DOMINA THE DEMON HUNTER

       MOONLIGHTING

by Dr. Strange B. Love

                                                           

I am not a superheroine.  If you are looking for some kind of tale where some bimbo pumped up with too much ego and more boobs than brains gets the crap beat out of her by subhumanoid thugs and then rogered 'till she cums to death, you're in the wrong place.  I'm not that kind of bitch.  I'm real.  I'm sexy, tough as nails, smarter than your average slut, and I'm nobody's victim.   If that combo doesn't rock your boat, then scram over to Dan'o and whack off with his stupor-foxes.   I don't need you, and you're gonna be disappointed by what follows.

 

Of course first off, you want to know what I look like.   I know how your type thinks—if thinking's what you call it.  Okay.  I'm five foot six without heels and I weigh one eighteen in my panties and bra.  Sorry to disappoint, but my tits are 'only' a C cup.  They are, however, the perkiest, shapeliest, firmest all-naturals you're likely to run across in this lifetime or the next.   My nipples, however, are a lot bigger than ordinary, and for reasons I'll get to later, are erect most of the time so no matter what top I have on you're going to notice 'em.  I have a twenty inch waist.  If you think that's a lie, go take a piss on your left foot.   But my real asset, what draws the guys like yellow jackets to raw meat, is my perfect peach of an ass.   In my storied career, I've won more 'best ass' contests than any female on the planet and yes that includes you, Ms. Americana and Solar Woman.  Eat your super slut hearts out; my behind glows in the dark with erotic perfection.   My legs?  Well, duh.  Long, slim, strong and shapely.  Because of my extraordinarily lovely, arched feet my calves look better barefoot than most girls' do in stiletto heals.  Bottom line:  I'm an all natural sex bomb.

 

My face?  What the fuck do you care.  I could look like a nightmare crone and you still would want to fuck me.   The fact that I'm cute, with big green eyes, a button nose, and a wide cupid's bow mouth is irrelevant to you since you probably can't raise your greedy assed eyes up off my perfect body.

 

Endowed as I am, I could have pursued any number of careers.   And so I have. Model, actress, pole dancer,  undercover agent, high-end escort, skin flick diva. I've done it all.   Have you seen 'Dominique does Detroit?' Yeah, that was me under all those hot black studs back when I was barely legal.   But I'm the restless type, and none of those gigs paid enough.   In fact, that kind of stuff was mostly for kicks. And for paying the bills while I put myself through school.   Now that I've got my PhD in Paranormal Studies, though, I'm out on my own and making very, very good money at very specialized work.   Professional demon hunter, at your service.

 

I don't come cheap.

 

Of course, it's not easy to start your own demon hunting biz.  Takes a while to make your reputation, attract the better sort of clients. First year or so, I had this sleazy little office in the back part of the basement of a transient hotel down in the Waterfront district. Next to the alley, where the garbage went. There were times when I got behind on the rent even in that leaky, smelly old dump. Once the electricity even got turned off in mid February. You should of seen my nipples then! Shit, it was cold. That year, I grew thinner than looks good on me, living for several weeks on an exclusive diet of wonder bread and peanut butter. Oh, and yeah. Sometimes I got leftover pizza or Chinese out of the dumpster.  What a treat.

 

As you can tell, novice demon hunting didn't pay well. A whole lot of people thought it was just a scam profession, that demons were figmentary imaginations or something that only happened  somewhere else, maybe in Haiti or some other poor and primitive place. Hah! Hard to imagine that attitude now, isn't it, with demon cells suspected in every city, town and barnyard.  The human race is in deep shit, alright.  And now it needs the likes of me.

 

 That first year, I made my share of rookie mistakes. Once or twice I got stiffed by my clients who were too crooked to pay even when I delivered for them.  Now that I have the big-time rep, though, I don't have those kind of problems. I require a nice, fat deposit up front and always leave 'options' open for collecting the final payment. I haven't been fucked over by a client ( 'fucked by' is another matter) in a long time. But that first year was rough. So bottom line was I had to start moonlighting.  No choice. Since turning tricks wasn't my thing—boring, and too many limp-dick creeps who treat you like a mindless fuck bucket—I looked around for other possibilities. 

