tightly over her full, rounded bosom and held in place by a red silk cord knotted around her narrow waist but even so, her breasts bounced with each step she took.
She wore nothing else except for a gold chain around her neck, with a loop at one end through which the chain passed, and a gold ball about the size of her thumbnail at the other. On the ball was engraved the number 11. There were two other girls at Panic named Sanae. She was Sanae 11. It served to distinguish her from the others, and to denote her place in the hierarchy of the dorei.
She made her way up a flight of stairs at the rear of the room, turned right along a wide corridor with walls of red velvet, then up another flight of stairs and through several twists and turns before she arrived at a plain black door. She paused and knocked.
After a moment she heard a muted reply. “Enter.” Opening the door, she stepped inside.
The room beyond was an office, red carpeted like the rooms and corridors she had just passed through, with black lacquered furniture and a large traditional landscape painting on the wall behind the desk.
Seated behind the desk sat a woman whose age Sanae had never been able to determine, but who was certainly much older than her own twenty-seven years. She was dressed – or at least the part of her that could see – in a scarlet blazer over a black turtleneck sweater. “You summoned me, Okaa-san” she said, using the formal honorific ‘mother’ as she bowed.
“Be seated, imusume.” The older woman gestured to a low rectangular stool positioned before the desk. Sanae knelt on the padded cushion, her shoulders level with the top of the desk, her eyes lowered.
Jun Ishita, who ruled Panic as the Queen of its cat pack, regarded her steadily. “Tonight is the full moon.”
Sanae’s heart-shaped face remained impassive though her dark brown, almond eyes widened a little. It had been so long since she’d seen the moon or even the sky. In truth, she’d given no thought in a long time to what day it was. Every day was the same here – wake up to a light meal followed by four hours of physical training, then work to prepare the club for the evening’s guests. After the second meal of the day, in the early evening, the girls dressed in costume and made ready for the club to open.
She was only too aware of the significance of the full moon, and her heart skipped a beat. Each month, at this time, Panic would pit its appointed champion against another catfighter from its most bitter rival, a club named Dark Water. In this way, each club’s cat pack would gain new blood – and the other would lose one of its own.
Last month, it had been Panic’s champion who had been victorious. Sanae had not been there, but she had seen the loser brought in on all fours, battered and exhausted, and led off to begin her servitude to the victor.
“Kana 33 has embraced her new position,” said Jun. The vanquished fighter had been added to Panic’s existing stable of thirty-two, making her number thirty-three, the lowest in the pecking order. “She has served us well. Tonight, she will be initiated into our cat pack…and a new exchange will be made.”
On the desk at Jun’s right elbow was a broad, squat bottle fashioned from opaque black glass. Beside it was a black marble. Jun picked it up and reached forward over the desk to hold it out in front of Sanae’s eyes. Engraved on it was a number 11 – Sanae’s number.
Sanae gasped. “Me?”
Jun nodded. “Your number was drawn. At midnight, you will defend the honor of our cat pack.”
Sanae’s heart was pounding. She knew what it meant to lose such a fight. She had witnessed what had happened to Kana 33. She had seen the girl endure the most extreme scenes, suffer the most degrading torments, bear the scorn and ridicule of every one of Panic’s cat pack – Sanae herself included.
She bowed her head. “I…I will not fail you, Okaa-san. I will not fail the cat pack.”
Jun merely nodded. “You will be excused from your regular duties tonight, of course. Return to your cell. Prepare yourself, physically and mentally. Be ready.” She fixed Sanae with a stern gaze. “This will be your greatest test.”
“Yes Okaa-san.”
“Ganbette, musume. Good luck, daughter. Do your best…and be careful.”
Sanae rose, bowed and left the office. Her mind reeling, it was all she could do to put one foot in front of the other. She was to fight in the Gishiki Mangestsu, the Rite of the Full Moon!” Her, Sanae, the little girl from Okinawa! The honor of the cat pack rested on her shoulders. She wandered back to her small cell on the club’s lowest level, in a daze.
*****
Hours later, Sanae sat chest-deep in the warm water of the club’s bath house on the lowest level, as Kana 33 knelt behind her and poured water from a small bucket to wash the soap from her shoulders and back. Her handler, Madoka 5, who had defeated and claimed her in the last Gishiki Mangestsu, had sent her to serve Sanae as she prepared for her own fight.
