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....