 

Demon hunting takes a bunch of time and energy, so I needed to find work that paid good, didn't hog my time, and used my natural abilities.  Something I could do maybe one or two times a week and pay my bills with.  Did I mention that I'm a first rate athlete?  Bench press more than most football players, run the one hundred just a tick off world record time, graceful as a cat and quick as a sweat fly: that's me. Also, I got a black belt in Kwan Fung Do and was a pretty fair kick boxer back in the day when.  So what else was I going to do with all this beauty and talent?   Right. You guessed it. I called up this agent I know and he got me signed up for the Metro City Big Time Wrestling League. 

 

If you're a fan, you knew me as Domina, the Red Head Hellion.  The hair was fake, by the way.  I'm naturally raven-haired—the management wanted it red for marketing and promo so I had to dye it with henna. If you don't know about MCBTWL, then you're a putz.   But in case you don't, here's the basic bottom line:  yeah, it's all rigged and fake. But that doesn't mean it isn't also real.  The whole idea of a match is for somebody to get the crap beat out of them, then get humiliated in front of the invariably huge audience of sick, perverted sadists and bloodthirsty maniacs.   The studs and bitches that act out this nasty show are of course all pumped up on steroids and crystal meth and Tonic, so they're not exactly gentle and tame.  Since in those days straight man to man or woman to woman wrestling was no longer making profits, the promoters had been forced to come up with something new and dirty to feed the public Beast.   Bingo. The hot mega-bucks ticket they dreamed up was to  match macho dudes up against tough-assed amazons. 'Intersexual no-holds-barred,' it was called officially.  We gladiators, however, called it cock-and-pussy show.

 

Obviously,  things are bound to get out of control sometimes with this kind of actors and this kind of scenario. And believe me, yeah, they do.  This may shock you, but that's why I liked it.  The element of surprise; I've always been a sucker for it.  Those matches start out scripted and choreographed, but lots of times something happens part way through and everything whirls out of control.   It's that element of unpredictability that kept me coming back into the ring in those days, no matter how bad and often I got my ass whupped.   

 

That and the money. A little known fact is that the pay's a lot better if you sign to lose.   Sure, I know.  Sorry if that busts your bubble.  But the true skill in this kind of faux fighting is not in winning, but in losing convincingly. After appearing to get the upper hand, said designated loser has to succumb to a dirty move or two by your nasty-ass, villainous, dastardly & evil foe. He or she has to go down in defeat in a way that makes the fans feel they got their money's worth.   Depending on what and how much you're willing to submit to, the bonuses can be absolutely killer for losing with verve and panache. When I was a rookie, this sham appalled me and I protested loud and long about it. But I wised up soon enough.

 

Plus they cover your medical.

 

You want an example.   Okay.  I'll tell you about my tag team fight with Mistress M and her husband and business manager,  the Haymaker.  I stress in advance this was not a typical match, but it certainly was memorable. I'm told it might have become one of the biggest selling DVD's  of all time. However, for reasons that will become obvious to you the Metro City authorities have banned it.  There are supposed to be pirate versions out there; I haven't seen them. Whatever. For the lucky standing-room-only fans who were there that night in the Ampitheater, it was a fight they'll never forget.

 

I had been wrestling for six months. I had got my weight back up nicely, was eating good, and was in excellent condition. At that point I was undefeated: 21-O with three draws. I had put together a nice solid rep as a dirty fighting, arrogant, ball-busting amazon dominatrix.  The audience goons just loved to boo me! But I always beat up on the tough guys that were twice my weight and more, humiliating them with great skill and art.  I'm not saying it wasn't fun. But through it all, I was forever nagging the promoters to give me a loser so I could catch up on my bills. Until tonight, they had refused. Said I had to build up a nasty reputation as a super bitch first, before giving me a loser would pay off for them. So I hung in there.  Tonight was payback time.

 

I was paired up with a pencil dick by the name of Marvylous Martyn.  It was also the first time I'd ever fought tag team, and I'd never met this guy before even though the promos were already suggesting that we were, like, some kind of tabloid love item.  In your dreams, Marty baby!   Oh, he was big alright.  Six six, three eighty or so, a mass of steroid ballooned muscle.  But slow as a panda and dumber still.   And a lazy pervert coward. Our foes, on the other hand, had been the reigning champs until the bout the previous week, when they'd taken a licking from none other than Captain America and Wonder Woman in a highly promoted charity event.   So though I didn't know it going in,  the night they fought me they were still seething with resentment, their tender egos badly bruised, and were looking to put the hurt on someone big time. Oh lucky me.  They actually had got their egos high on being big time wrestling champs.  Pathetic, huh? Go figure!