“This is your last day as shoyu-mono,” said Sanae. “Tonight, you become one of us…imouto.”
“Hai,” agreed Kana. She was several centimeters taller than Sanae but slimmer, and smaller in both her bust and her hips. Her hair was jet black like Sanae’s but fell in a slick wet curtain to the middle of her back, whereas Sanae’s ended just below her shoulders. “I am honored…” she paused a moment before adding, “ane-san.”
As shoyu-mono – quite literally, a possession, the property of her Mistress – Kana was the lowest in the hierarchy. She could not challenge any member of the cat pack to fight, nor was she worthy of being challenged herself. Any new conquest assumed the same low status, as did new arrivals from the finishing school in Fukuoka, and remained shoyu-mono for her first month. After that – tonight for Kana, immediately before Sanae’s fight – she would be formally initiated into the cat pack with the rite of sakazuki whereby she would drink sake from the same cup as Jun.
Sanae knew little of cat pack customs outside her own pack, but she had heard that Japanese packs differed somewhat from those in other countries. Instead of a complex web of rivalries and shifting slave-to-Mistress allegiances, a Japanese pack maintained a strict hierarchy with each member owing her allegiance to her Okaa-san, the Queen of the pack and ultimately, through layers of command, to the Oyabun of the ninkyo dantai to which the pack owed its ultimate fealty.
Within the individual pack, hierarchy was determined by victory in individual combat. If a fighter challenged a pack member above her and won, she took that woman’s place and the loser was relegated to the winner’s former level – after a period of servitude to the winner as shoyu-mono.
The numbered ball on the end of Sanae’s chain identified her as eleventh in the pack’s pecking order. Six years ago, she too had started at the bottom and fought her way up by challenging those above her. There had been losses – painful and humiliating – but she had won more than she had lost, and reached number eleven in the pack. Tonight, Kana 33 would begin her own journey, even as Sanae’s took an important turn.
After her initial shock had worn off, Sanae was filled with a deep sense of pride. Certainly, she had been chosen by fortune – her number drawn from the bottle – rather than by a deliberate decision based on her fighting ability, but she was nonetheless the chosen one, who would carry the honor of her cat pack into combat.
Along with that pride came a fierce determination. She would rise to the occasion. She would defeat her opponent, uphold her honor and that of her pack, and claim the beaten champion from Dark Water as her slave.
*****
The rite of Gishiki Mangestsu was, by tradition, held on neutral ground. It had been so, ever since the ninkyo dantai to which Panic belonged, had expanded its operations from its traditional Kyushu home, into the greater Tokyo area. There it had quickly come into conflict with another clan already operating in Kabuki-cho. Rivalry grew into enmity, and for a while into open warfare. Property had been damaged, members of both clans had been injured and two had even died. Eventually, a precarious stalemate had been achieved and by mutual consent, the dangerous and costly conflict had been formalized into a monthly, ritual combat whereby honor was preserved without undue impact to profit.
Each cat pack would select a fighter at random, to face her counterpart from the other pack. The winner would compel the loser to choose the price she would pay. One choice was dishonor – a month of slavery to the winner, with the opportunity to join the winner’s cat pack at the end of that time.
The other alternative was death.
Sanae had never known a catfighter to choose that ultimate price- death before dishonor, but she was told that at least five women had done so in the years since the two clans came into conflict. She was determined that she would not have to make that choice.
Panic and Dark Water were separated by no more than half mile in a straight line, but there were no straight lines in Kabuki-cho, and to walk between the two clubs required more than thirty minutes by publicly accessible passageways. The cat packs however, had access to other, more secret routes, and the path from Panic to the hidden dojo where the combat would take place, required no more than ten minutes brisk walk.
Sanae followed Jun in silence through the dimly lit warren of tunnels. She wore a red silk yakuta, simpler than the formal kimono worn by Jun, who preceded her, and by Yuki 1, the first in Panic’s cat pack, who followed her. By tradition, only those two would accompany her and witness the fight. Their feet, in wooden sandals with rubber soles, made no sound on the concrete floors. Breathing deeply to calm her nerves, she followed Jun up a steel staircase, passed through a small, rough-walled anteroom, and entered the dojo.
