Bonnie
We squatted on our haunches in the pit fists up, circling warily, like scorpions ready to lash out with our deadly stings, cocks taunting each other. Both of us primed to fight, maul, scratch, tear, punch, kick, gouge, and mete out any punishment in order to emerge victorious. It was easy to forget this was only a friendly sparring match, practice for the real thing, nae one of our competitive bouts for prize money.
‘To the victor go the spoils!’ I joked – with considerably more bravado than I really felt inside.
Inside, I felt afraid: my gut was full of acid bile. Practice or nae, Isla would fight tooth, claw, talon and nail, fight me for real. Then she’d go in for the kill with her inevitable coup de gras.
Isla had never lost a fight. I tried nae to think of the harm she could inflict, life-altering injuries Maud called them, permanent, facial scarring, crippling bone fractures, brain damage. To make matters even worse, I had to get up at four to go work next morning. If I managed to beat Isla.
My mood brightened, the video of our contest: two nude girls beating each other to submission, would fetch thousands on the dark web. He’d see to that once he’d finished playing on his own, or maybe not on his own. Stead came from a poor background. The tragic accident made him dependent, that much I knew: on me, Isla, on someone else: a private nurse or carer? And where did the prize money come from? The really big money. Who were our sponsors? The monetary mechanics who greased our open palms with gamblers gold. Who hid from us at the centre of the spider’s web? Who would, one day, fund my forthcoming fight spectacular in East London?
I shuddered at the thought of my opponent, yet to be confirmed, beating me senseless in a cage in front of all those paying guests: my suppression, humiliation, almost certain defeat. I’d lost confidence in my ability to strike first, our first strike capability, Isla called it, and win. I was finished with fighting: risking my life, limbs and reputation every time I climbed into the cage. Most of all I wanted to be like normal women, lead a normal life, marry Isla and have her bairn. To love Isla and have her bairn was all I needed more than anything else in the world. There was nae chance of our marriage, my bairn or living a happy life together, if I lost my final fight.
She crowded out my thoughts, ‘You sound nervous, girl. Are you sure you want to go ahead?’
Isla enraged me when she talked down at me, belittling me like that. Taunting with her constant inane chat was the method she used to disarm her opponents, weaken their defences. That along with hissing, grunting, groaning, spitting and all her other obvious physical and sexual charms.
I’d personally organised transmission of this video. Demand for fighting women had swollen like a benign cyst on the cheek of the dark web during lockdown. Fighting to the death without rules, our specialism, simply provided the silent hordes of late- night viewers with the sickliest cream on their squalid cakes. Millions of illicit subscribers would be watching us fight for them tonight and I had nae intention of letting them down.
‘Let’s just fight can we, Isla?’ I said.
I kicked her in the belly, hard enough to make her keel, curl and pant, let her know who’s boss.
She recovered quickly using my surname as her put down, ‘Uh if that’s what you want, Laird.’
I told her it was what I wanted.
Isla fought back. All hell let loose. Her reaction stunned me. It was if she were a hand grenade and I’d just pulled out the pin. She exploded, softening me up with a blur of kicks to my face, head, thighs, hard punches to my midriff.
I went down. She fell in the space between my open thighs. We grappled on the mat. Isla held me still: in close guard, locked guard, super guard. Winded for a moment, I couldn’t move. She climbed on top of me, holding her knee across my throat, crushing my windpipe, draining me of my breath, sucking all the strength out of me, raining punches down on my head. I heard her teasing voice ring in my ears, felt her spit run off my face, her sweat smothering my torso. Isla was dripping with sweat, from her stress, nae from her exertions. She sweated bucketloads saturating me with her brine.
‘Had enough, Laird?’ she said, panting heavily.
I couldn’t move my head, couldn’t breathe, my throat gagged, I heard myself croak, ‘Get off!’
With an immense effort of will, I kicked out with my strong legs, kneed Isla as hard s I could, and rolled her off my body. She sprang up immediately, adopting the pugilistic pose, ready to punch my head. Groggy, bewildered, confused, I hauled myself off the ground, summoning all my residual strength for one last attempt at beating my girl.
One last brawl.