 

I don't want to come off here like I didn't know the score.  I thought I knew the program, alright. The match plan was to go back and forth for half an hour, six rounds: the usual fake dance of brutal beating, limb wrenching, crotch punching, back twisting, neck pounding, tit and face slamming, abdomen kicking, and schoolyard bully girl-boy mouthing off. I was scheduled to take the final fall and let myself get pinned in the eighth or ninth.   Nothing special. For this simple stock pseudo-drama, my take was going to be enough to catch up on bills and pay the rent ahead for three months, with maybe enough left over for some much needed wardrobe enhancement and at least one good meal for two at Yanice's Bistro.  Real money. I was planning to take out Earl the Pearl, my main man. I like to spoil him when I can.  As I put on my fighting costume and drank my pre-fight Tonic, I could almost taste those raw oysters and that fine French bubbly. 

 

Yeah, okay.  Let's deal with that.  The Tonic.  You don't enter the ring without it if you're female.  Doesn't work for males.  Or so they say.  Supposedly it's a product of the Institute, the active ingredient of which is Fox mamm milk.   I couldn't say what's in it.  Nasty stuff. It's whitish, tastes like rotten coffee grounds and moldy cheese. It leaves the taste of stale cigarettes in your mouth.  But it does the job.  The effect lasts a while—maybe two hours, or a little less.  Makes your nipples rock hard. It doesn't make you invulnerable, but it makes you feel invulnerable.   Your bod feels the pain, but seems to recover super-fast from extreme punishment. Cuts and bruises, even broken bones.  You're like the energizer bunny. You keep getting up.  The whole thing is, the fight must go on.   Because if you don't make it through the full fortyfive minutes, you lose your bonus.   Especially if you're gonna take the fall in an epic battle, as I was, then you better dose up good.   So dose up I did.

 

 As I strode confidently out of the tunnel and up the runway toward the ring, I could feel the Tonic's power coursing through me.  Those nipples of mine felt like they were going to slice right through through my new satin costume top. Wolf whistles from all sides, offers of marriage (and offers of a less honorable kind),  obscene whispers cascaded on me from the mostly male audience as I leaped nimbly to the stage and gracefully hopped the ropes.  I loved it.   I knew what they were seeing, and I envied them:  looking at me in my wrestling costume is, in all modesty,  akin to looking at a great work of art.  Usually, of course I wore black. But tonight I had on  my brand new, gorgeous blue and gold strapless one piece, cut  high cut at the hips and so low at the small of my back that you could see the top two inches of my crack. It was one helluva piece of fashion engineering.   It clung to my body like a second skin.  The audience roared their approval as I danced around the ring in full show-off mode, finishing off by jumping up onto the middle rope at the corner post and leaning out toward them like the figurehead on a ship, showing my cleavage to the front section and my fabulous glutes to the back.

 

The rest of the cast made their way to the stage.  I'd never seen Marvylous Martyn except in pictures, and my first impression was that he was indeed a hunk.  He looked up at me as he approached and gave me a sleepy eyed wink and  for a minute or so I was reassured.   Maybe this wasn't going to be so bad after all.

 

I was less reassured as I watched Haystack and the Mistress make their grand entrance, accompanied by a chorus of boos, taunts and catcalls.   A lot was being made of their recent defeat, and it didn't take a psychic to see that they were truly pissed off.  Haymaker was only about six feet tall, but just about as wide as that in the shoulders.   He had a roundish, fleshy baby face and a spiky black beard. He wore nothing but one of those black sumo diapers. Made his cock real obvious. His muscles weren't very defined.  Very,very hairy. It was the kind of apelike body that tended to fat. He even had a righteous grand paunch a'hanging and a'jiggling as he strode.  But I didn't let this deceive me.  He moved with animal grace that suggested exceptional speed and strength. He exuded raw male power.   My crotch twitched  as he looked at me with cold purpose.  