She found herself in a large square room with a high ceiling. The walls were lined with cream-colored shoji paper screens, crisscrossed and separated by dark wooden slats. A walkway, two meters wide, ran around the edges of the room, with sunken lights set into the ceiling above it. Immediately in front of the door through which they entered, three steps led down to the sunken center of the room, which was covered with woven tatami straw mats. To the right of the steps, two cushions were placed at the edge of the walkway.
Without a word, Jun moved aside to the right, and Yuki came up beside Sanae on her left as she slipped off her sandals and stepped forward to the top of the steps. She stood there waiting.
No more than a few seconds after they entered, another door opposite them swung open. Three women entered in single file, just as Sanae and her companions had done. They stepped into position at the top of the steps across the room, and Sanae saw her about-to-be opponent for the first time.
She was dressed like Sanae in a plain yakuta though hers was black, like the kimonos worn by her two escorts. Her black hair was similar in length to Sanae’s own, framing a rounded face with large brown eyes and full lips. She gazed back at Sanae with unblinking eyes.
It was her companions who made Sanae’s eyebrows lift fleetingly in surprise. Not only were they dressed in formal furisode kimono with obi, but their hair was swept up in the traditional Geisha nihongami style and their faces caked with white o-Shirai makeup. Sanae had heard that Dark Water was much more steeped in tradition that Panic. “Stuck in the past,” Jun had said. “They think they’re still living in the Edo period.”
“We come to observe the rite of Gishiki Mangestsu,” said the woman on the left. Sanae assumed she was the Okaa-san of the Dark Water cat pack.
“As do we,” Jun intoned formally. “We present our champion, chosen by the kami…Sanae.” As Sanae spread her arms, Jun and Yuki took the edges of her robe, opening it wide and sliding it down her arms, leaving her naked before her opponent.
The three women opposite looked Sanae up and down for five of Sanae’s hammering heartbeats. The faces of the two on either side were inscrutable masks, but the one in the middle – the fighter – narrowed her eyes ever so slightly.
“We present our champion,” the other Queen echoed Jun’s words, “chosen by the kami…Akira.” As Jun and Yuki had done, they disrobed their fighter, displaying her to their enemies for the first time.
Sanae’s eyes roved over her adversary’s body, appraisingly. She was perhaps five or six centimeters taller than Sanae’s 155cm – 5’4” against 5’2” as the Americans would put it. She was a little more slightly built than Sanae however, so there would be little weight difference between them. Her hips were narrow, her breasts full though smaller than Sanae’s own – a C-cup compared to a D-cup. Like Sanae too, a thick but neatly trimmed triangle of hair nestled in the confluence of her thighs. Fighters wore their pubic hair that way. Only slaves were shaven.
“Let honor be served,” declared the other Queen.
“Let honor be served,” repeated Jun. She stepped over to the cushions to their right, and knelt on the one nearest the steps. Yuki passed behind her and knelt on the other cushion. The two escorts from Dark Water did the same, leaving the two fighters facing one another at the top of each flight of steps.
On some unspoken signal, the lights around the walkway dimmed to nothing, and those above the sunken center brightened. The silence in the room became palpable, and Sanae could have sworn she heard her own heartbeat. She took another deep breath and stepped into the arena.
Akira padded toward the center of the space on the balls of her feet. To Sanae, it seemed like every muscle in her opponent’s strong, svelte body had suddenly come to life. Sanae herself felt the same way. This was what she had trained for, this was what she had been groomed for, this was what she lived for. She would conquer this woman for the honor of her cat pack. The battle lust was upon her.
Her opponent suddenly speeded up and, with an ear-splitting KAI!!!, whipped her long right leg up in a savage snap kick aimed at Sanae’s chin. The shorter fighter barely had time to duck under the blow which, had it connected, would have flung her onto her back and ended the fight almost before it began.
Duck she did however, and lunged in low, firing her right fist at Akira’s exposed crotch. Akira was already pulling her leg down and leaning backward however, and Sanae’s fist merely glanced off her mound and skidded up her firm, flat belly.
Akira brought her left hand down fast and grabbed Sanae by the wrist, pulled hard and began to twist her arm viciously, but Sanae used the motion to her own advantage, thrusting her right hip into Akira’s belly, snapping her body forward and hip-tossing the taller girl to the mats.
