Erica reeled from the force of the overhand right.
It was a little stronger than she anticipated; her vision swirled, the cries of the surrounding crowd faded. For a moment even she wondered if she was going to stay on her feet, but she managed to pull herself back together in time to see Juarez charge her for the finishing blow.
Of all the people Erica had known in her so-called career, Pablo Juarez was, hands down, the biggest asshole she ever squared off against. Oh, he could back it up, sure; the 5'5", 197 lb. man moved like a fox and hit like a tank. Erica was not afraid to admit that his undefeated record was earned.
And it wasn't even the comments he made. Being a woman in this environment -- a young white woman, no less -- meant that she was going to hear some nasty shit from her male competitors. Juarez claiming that he was going to rape her in the pit in front of everyone? Compared to what she had heard throughout her rise to the top, the threat was adorable. However, the psychological warfare had moved beyond words and into infuriating emotional terrorism. Her friends started getting viciously attacked. Late night phone calls became routine. She even received cum-stained pictures of her getting changed in the locker room. Juarez had really crossed the line between "psyching out your opponent" and "being a total dick."
It angered Erica, but she knew that was the point. So she played along, tearfully threatening to kill Juarez, cut him up into pieces, mail his dick to his mother, blah, blah, vengeance, blah. That would make Juarez confident that she had been softened up, and he would stick to his usual gameplan. He wouldn't have the incentive to figure out that, amongst other critical weaknesses that Erica would exploit during their sixteen minute brawl, he left his midsection open whenever he charged his opponent.
Erica sidestepped Juarez's charge and quickly pivoted in time to land a devastating kick to his stomach. With Juarez doubled over from the surprise blow, Erica landed a powerful right uppercut that knocked him flat on his ass.
The crowd started coming back into focus now, and the sudden change in momentum had them going apeshit. Erica fed off the energy, delivering a few spirited stomps to Juarez's stomach. When she was pretty sure she felt the crack of a rib under her foot, she pinned his shoulders with her knees and started pounding on his face for all she was worth.
When the referee finally stopped the fight, Juarez's face was a distorted red mass that could only mutter semi-conscious gibberish. For good measure, Erica grabbed his limp right hand and twisted it until she heard a sickening snap. And before the ref could pull her away, she managed to yell in Juarez's ear "Have fun jerking off to my picture now, you dumb motherfucker."
Her work done, the bruised and bloodied Erica stood in the center of the ring and posed victoriously for the crowd. The 26-year-old minx had started as a novelty in mob kingpin Lou Torretto's underground fighting circuit a couple of years ago. The area the fights took place in was referred to as "The Pit", situated in the basement of a dingy gym Torretto owned. The Pit itself was a large circle dug in-ground, closed off by chicken wire and surrounded by cheap bleachers. It was a little less chaotic than the typical fight club and, despite the outwardly appearance, attracted a decent class of people.
Torretto's first impression of Erica was that she was some crazy bitch with a death wish. Everyone, himself included, expected her to get dominated by her stronger, heavier male opponents. That first match was practically sold as a comedy: "This stupid broad just graduated college and her idea of rebelling against Daddy is to throw down with feral brawlers twice her size! This is a five spiral crash, boys!" When she won it by submission after fifteen minutes, it was written off as a fluke. So she won the second fight by knockout in seven minutes; it still wasn't good enough. So she went on an incredible 14-win streak that was long enough to turn her ironic appeal into genuine adoration amongst follower and fighter alike. When she finally did lose -- by knockout in a 45-minute epic -- she was applauded. Torretto later remarked that he had never seen anything like it in his 17 years running The Pit; there were people who lost a lot of money on her, too drunk on the spectacle to be angry. They actually laughed as they cut checks for as high as two hundred large.
Her scrappy personality was a big part of her popularity, but it helped that she was easy to look at. The only traditionally beautiful qualities she had were natural 36C breasts and a firm hourglass figure, shown off quite nicely by the dark grey sports bra and gym shorts she wore in the pit. Otherwise, Erica's dark brown hair was cut short to give her opponents one less thing to grab, and her body was covered in tattoos.
The designs weren't overly elaborate or even colorful, but she had line drawings of angel wings on her shoulders and upper back, connecting to an abstract design above her breasts that prominently featured a large fleur de lis above her cleavage (which was slight in a sports bra that held down her boobs). Below that, spanning the width of her taut stomach, was a design featuring the word "Salvation" hanging tantalizingly below her navel. Another small abstract design sat on the small of her back. All in all, Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Model was not her look, but nobody seemed to mind.