 

Mistress M was breathtakingly beautiful that night, in the way that only pure female rage can make a woman.   Tall and slender, with an enormous amazon bust that rivals Ms. Americana's, she wore a low cut black leather halter with sequined straps and black leather hot pants.  As she stalked around the floor beneath the ring, she shot fire from her black eyes at the hecklers and perverts who razzed her from the bleacher seats. She stood for several moments with her backside to me, trading insults with a dork in black rimmed coke bottle glasses who must have said something pretty bad. The sight of those curvaceous ass cheeks brazenly displayed in those scanty hot pants caused me literally to gasp.  I confess that for a moment the sight of that proud, potent, perfect rump made me doubt the superiority of my own gluteus treasures. I know you find that hard to believe; I can see it in your eyes.  Knee high black stiletto healed boots and fishnet stockings completed her rig, exploiting a pair of long, shapely and powerful legs. I don't scare easy.  But the look she gave me as she slid snakelike through the ropes into the ring was of such pure malice that for a moment I forgot this show was all a big fake.

 

After all the stupid pre-fight hype and bullshit, I was ready to get down to business.   The bell rang.   Mistress M and I strode to the center of the ring and began to stalk each other.   We circled warily, oblivious to the chorus of catcalls.   I struck first, grabbing a hank of her straight black hair and pulling her into my fist, which connected hard with her cheek.  She screamed, and I saw black and blue beneath her eye.   She lunged at me in rage, and I slid easily from her grasp, tripping her as she flew by.  She fell hard on her face but was back on her feet instantly.  We clinched, groping for dominant holds. She grabbed the back of my neck two handed and levitated her whole body off the floor while pulling my face down into her knee.   I saw stars.   She had me by the hair and I couldn't get my head free.  She began to drive her knee into my belly, so hard it lifted my feet off the floor.  The first three didn't hurt but the fourth, fifth and sixth hurt like hell.   I could hear myself going 'Hnnngh' and 'Arrrrp' and then starting to squeak like a dying bluejay.  It was too early in the fight to be letting it get out of hand like this. She hurled me into the corner post, straightened me up by grabbing me by the windpipe, and began to bitch slap my face with out-of-control fury.   My head and hair flew back and forth.   This was not good.   I had to do something.  Fortunately, she was so out of control she left me an opening.   I brought my knee up into her cunt, hard.  So hard she doubled over, screaming, and fell to the mat clutching her pussy with both hands and bleating like a mortally wounded sheep.   I could have finished her off right there, but that wasn't in the script.  Besides, she had really hurt me.  My lip was bleeding, my skull ached, and my abdomen felt as if it had been whacked with a 4X4.   I staggered around, bent over and clasping my throbbing gut, as Haymaker tagged his partner and rolled under the bottom rope into the ring.  

 

The exciting thing about mixed tag team is that it's asymmetrical.   Right now, as I faced off against Haymaker, the odds were I could out-dance him a good while, but he'd catch me eventually.  In a contest of pure muscle, he'd have the advantage.  So, as I hopped around the perimeter of the ring, staying out of reach of his relentless pursuit, I kept waiting to feel my partner's tag so I could get out of there and take a much needed break.   It never happened.  Big H grabbed me in a bear hug, picked me off the floor as my booted feet kicked savagely but ineffectively at his shins, and began to squeeze.  I could feel my ribs getting crushed.  Something cracked inside. I screamed. He reached down, grabbed me by the crotch, lifted me above his head, and slammed me to the floor on my back.   I spasmed, my spine a searing tower of agony.  Yes, that move really hurts. In case you wondered. He stomped me in the gut, and I doubled up off the floor. He grabbed me by the hair as I sat there and began punching my head. My arms hung limp and useless.  I was thinking that this wasn't the way it was supposed to go.  Me and Marvy were supposed to bully them bad for eight rounds, then they were supposed to snatch victory from the paws of defeat. Haymaker dragged me by my long hairs to the center of the ring.  He slammed my head down so hard I almost blacked out. He drop kicked me with his full weight on my left thigh. I thought he had broke my leg.  Without pause, he dragged me to my feet, holding me up like a marionette since I was pretty much in a dead faint, then threw a punch to my chin that was worthy of his name which spun me head over heels onto my belly and slammed me crotch first into a corner post. Before I could think he had hair dragged me back to center of the ring.  I lay there on my belly gasping for breath, my whole body trembling, my chest heaving. He took his time ambling around me, then grabbed my ankles and yanked them up ff the floor. He drew back his whole leg and place-kicked me  right in my cunt.   I squealed like a pig.  The referee protested.  That move was totally illegal.  You're allowed to stomp your foe's crotch, but not to kick it like that.  Shit it hurt.  I lay there with my knees curled to my chest and both hands clamped on my pussy.  He  yanked my legs apart, flipped me on my back, got to his knees,  and put my knees up over his shoulders. He ground his groin into mine.  Even through the pain I could feel his rock hard cock. There I lay mou nted  and pinned.  One...two...just before the count, he leaned to one side and subtly raised my shoulder for me—no way I could of done it myself-- and bounced to his feet.