“AAAGGGHHH!!!” Akira landed hard on the base of her spine as Sanae deliberately jerked her arm to spoil her landing. Her body went rigid for an instant as the pain shot up her back, but as Sanae leaned down to seize her by the hair, her legs jack-knifed up high, her ankles locked around Sanae’s neck and then snapped straight again, sending Sanae head-first to the floor with a loud THUD.
Stunned for a moment, Sanae was brought back to alertness by the sudden pressure on her neck as Akira locked the head scissors tighter on her, twisting sideways to slam Sanae down on her right side, shuffling forward on her butt to bring the smaller woman’s head up closer to her knees.
That was Akira’s mistake however, for the move brought her within the reach of Sanae’s arms. She pressed the fingers of her left hand together into a tight spike and with a breathless cry of rage and effort, drove them up between Akira’s flexed thighs and into the soft sensitive folds of her sex.
Akira shrieked like a demon and the pressure of her legs slackened, allowing Sanae to break the hold and somersault backwards, rolling to her knees and rising to her feet. She was breathing hard, her big breasts rising and falling as she forced air – strength – back into her body.
Snarling, Akira too came to her knees, one hand massaging her crotch. “I will make you pay for that, she vowed, her dark eyes glowing with hate. She got one foot under her but Sanae did not let her rise before she leapt forward and the ball of her right foot caught Akira under the chin. The fighter’s head snapped back, and her teeth slammed together with an audible CLACK before the force of the kick hurled her backwards, skidding across the tatami.
As she lay there groaning, Sanae followed up on her attack. With a loud “YAH!!!” she leapt at her fallen opponent, her hard rounded butt slamming down onto Akira’s chest. The other woman’s lower body and legs jerked up into the air for a moment as the breath rushed out of her lungs in a massive explosion of air and spit that spattered Sanae’s belly and chest.
Grabbing Akira’s right arm, Sanae flung herself to the right, hauling the still dazed and gasping fighter with her. Now she was able to get her own ankles locked together behind her enemy’s back, and bring the pressure of her shorter but no-less powerful legs to bear on Akira’s upper body. “Let me show you how it’s done, manko!” She groaned aloud as she squeezed with her legs and hauled on Akira’s arm, twisting her opponent’s wrist painfully.
It seemed the pain roused Akira from her stupor however. She began to thrash in Sanae’s grip, kicking wildly, bringing her knees up in a brave attempt to drive them into Sanae’s kidneys, but even though a few blows connected, Sanae was too far up Akira’s body for them to have any power.
Still holding Akira’s right arm, Sanae whipped her body to the left, using her strong core to fling the slighter woman over her, pounding Akira into the mats again on her right side with a sharp grunt of pain. Sanae gave her no time to recover and whipped her back the other way again, down onto her left side, getting another breathless groan from the battered fighter as Sanae robbed her more and more of air, and the power to fight.
This time, Sanae left the motion going and rolled up on top of Akira, her legs still folded under her adversary’s torso, keeping the pressure on her chest. She reared up and sent her open right hand downward in a savage back-handed slap that snapped Akira’s head hard to the left. The return blow knocked her opponent’s head back the other way, and Akira’s sharp nails left livid red welts on Akira’s smooth cheek.
Akira screamed in pain and rage. She lashed out with both hands, seizing Sanae’s swaying breasts, digging her own nails in hard, gouging and twisting. Sanae wailed in torment, automatically grabbing at Akira’s wrists for a moment, before training triumphed over instinct and instead she struck out with her right fist pounding downward into Akira’s face.
Her fist connected once with Akira’s chin but as Sanae pulled backwards for another blow, Akira shoved hard with her hands, slamming her palms into Akira’s breasts, flattening them against her ribs and knocking her backwards – far enough for Akira’s legs to reach her. Her opponent’s heels hooked under Sanae’s chin, ankles crossed and then Akira whipped her legs out straight again.
Sanae suddenly felt herself propelled backwards, down onto her back. She was still atop Akira, but now it was she who was caught, her back arched, head forced backwards, legs trapped underneath Akira’s body. She still encircled her enemy’s torso but from this position, she could bring little power to the scissors hold.
“Now it’s my turn,” snarled Akira. “Take this, abazure” Her claws thrust into Sanae’s breasts again and this time Sanae could do little except scream in agony and grab desperately at her tormentor’s wrists, as Akira’s sharp nails gouged and raked at her hardened nipples and the soft, sensitive undersides of her breasts.