Erica watched as Juarez was carried off by a couple of Torretto's thugs, and smiled. Torretto had found out about the shit Juarez was pulling, and was ready to fuck him up at the drop of a hat. Erica asked him to let her handle things in The Pit before deciding if he wanted to break off a piece (literally, as Torretto put it) for himself. She thought the beating she doled out would've been enough.
"Guess I thought wrong," she told herself.
Torretto allowed his fighters full use of the gym's locker rooms to get cleaned up and changed in. However, the "male" and "female" designations were largely ignored; both rooms were used for the benefit of separating fighters who still wanted to kill each other before and after a fight. Torretto never expected to have a woman fighting under his banner and wasn't about to change things just because one was crazy enough to sign up.
It didn't bother Erica, though. After her headlining bout, she hung out in the exercise area, icing the night's bruises and treating any cuts while her male cohorts finished showering and dressing. She suspected that these days she could shower with the boys without much grief, but out of respect -- not to mention basic common sense -- she waited her turn.
After a few playful parting shots to her opponent for next month, Erica was finally alone. Juarez had used the Women's Room this week, so all things being equal, Erica left her stuff in the Men's Room to avoid him. She went there to take her shower.
The hot water felt damn good on her sore body, and she sighed in relief as she began to scrub the grime of the fight off of her, wincing as she brushed over the occasional bruise.
She thought about Juarez's threat to rape her in front of everyone, in the middle of The Pit. While everything else was unnerving as hell, the threat itself didn't bother her. She wondered why; she had been raped before, and what little of it she could remember was far from pleasant. Her best guess was that Juarez's threat wasn't grounded in the actual violence of rape (though that was definitely present), but rather the shame and humiliation of being exposed and rendered helpless in front of a crowd that normally saw her as untouchable.
Try as she might, Erica found no shame or humiliation in the idea of a hundred people watching her get fucked. The forced entry would be terrible, no doubt about it, but would it really be so bad if her fans -- who couldn't possibly perceive her as an innocent, despite the alias she fought under -- saw her naked?
Erica closed her eyes. Her hand traveled downward toward the sparse tuft of hair above her entrance.
She replayed the fight with Juarez in her mind, but rewrote the ending. This time, Juarez knocked her down. It was her shoulders pinned to the earthen floor. He looked out to a crowd that was anxious to see his next move.
Erica twirled the hairs of her muff around her finger.
Juarez backed away from her carefully, not wanting to give her too much space to make a move, as if she could -- or would. He reached out and clutched the front of her cheap sports bra. With a powerful yank, he ripped it clean off her chest, exposing her firm, smooth, tattooed chest to a fan base that was always curious as to what her tits looked like.
As the crowd in her head roared with approval, Erica's other hand began to toy with and tweak her puffy nipples. The hand that ventured south began to massage the skin just outside her lips; they began to ache about as much as her wounds, but in a much different way.
Juarez flipped Erica around and hauled her little shorts off of her ass, inciting the crowd even further. As he pulled off his own shorts, the crowd started a chant: "Fuuuuck her! Fuuuuck her!" Erica felt a hand on her neck pushing her into the ground, then felt the entire weight of Juarez on top of her. His hot breath blew in her ear as his solid eight inches slid into her tunnel.
Erica shuddered as her fingers plunged into her depths. The crowd had never been louder or more approving, and as always, she fed off of it. She moaned like a whore, determined to turn this debasement into empowerment, determined to make Juarez angrier so he could drill her harder. And after she had her fun, she'd turn it around with a chop to the throat and make him pay for thinking he could humiliate her. She'd beat him so bad, he'd have to learn to walk all over again. His plan would backfire; she wouldn't be a helpless rape victim, she'd be a warrior goddess who allowed his disrespectful ass to penetrate her out of perverse curiosity and convenience.
Warrior goddess...the way it sounded in her head was sublime, turning her on even further. An idealized woman, the perfect fantasy of men, representing the fighters of The Pit. As adept at pleasure as she was at pain. She would honor many with her presence, but bless only the most worthy with her embrace, and damn the insolent with total annihilation of the spirit -- which, of course, would include partial annihilation of the body.