Sherrill
I cut the lemon in half, cut off the ends, cut uneven slices, chose the thinnest slice, and plopped it in my glass of Capital Gin Pink Lady, my fourth of the night. A must for open-minded women with an affine for diversity in our accomplishments, women like me. There were five cubes left in the ice trays: I couldn’t be bothered to fill them up. I cracked out two icebergs, floated them in my gin with a dash, and swallowed half the glass, smacking my lips at the sublime essence of floral hibiscus, earthy thyme grapefruit zest, and vanilla from Madagascar. Tipsy, merry not drunk, drinking for pleasure, drinking to still my nerves, I finished my drink and padded up the spiral staircase round-and-round-and-round the glitterball chandelier until I reached my closet.
I was trapped in a loveless marriage, a marriage where I’d become subservient to him, in return for my treats. Other than those, all I had left were my adorable daughters Adalyn and Savannah and obscene amounts of wealth. I fancied a treat tonight, fancied my chances with him, fancied myself in the dresser mirror. Not bad,
considering I’d borne children, not bad at all. I sprayed a liberal squirt of expensive scent, the Baccarat Rouge 540, behind my ears and applied a fresh smear of cheap lippy from the minimarket.
He summoned me from the master bathroom, ‘Come and look at this, Sheri.’
I crept into our aquatic playroom, or should I say palace? The basin was the essence of luxury, large enough for two of us, finished off in white marble with authentic brass taps, situated next to full-length windows which overlooked the grounds. I opened them to let out the steam. We kept all of our bric-a-brac on the window shelf: a floral porcelain jug of freshly squeezed orange juice and glasses for me, my loofah, our shared antique carriage clock, his bar of Wright’s coal tar soap. Our en suite bath set included a matching toilet with a warm wooden seat, white marble wash hand basin, and a cupboard for his and her towels. An angular mirror hung on a steel chain on the wall above the sink. Next to the mirror, his pride and glory: the wide-screen plasma monitor dominating the bath.
Eager to share his bath, I padded over the polished wooden floorboards in my stockinged feet, past his favourite velvet red chair, where he would dry his feet,legs and crotch, to be with him.
He sighed contentedly as I stood at the end of the bath, massaging his shoulders with my fleshy fingers. I pressed my breasts and belly into his back and he reclined, spreading his legs until his knees were hugging the cool rim of the bath. Pav was partly submerged in the foamy, frothy water, watching a live video transmission of the fight.
Me? I wasn’t particularly amused.‘Watching the girls play are we Pav? What’s the matter with me? Or am I not allowed to ask?’
I pushed the palms of my hands as far as his barrel chest tweaking his tiny red nipples until he reached for me drawing my hurt face close to his. I looked beautiful hurt: my lips pursed, poker faced, fire in my teak eyes, my enchanting widow’s peak frowning beneath my shocking mane of flouncy blonde hair. I was blushing hard: a sure fire sign I was feeling horny, sensual, tonight – and left out.
He took my hands in his, guiding them, rubbing them all over his lean, muscular torso, permitting me to toy with his shallow cratered navel as he put my mind at rest.
‘My beauty,’ he said, ‘this is not a game. You are watching my girls fight. My girls understand? Stead trains, treats, even cares for them. I own them: they belong to me. Think of them as my horses chomping at the bit before a race. Except this Sheri, is no race and these are no ordinary girls. They fight. Fight for me. In two days, one of them, the tanned girl, will fight a man to the death. I back her to win. If she wins, I win, and you get to buy yourself a new frock.’
A new frock, a whole new wardrobe you mean. I calmed. In some ways, life for this spoilt brat couldn’t get much better. I had everything I could ever wish for: a beautiful Georgian mansion hidden in acres of highland forest, a sensational sports car: my stunning metallic red Ferrari, a rugged, handsome husband. If only he’d treated me with respect, more like a woman less like his dumb blonde barbie doll.
I slid my fingers over his wet belly and scratched his proud flesh with my uncut fingernails.
‘The tanned girl,’ I asserted, tenderly caressing his genitals.
He sighed in blissful surrender to my feminine persuasive charms, ‘Mmmn, the tanned girl.’
‘Not the pale girl?’
I removed my hand, wiped him on my thigh, went and stood at the far end of the bath, sideways on so that he could enjoy my stunning figure. His jaw fell. I had this incredible effect on him whenever I undressed into lingerie: my sexiest sheer see-through black suspender belt and lace stockings. Pouting my lips for him I unclipped my stockings from my suspender belt and peeled them off, then I took off my suspender belt. No point in getting them all wet.