She managed to detach her enemy’s left hand, but Akira simply tore her wrist free of Sanae’s grasp and switched to clawing at Sanae’s stretched-out abs, dragging more agonized shrieks from Panic’s tortured champion. When Sanae at last managed to get her attacker’s claws off her belly, Akira gave a cry of cruel triumph and thrust her hand up between Sanae’s spread thighs, getting her fingers into the thick dark hairs of Sanae’s snatch and twisting cruelly.
Sanae screamed in utter torment, thrashing frantically back and forth, her hands scrabbling at Akira’s arm, clawing her flesh, bucking her hips as though she was fucking the air, as she tried everything she could to escape the pussy torture.
At last her desperate struggles threw her onto her right side and she managed to pull her left leg free. Raising her foot up high, she sent her heel crashing downward, connecting with the side of Akira’s head – once, twice, three times before the other woman went limp and the vicious assault on her pubes and folds ceased.
Sanae rolled away, kicking her other leg free of Akira’s weight, over onto her belly. Sobbing with pain, she managed to gather her knees under her and rise to all fours. Akira lay in the same spot, apparently stunned by the kicks, but Sanae was in no shape to exploit the situation for the moment. She clutched her fist tight between her thighs, against her throbbing crotch as she crawled painfully away from her enemy. She needed time – time for the pain to ease, time to recover her strength. Through her tears, she saw Jun and Yuki kneeling in their places on the walkway, stone-faced. Neither they nor the escorts from Dark Water had made a sound since the fight had started.
Breathing hard through her teeth, clenched tight against the pain, she forced herself to her feet, and turned to face her enemy. Her eyes widened as she saw Akira had also risen, standing swaying, her eyes slightly glazed as she steadied herself. They glared at each balefully as they closed on each other once more, slowly but steadily.
Akira lashed out with a side kick, and this time Sanae was too slow to duck. The other fighter’s foot caught her hard on the side of the head and sent her sprawling to the mats on her side. The violent motion was too much for Akira too though. Overbalancing, she too went down.
Sanae got her legs under her, rising to all fours. She knew Akira was behind her, knew she had to get up, to turn, to face her opponent, ready to defend herself. She rose up on her knees – just as Akira kicked her hard in the cxnt.
Her eyes opened wide, as did her mouth in a silent scream of anguish. She pitched forward, skidding along the mats. The rough straw scratched at her abused breasts, but that was just a drop in the ocean of her pain. She clutched at her crotch again, this time with both hands, as she writhed in frenzied agony on the mats.
Akira loomed over her, bent and grabbed a thick handful of Sanae’s black hair, now tangled and matted with sweat. “You are MINE, girl!” She yanked the whimpering Sanae to her knees, then to her feet, half leading, half dragging the battered fighter to the center of the arena.
NO! It couldn’t end this way. It couldn’t! Sanae’s terror brought a rush of adrenalin that cut through the fog of pain. Still bent over, still being dragged by her hair, she got both her hands up, grabbing Akira’s wrists as she lunged forward. She raised her right foot too, ramming it into the small of her tormentor’s back. Akira let out a shriek of pain as Sanae jerked back hard with both arms. Not caring that Akira still had hold of her hair, she fell backwards to the floor, flipping her enemy over her in a wide arc. Her hands still tangled in Sanae’s hair, her wrists held tight in Sanae’s hands, she had no way to break her fall this time, and she slammed face-first to the mats with such force that she bounced before landing again in a tangled, moaning heap.
Sanae roared with malicious joy “NNNGGGYYYAAAHHH!!!” as her desperate move paid off. As Akira’s grip on her hair slackened, she rolled rapidly onto her belly, ignoring her pain, pushed up onto all fours and flung herself at her enemy. She crashed down on Akira’s back, scrambling her knees up over the other woman’s shoulders, pinning Akira’s arms. “Kuppukusuru! Surrender, bitch! It’s over!”
Akira writhed under her, but weakly. Hurt and stunned once more, she lacked the strength to buck Sanae off her. “Give up!” screamed Sanae again. Her nails raked down Akira’s sides, and Akira screamed even louder, but still she did not submit. Her claws too ripped at Sanae’s thighs in a frenzied attempt to break free.
