All characters depicted are 18 years of age or older. Contains femdom, interracial, light bdsm, questionable consent, female muscle.
The frigid hanging mist of the night was the sweat of her body. The slick uneven gravel was the goosebumps on her skin. The dull chanting roar of the crowds, coming through the building in muted throbbing waves, was the rhythmic beating of her heart. She lived for this. Thick anticipation flooded the air like the subtle panic before the storm, she was that storm. The large black duffel bag hanging from one of her broad shoulders gave her bouncy gait a certain lopsidedness as she walked up to the private entrance of the arena. Nonetheless she maintained her natural grace while approaching the building, the spring like tendons of her legs flexing smoothly beneath her rich brown skin. She nodded curtly to the security guard manning the door. The gruff hulking guard politely acknowledged her as he slyly kept his eye on her chest, watching her small handfuls of breast fat manage to wiggle even through the constricting grasp of her tight yellow sports bra. His sight dipped quickly down her torso to the hard surface of her stomach, appreciating the smooth movement of her taut skin over her pronounced abs. Snapping his head back up to her face to check if she saw him ogling her he noticed that she seemed to be in another world. Other than her initial nod she gave no indication that she even knew he was there, staring right through him as she approached.
She continued to ignore him as she walked by while he held open the heavy metal door, without throwing so much as a grunt of appreciation over her shoulder. The guard wasn't much bothered, being quite used to blending into the background. It also made him feel somewhat less guilty about turning and leering at the warrior woman's backside, the iron firm globes of her ass swaying hypnotically in her small short shorts. Her hips had to give an exaggerated swivel to keep her balance due to the heavy bag pulling her to one side. As the door slowly drifted closed he leaned out to the side to keep the woman in his view, practically becoming horizontal at the last moment. All too quickly the metal door slammed shut, cutting him off from the sight of her sculpted ass and thick toned calves.
The crowd was louder now that she was inside but still slightly muffled through the thick concrete walls. Loud chanting and applause vibrated through the musty gray hallway as she moved down it, rattling the overhead lights. In the brief windows of quiet while the audience paused for breath she could hear the distant mumble of the announcers as they worked up the crowd in preparations for the night's events. Their voices were unintelligible as they came through the walls but it wasn't hard for her to guess at what they were saying. No doubt it was the usual pre fight jargon, a lot of "are you ready for..." and maybe some "it's gearing up to be a great night!". She was sure the phrase "match of the century" would rear its head more than once. It was something that promoters and spokesmen loved to shout but in this case it just might be true.
A large glossy promotional poster caught her eye and forced her to slow down as she passed it. Scanning over its bright surface she was drawn immediately to the image of herself, standing above her name spelled out in big block letters. RAMONA BELL, they proclaimed in bold yellow as they sandwiched her picture between themselves and the equally gaudy letters CHALLENGER printed above her. She looked on the poster every bit as fierce as she felt that night, staring intensely at her opponent with her balled fists drawn up in front of her in a fighting stance. Holding her arms in that position showed off her dark bulging biceps, which would have looked impressively massive even on a man twice her size. Her thick shoulder length hair was restrained in a tight ponytail, just as she was currently wearing it.
Once she had sufficiently admired herself she followed the printed figures gaze over to the other side of the poster where a just as intimidating figure glared back at her. The other woman was shorter than her but every bit her equal in terms of muscle mass, her own tree trunk arms bursting with strength as she held them in a mirrored position of Ramona's. Even through the photo it was possible to make out the wiry veins popping out beneath her light caramel colored skin while she flexed. Beneath her short punk hairdo her face was less angry than her opponents. A smirk, confidant and almost playful, was hung upon the points of her thin cheekbones like laundry on a clothesline. There were words above and below her as well, JACKLYN VARGAS it said at her feet while above her head reading CHAMPION.
Ramona's eyes burned into that word, "champion". By the end of the night that title would belong to her she promised herself. Determination and confidence surged through her, igniting a powerful fire deep in her belly. Every previous moment of her life, all her training and sacrifices, became but beams of light focused through a thick lens of concentrated will power. They converged from all points into the single burning focal point that was her empowered self at this moment in time. With every movement of her chiseled body she felt strength and energy pulse through her. She felt as though she had transcended her past self, shed any weaknesses that had inhabited her and become a goddess. That's what she felt like as she strode further into the backstage area, a glistening black goddess. She was moved forward by her desire for victory. The thick cords of her muscles thrummed inside of her, like the strings of an instrument playing beautiful music.
Riding the deafening waves of cheers into the bowels of the stadium she took little notice of the myriad of scuttling technicians and crew members scrambling around to make last-minute preparations. Their matching black hats and jackets making them but little dark spots whizzing around her peripheral vision, like meaningless insects swarming around a hot glowing object. A few of the bugs actually attempted to greet her as they flitted by. They nodded their heads and gave a shy wave, none had the courage to verbally address her however. Her powerful confident strides carried her past them so quickly that they would never know if she had even noticed them or not, which she didn't.
Ramona was much too busy concentrating on herself to notice much of the world around her. The black insects melted into the gray walls of the gray world that only served as a backdrop to the night's main event. Her. It was her night, no one else's. Not theirs, and not even her opponent's. Especially not her opponent's. Jacklyn was perhaps the only other being who floated around in her thoughts that night, though there was still barely enough room for her.