 

I was sobbing.  Tears blinding me. The Tonic was working, so I wasn't as seriously injured as you'd think or anyway the injuries were healing fast.  But that didn't make the hurt any less. After I don't know how long, I rolled over on my hands and knees and tried to get to my feet.  My knees were spread, my ass an irresistible target. He kicked me again in the crotch, so hard that I was lifted off the mat and sent flying across the ring.  Revenge for what I'd done to his Mistress I guess.  Double revenge. I lay there clutching and massaging my cunt and screaming in agony, unaware that she had tagged him out and was now back in the ring with me.  Where was my partner?  

 

She had me by the ankles, and began to spin me around the ring in ever faster circles.  Knowing what was coming didn't make it any easier. She timed the release perfectly, letting me go so that I flew head first into the corner post with tremendous force.  The posts are padded, but not that much.  Underneath is solid steel.   My face lay crammed into the rubber padding, my left arm tangled in the middle rope, my right dangling lifelessly. It was dislocated, I think.   I may have been unconscious for a bit.   Next thing I know I'm upright, but my arms are twisted into the top ropes and my legs are spreadeagled and tangled in the bottom rope.   She's punching me in the tits and belly, then in the mouth, then boxing my ears, relentlessly.  The ref calls her off.  I fall from the ropes flat on my face, my widespread legs still tangled in the bottom rope and my ass up in the air. I'm panting with pain and exhaustion.   The bell rings.  One round down. Eight to go.

 

I'm on a folding chair in the corner. Martyn is behind me, whispering something in my ear.   The crowd is roaring so loud I can't hear him.   I figure he's telling me he's gonna take over the next round, so take it easy.   He's massaging my shoulders, then pops the dislocated one back in. I scream, but I'm already getting hoarse.  “Easy,”  I hear him say. Then he's reaching under my arms and cupping my breasts and the audience is roaring its approval.  This pisses me off but I'm too dazed from the beating I've suffered to do anything about it.   The fucking bastard kisses me on the neck and grabs my nips through my top and tweaks them!   Loud, happy cheering.  What the hell?   “Go get em' girl,” he's saying to me now. “You've took the worst they can give ya, now go give 'em hell!”

 

“WHAT?”  I cry, as the bell rings.   He disappears into the shadows behind me.  

 

The Tonic has done its thing, even if my partner is a born dipshit.   I'm ready to rock and roll and as Haymaker lunges at me I clock him in the mouth, snapping his big baby head back, following with a furious series of combos to his face, finishing with an uppercut that staggers him back into the ropes.  He bounces off toward me and I clothesline him.   He falls flat on his back.  I climb up on the corner post and jump two-footed on his big fat belly.   That gets through.  He doubles up, gurgling like a puking dog.   I kick him in the head, and blood splatters from his nose.    He cowers to the side of the ring where the Mistress tags him and he tumbles out onto the ringside floor.

 