Sanae reared back on her haunches, her firm butt slamming Akira’s face down into the mats. She rained punches down into her enemy’s back, focusing on her kidneys, punctuating her blows with “GIVE…UP…NOW!!! YOU…ARE…AIIIEEEEEE!!!” Her taunts turned in a plaintive scream as somehow, Akira managed to get a hand up behind her own head and jabbed her finger hard into Sanae’s ass, twisting and scratching.
“AAAIIIEEE!!!” Sanae reflexively hurled herself forward away from the torture. That gave Akira just enough space to bridge up with her legs and twist Sanae off her. They each rolled away in opposite directions.
This time it was Sanae who recovered quicker, and she threw herself back at Akira while the other fighter still lay on her back. Again Sanae got her knees over Akira’s arms, pinning her opponent down. Laying forward with her breasts pressed tight against Akira’s abs, she thrust her right hand into the thick thatch that crowned her enemy’s crotch and yanked viciously. “Now it’s time for revenge!”
Akira howled piteously, legs kicking, body thrashing so hard that Sanae had to splay her own legs wider to keep her balance and stay on top. “I’ll tear your filthy cxnt apart!” she screamed, sliding forward a little more so she could jam her fingers up into Akira’s pussy. “Let’s hear you scream, bitch!”
Scream Akira did – for a brief instant until her left knee slammed up into Sanae’s temple with a force that blacked her out for a moment. That moment was enough for Akira to buck upward once more, twisting violently to her right, spilling the moaning Sanae off her to the mats.
Akira rolled toward Sanae and lashed out again with her knee. Again it connected, this time striking Sanae right between her eyes. Her sharp cry of shock and pain chopped off suddenly as she flipped over on her back, motionless.
She was out cold for only a moment, snapping back to painful awareness as Akira grabbed her once again by her hair. “Filthy bitch…now I’ll hurt you!” She dragged Sanae halfway to her knees and rammed her own knee up hard under Sanae’s chin. Sanae groaned and slumped in her enemy’s grip, as the knee hammered her again, this time pancaking her left breast, and then once more in the jaw. Akira let her go then and Sanae spun away to fall on her face, her legs twisted under her.
She lay there gasping, tossed in a sea of pain. She could barely move, barely breathe, barely thing. Never in her life had she taken a beating like this. Her right arm moved weakly, pulling in toward her chest, pushing up a little – until Akira’s foot kicked it out from under her and she crashed back to the sweat smeared mat.
“Submit to me!” barked Akira.
“Nnn…no…” Sanae stammered, shaking her head weakly as she lifted it off the floor, trying to push herself up with both hands this time. “Nnnooo…” Again Akira kicked her arm out, and again she face-planted the floor.
“Baka!” hissed Akira. “You’re too much of a fool to know when you’re beaten…but I’ll be glad to train you!” Sanae screamed as Akira’s full weight suddenly slammed down into her back, as the other woman dropped both knees into Sanae’s spine. Her body shuddered in agony, but she could nothing more now. Her body refused to obey the frantic commands of her mind. She was beaten.
Akira twisted her fingers into Sanae’s matted hair again and jerked savagely, arching her head and upper body up off the mats. Sanae could do nothing more than groan. She had nothing left to give. Akira was the superior fighter – the better woman. Sanae belonged here, beneath her, at her mercy. She wept.
Her adversary’s other hand snaked between Sanae’s legs, and Sanae bit her lip hard to keep from whimpering in fear. Her eyes bugged wide and she failed to stifle a gasp as Akira’s fingers slid into her. She shook her violently. “Neh! Neh!!!”
“Submit to me, or I’ll tear your dirty cxnt to ribbons!” roared Akira.
Sanae feared it was no empty threat. “Hai! HAI!!! I submit! I submit! You are…you are my Mistress!!!” Her tears flowed as she heard her own words, and her battered body shook with sobs as she understood how deeply she meant them.
Akira did not immediately remove her fingers and terror surged through Sanae as she feared the woman might actually make good on her threat. Then, Akira released her, standing up over her as Sanae lay trembling and sobbing between her feet.
Akira bent and took Sanae by the hair again. Sanae whimpered as her captor dragged her upright again. She wanted to raise her hands to protect herself from any more pain but her arms felt as though they were made of lead. Rather than hit her again however, Akira turned her and pulled her on her knees to the edge of the arena, nearest to where Jun and Yuki knelt unmoving.