In some ways Jackie had been like an idol to Ramona, her inspiration. She had always been into boxing ever since she was a young woman, but she had only done it as a hobby. It was seeing Jackie that had convinced her to go pro. However it was never a feeling of admiration that had motivated her. Rather she had seen the spunky Latina crowned world champion nearly six years ago, strutting around obnoxiously like she was the best there was, and had thought to herself "yeah, I could break that bitch". She didn't care how long that cunt had reigned undefeated, she knew the truth. Jackie was sloppy. She enjoyed the fame too much, the glitz and spectacle of the spotlight. Every match there was at least one moment when she would wink to the cameras, pose for the fans, blow a kiss to her sweetheart. Those moments were the cracks in her iron shell, it was those moments that would destroy her. Ramona had known since the moment she first saw her, if Jackie was the best of the best then the best must not be very good.
And so far they hadn't been. A few people had given her trouble, but for the most part Ramona had breezed through her career. She had become known for her brutality, all substance and no style. The glamour of fame held little appeal to her and that allowed her to focus on what was truly important, her training. There were no nights out on the town for her, no boyfriends or lovers to spoil her concentration. There was only the fight. It was what allowed her to so easily defeat everyone she went up against. They all had bigger lives, stuffed full of other people who ate up their time and made them weak. Her life was only as big as the ring. While the other fighters were resting, or having fun or making love, she was busy training. Now all that work was paying off and she would finally get to wipe the shit eating smirk off Jacklyn's face for good.
As she rounded a corner and approached her locker room an errant stain of color caught in her eye. A bright yellow spot jumping out from the dreary gray sea around her. If it were any other color she might not have noticed, but yellow tended to remind her of herself. It was her color. Every uniform she fought in had to be yellow, she loved the way it contrasted brightly from the rich darkness of her skin. It stood out, just like her. Black and yellow had quickly become part of her image, that and the fierce directness of her fighting technique had quite often drawn an obvious quip from commentators. Ramona Bell was all bumblebee and no butterfly.
As she focused her vision upon the spot she saw that the color was no coincidence, it was a piece of her merchandise. A bright yellow shirt with her athletic form splayed gracefully across it, worn by a young man leaning against the wall next to the locker room entrance. A thin crowd hung around him consisting mostly of other guys wearing similarly branded apparel. Bright plastic cards granting them backstage access hung from their necks or were otherwise clipped to their clothing. An anxious excitement buzzed between them as they stood, obviously awaiting the arrival of their athletic idol. Ramona rolled her eyes and steeled herself against the impending fanatic onslaught as she approached them.
It didn't take long for one of them to notice her making her way towards them and alert the others. Within seconds the small group had surrounded her, spouting adoration and begging autographs. Her picture was candidly snapped by a greasy overweight college aged boy as he awkwardly positioned himself in front of her, turning his phone camera inward to capture both himself and her thinly disguised disdain. More photos were taken as she moved through them, nodding and weakly smiling in as little effort to interact with them as possible. While Ramona had little time for other people she generally cut her fans a bit more slack than usual, she couldn't blame them for loving her so much, but tonight was her big night and she couldn't afford to be distracted. As such, she weaved her way through the throng of admirers as fleetly as she could to get to the locker room. She had just about made it to the door when the fan in the yellow shirt that had first grabbed her attention stepped in front of her.
"I-I'm your biggest fan Ms. Bell!" He stammered meekly. "Do you think you could sign my shirt real quick?" He held out a large black marker and puffed out his chest to give her a flat surface to write on.
With no other way of getting past him other than pushing him aside, Ramona reluctantly took the marker from him. She popped the cap off and scrawled a meaningless scribble above his heart, but something caused her to pause as she was about to return the writing implement to him. There was something else about his shirt that had made her notice it. Where as the rest of the fanboys gathered around her were pretty much all wearing the same design, his bright shirt was the only one of its kind she could see. A realization unfurled in her mind that his piece of clothing, just a simple yellow shirt with her picture on it, was the very first piece of her merchandise ever sold. It was made back when she had been just starting out, before she even had a real agent or a contract. She hadn't made very many of them, and had sold even less. For him to have one of those meant he had likely been cheering her on since the very beginning.
Handing back his marker, the fighter took the opportunity to look him over a little bit closer. He stood a few inches shorter than her so that she was eye level with his short black hair. Despite his pale white skin suggesting a lot of time spent indoors he was actually in much better shape than most boxing fans ironically were. The now autographed shirt was stretched firmly around his fit solid body and when he had stuck out his chest the clearly defined cleft of his pectorals had been easily visible. Though he appeared to be somewhere in his early twenties there was a shadow of boyishness that hung about the subtle features of his face. A youthful twinkle played in his eyes as he stared reverently back at her.
If it were any other night or if she were the kind of person who believed in romantic companionship she might have been tempted to spend a little more time with a guy like him. But as things were she merely graced him with a rare genuine smile and moved past him into the locker room. The fanatic vultures still swooned after her even as she entered the restricted area, more pleas for signatures followed after her as well as the flash and click of last minute pictures being taken. Finally she closed the door behind her, sealing herself away from her adoring public.