She stands before me and smirks.  I'm panting, and the power is coursing through my body so I'm not worried.   I should be.   The look she gives me is peculiar.   I've never experienced anything like it before or since.  With her eyes, she has gained some sort of power over me.   I can't really explain it.   One minute, I'm full of fury and raging power, the next I'm a scared little girl.   She comes toward me and I back away, strangely unable to stand up to her.   Somehow with her eyes, she's taken all my momentum away.   Faster than I can react, she kicks me in the left tit.   It hurts so bad I clutch it with both hands.  Stupid.  She kicks again, right upside my head, which slams into the corner post.  Lobotomy. She lifts my lifeless body up onto the post, cramming my crotch down, impaling me on the knob of it. I bellow like a lovesick cow. She climbs up on the ropes so her crotch is right in my face, I notice she's got on blood red panties,. She snakes her arms down over my shoulders, grabs me two-handed by the waist, then straightens her legs, pulling us both back up, out and over the ring, tearing my ass off the newel post and hurling me upside down into the air, legs flailing,  then backflipping the both of us down hard to the mat with devastating force.  All the breath is blown out of me. I gasp like a beached blowfish. I clutch at the small of my back with one hand, pounding my other fist into the mat.  My whole body goes into spasm as I writhe and twist violently. She admires my predicament for several moments, then grabs me by one ankle and tugs me to the corner.  I feel two hands as Haymaker grabs my ankles and yanks my crotch hard into the corner post.  I can't move my legs. The Mistress sits on my face.   I can smell her pussy. The hot, ripe sweat and juices of her crotch pollute my nose and lips.  I'm suffocating. She digs her fingers deep into my tits and claws them.  My arms and fists flail wild and helpless at the searing pain.  She shoves her fingers under the cups of my bustier and rakes me like a lioness.   My cries are muffled in the flesh pot of her steaming loins.   I'm blacking out again.

 

Next thing I know all is confusion.  I can't think, can't remember who I am or where. Concussion. Apparently, my partner has at last gone into action, and is going at it with the Mistress in the center of the ring.  The two of them are trading blows.   My legs are let go.  I can barely feel them. I struggle to my hands and knees, unaware that my top has been pulled down to my waist and that my gorgeous, wounded tits are naked to the eyes of over a thousand obscene fools.   I stare in stupid disbelief as globs of my blood drip to the foul mat. Is that coming from me? My partner lands a couple of blows and takes a couple.  He looks powerful enough to dominate anyone, but he fights like a big pussy.  I teeter to my feet, clutching my costume to my belly. My breasts are bleeding bad. The bell rings.

 

From the third round on, it's all a blur.  Marvelous Martyn fought a round or maybe two at some point but basically got the crap kicked out of him.  He didn't want to get marks on that pretty face of his, is my take.   The rest of the fight, I did all the work, and I ought to have got all the pay.  But of course that's not how it works.  Justice is not an option. At the time, I didn't realize that the audience had just about zero interest in watching Marvylous Martyn.   What they wanted, what they had paid money for, was to watch the mighty, evil Domina get beat and humiliated for nine long rounds at the hands of two inspired sadists.   I'm here to report that that sick, demented audience didn't go away unhappy. 

 

Somewhere in the seventh or eighth—who's counting any more— the Tonic began to wear off.   It's supposed to last a couple of hours, but I guess it's not rocket science.  The two of them were still tossing me around the ring like a sack of meat.  Haymaker held me up with a full nelson while Mistress Mona used my tits for speed punching.   I was starting to bruise up pretty bad.  They took turns beating me for what seemed like forever.  At some point later on, she had got my head scissored between her legs and my face was crammed in her muff again for the umpteenth time.  This seemed to be her favorite hold. By this time she had unsnapped the crotch of her hot pants which was now  more like a micro mini I guess, and  so of course there was nothing but her soggy blood red thong between my nose  and her precious.   I tell you, it was evil down there.   But there wasn't a thing I could do.  The pressure on my skull was terrible.   I was just about brain dead from all the beating anyway.  All I wanted to do was get pinned and get the hell out of there.   But they weren't finished with me yet.   Oh no.  Things were about to take a turn which, if anyone had told me before the fight, I wouldn't have believed.

 

There was a loud buzzing sound.  Yellow jackets; I hate yellow jackets.  Something vibrated against my ass.  I recognized what it was instantly, even in my beat up state.  Worse than yellow jackets. Hay-man had him a great big dildo and he was rubbing it all over my ass cheeks.  I heard the fight announcer's distant voice raised in squeaky insincere protest, could feel the referee pretending to try to pull Haymaker away from me.  I heard later he got cold-cocked for his trouble.  He lay there the rest of the so-called fight, supposedly out cold.  But I tell you, his eyes were open the whole time.  Watching, that asshole!  A few feet from me ringside, Marvelous Martyn sat back in a folding chair, watching me with a shit eating grin on his face.   He winked at me again, thed puke pig fuck face. 