Sanae swayed against Akira’s thigh, her head hanging. She did not dare raise her eyes to look at Jun. She had failed her Queen. She had failed her pack. She had dishonored them and herself. She could bear to see the disappointment in Jun’s eyes, the scorn or, even worse, pity.
“You are defeated, girl.” Jun’s voice was like ice. Sanae said nothing and continued to hang her head, eyes downcast. “Now…choose your punishment. Will it be death…or dishonor?”
A shudder ran through Sanae from head to toe. She felt Akira’s hand tighten in her hair as the victor stepped behind her, and her arm slipped beneath Sanae’s chin to cup her jaw. With a single swift twist, she could snap Sanae’s neck.
Sanae trembled. She knew what was in store for her at her new Mistress’s hands. She wanted – so badly – to choose the honorable path, and to ask Akira to end her life. She opened her mouth and stammered, “I choose…slavery.” She slumped in Akira’s arms, sobbing in shame.
There was a long silence. “So be it,” said Jun.
Akira straightened up, letting go Sanae’s chin. Keeping her other hand in the defeated fighter’s hair, she turned Sanae on her knees and led her back across the area to where her own escorts waited. There she stopped, facing them. “I bring you this prize, for the honor of our cat pack…for the honor of Dark Water.”
“You honor our pack,” they both replied in unison. The Queen continued, “She is yours to command and use, until the next full moon, when she will take her place among us.” Sanae shuddered at her words.
Akira released Sanae’s hair. Sanae fell forward onto all fours, trembling. Akira stepped forward to the very edge of the arena, gazing up at her Queen. “Okaa-san…may I?”
The other woman nodded and, without a word, reached into the voluminous sleeve of her kimono. She removed something – Akira’s body blocked Sanae from seeing what it was at first – and passed it to Akira in both hands. When Akira turned to face Sanae, Sanae gasped in horror.
It was a thick black dildo, carved from hardwood, with a round knobbed end and four other knobs along its considerable length, which the quaking Sanae thought was almost as long as her forearm. Its base was fitted into a leather pocket, which in turn was attached to leather straps. Standing, facing her, watching her, Akira began to buckle the strap-on around her hips.
Sanae did not move, did not protest. What could she do? This was the price of failure, of defeat, of dishonor – and it was only the beginning.
Akira walked around Sanae in a slow circle, and took her place behind the defeated fighter. She knelt slowly between Sanae’s spread legs, and took hold of Sanae’s quivering hips. “By the rite of combat,” she declared in a loud, clear voice, “I claim this bitch” and she thrust the hard, thick head of the dildo deep into Sanae’s ass.
Sanae let out a long quavering howl of abject misery as the device rammed deep into her, her forehead on the mats, her fingers clawing at the mats. Akira pulled it almost all the way out – the carved knobs felt like there was more than one – and then drove it home again, dragging another scream from Sanae.
The pain, the degradation, was almost more than Sanae could bear. Yet it was also no worse than she deserved. She sobbed, she moaned, she writhed in the depths of despair. She wished the floor would open up and swallow her.
When Akira reached forward to grab her by the hair, arching her back, and still brutally fucking her ass with the strap-on, it grew worse still. As the dildo thrust deep, it now pressed hard against her pussy through her inner walls. That did nothing to decrease the pain but it added a perverse dark pleasure to the storm of sensation that ravaged her body and mind. The pleasure and the pain conspired to break her down deeper, seeking out and defeating the last shreds of her spirit.
Her moans and cries took on a different tone, and it was not lost on her tormentor. “HA!” sneered Akira. “Listen to her, Okaa=san! The proud cat is nothing more than a mewling kitten! Listen to her moan…a slut in heat!” She slapped Sanae’s ass hard. Sanae’s yelp of pain turned into a drawn-out moan of desolate lust. “Cum for me, kitten!” She slapped Sanae’s ass again.
Sanae howled. “Please…please….Mistress! MISTRESSSSSS!!!!” The last of her defenses crumbled and she climaxed, helplessly, over and over, the spasms mounting, wave upon wave. She heard Akira’s taunting voice over the sound of her own cries, over the pounding of her heart, over the rushing of blood in her ears. “Cum for me, slave. My slave…my slave…my slave.”
Your slave, she thought, your slave, as the darkness rose up to swallow her.
THE END