 

The pressure on my head from Mistress' thighs seemed to double.  Her cunt flesh seemed to pulse around my nose and lips.   I could feel Haymaker's fingers grope under my costume crotch and yank it aside.  His fingers tried to jam into my asshole, but I clenched hard.  Then he put the vibrator there and began to shove it and work it.  My ass flesh jumped and vibrated in a blur, softening the powerful muscles against my will.  The dildo had a narrow point. It punctured my anus, kept on shoving, and before long it was deep up inside my ass.  It hurt. Bad. He shoved it in farther and it was all I could do to keep from fainting.  I don't know how big it was.  It felt like a jackhammer.  

 

Mistress released my head.  She sat behind me, flipped me on my back, and hauled me up on her lap.  She yank my top down again and pawed my naked, scratched and bruised tits. There was nothing I could do.  All my resistance was gone.   I was wore out and totally defeated, but still they wouldn't pin me and put me out of my misery.  He had another vibrator.  This one I could see.  It was huge—at least sixteen inches and thick as my wrist.   He switched it on.  The first one was still ravaging my behind.   Mistress tweaked my  nipples.  He ripped open my blue costume crotch and exposed my sweet, shaved pussy to the entire, mad, screaming auditorium.  I begged.

 

“Oh god, please, not that, not here, not like this, oh no it's too fucking big,”   I quote.

 

He grinned malevolently. I don't know where his hate came from.  I never even saw him before.  Why? He whacked the nose of the thing on my clit over and over and worked it up and down my love crack real good.  The bastard knew exactly what he was doing.  I was already good and wet; wrestling is a total turn-on.  But that vibrator made me spurt. My pussy spasmed and shot out fuck juice jets, one after another, right onto his fat hairy thigh. He snarled. Then he shoved the damn thing into me. Before it was even halfway home I could feel a monster orgasm coming on.  It was too fucking big.  But it's amazing what my pussy can take if it's totally ready.  And right then it was good and ready.

 

There was just too much happening to my body on all fronts, a full frontal and rear assault all at once.  As he jammed that big fake cock full up inside me, I rammed my pelvis up to meet it.  I forgot where I was.  I stopped caring about anything except the titanic O that was building and raging in my belly.   I spasmed my back up off the floor.  My torso was on Mistress' lap so I still  wasn't officially pinned, even though I'd been defeated over six rounds ago.   These two maniacs wouldn't let me go.  I guess my bank account was going to be grateful to them. But right then all I wanted was to die.  That's all. I wanted to disappear from this unspeakable shame and degradation.  But I wanted this orgasm even more.

 

When it came, I don't know what I screamed.   It must have been something hilarious, because my tormentors were laughing, the whole auditorium was laughing.  It seemed to go on and on forever, my back arching up off the floor and my pelvis straining convulsively as if it was trying to swallow those merciless machines jammed deep inside my love holes.  Mistress wasn't holding me anymore. She just let me go to buck and bray all across the ring.  I thought it would never end!  Eventually, I lay there on my side, twitching, stark naked with the remnants of my costume in tatters around my waist,  spilling cum from my crammed cunt and babbling god knows what.   Haymaker's belly towered above my face, straddling me. He sat on my belly, his weight crushing me.  His big heavy cock stood out hard over my tits as he stroked it with his meaty fist.  I begged again.  Of course I did.   Please don't.  Please don't cum in my face.

 

So of course he did.  Some of it went in my eye.   Some of it dribbled down my chin and neck.   It burned.  It stank.

 

“Pinfall!”   the announcer called.   It sounded as if he was laughing.   Huge applause from the audience as Haymaker and the Mistress stood over my fallen, battered, fucked out body and raised their clenched fists in victory.   The vibrators still buzzed inside me.  And off to the side I could see Marvylous Martyn, his legs up and his chair tipped back in a studied, leisure pose.  He was yawning, damn him, and examining his pretty fingernails.

 

Anyway, that's how it went down.  And yeah, in case you wondered, the bonuses got paid off, plus workers' comp. It's a well run business, wrestling. The promoters were nice, said I did real good, were eager to book me for another loser as soon as I got patched up. That was gonna take a few days, and at least a gallon of Tonic.

 

 Yeah, wrestling's fake.  But as I said earlier, it's also real.  All in a day's work, if you're the designated loser.  So anyway, I was going to tell you about demon hunting....