For a moment, I stood at the end of the bath staring at him with my little girl lost eyes, relaxed, resting one hand on my hips, stroking my thigh, jutting out my pert breasts, flashing him the divine curvature of my smooth rump, my subtle tease of curly hair.
Then I clambered into the bath. The water was perfect for sex: not too hot, not too cold. Perfect.
I slapped his face. He squinted and gawped at me standing over him like his matka used to do when she scolded him for beating up boys and girls at his prefabricated skola in central Prague, as if to say: what was that for? Pav exasperated me when he behaved like this: acting innocent.
‘Don’t even know their names, do you?’ I said, ‘Don’t you have any respect for women?’
Pav just boasted, ‘None whatsoever. Quit griping and watch the fight. They’re about to start.’
I felt ill. I hated violence, especially if it involved vulnerable young women. Perhaps if I made it up to him? I ran my fingers over his lips slipping them in his mouth, intimately seducing him.
‘Want to fuck you,’ I murmured.
I was half-pissed, feeling the worse for wear after too much gin.
‘You can fuck me when they’ve finished. Now do as your told.’
I tried to pull away from him, ‘Don’t want to watch them. Going to mix us both another drink.’
He grabbed me, digging his hard nails into the soft flesh of my underarm, ‘I told you to watch.’
‘Stop it! Your hurting me!’
‘Sit in my lap,’ he hissed impatiently, ‘Watch the girls fight.’
I nestled in my man’s lap, making myself comfortable, loving the sensation of his strong arm wrapped tightly round my belly, his coarse hand gently kneading my doughy, pliant breasts as I playfully splashed my stomach with warm, soapy, sudsy water.
Oh well, I supposed, wiggling my bottom to keep him hard. At least, he doesn’t make me fight.
The fighters moved in for the kill. The cameras zoomed in for close-ups. Pav tugged my hair.
‘Ouch! Stop it!’
‘Move your head. I can’t see.’
I rested my warm head against his stubbled neck, snug in his lap, and watched. I had to admit, the girls were stunning, beautiful, unblemished in every way. Just like me when I was their age really. I felt sad, missing their youthful vitality, not jealous, just sad.
I said to him: is that better?
He felt better. I concentrated on the girls grappling in the pit, changing my mind, increasingly thrilled by the spectacle of the cockfighters: squatting naked, sumo, on the soft, crinkled mat.
My heart pounded under my breast as the camera zoomed in on the pale girl. Her skin was the colour of clotted cream. She was wearing her hair up. She looked tired.
She had pinch marks, ridged slots, either side of her nose: an industrious girl who needed to fight to make ends meet? But her eyes were bright and clear, her lipstick freshly applied. Other than spec imprints, her face bore no other tell-tale signs of exhaustion. The camera traced the contours of her body in slomo. She had a phenomenal physique, firm chin, strong neck, finely muscled shoulders. Her armpits were shaven, her chest a fetching red with blush. But it was her breasts that impressed me most: her firm, full, fabulous breasts.
Pav placed his hands on my belly. The pale girl’s waist narrowed to a lovely set of abs, slender pallid hips, a creamy belly, shallow navel, not a spot on her unblemished skin, not even a mole.
Smouldering, I ground my rear into my man’s lap, and taunted him with my rudest dare: ‘Tell me how tight I feel, darling.’
‘Slow down Sheri, I want to see them fight,’ his voice pleaded, weakly, behind my tensed back.
Frustrated! I slipped my bull’s pizzle out of me, let him take a breather, and leaned on his thigh. The tanned girl fascinated me. She was fresh-faced, smiling and confident unlike the pale girl. She had a visible raw swelling on her neck which she persisted in rubbing. How was she hurt? Her wound was too large for a mosquito bite. Mosquitoes in October? Too red for a love-bite. This was no bruise. The girl had jagged teeth. Broken in a fight? The camera scrolled all over her body, revealing her intimate secrets. Overwhelmed by her natural beauty, I sagged inside, slanting my head to one side so, he could see better and I could watch my favourite cocks fight.
My selfish, uncaring, inconsiderate man left it to the last minute before he sprang his surprise, ‘The tanned girl is by far the most experienced at blood sports,’ he said, sounding like a ring-side commentator, ‘Her name is Isla McNair. She has never lost a fight. The pale girl is Bonnie Laird, a fading starlet who has lost the confidence to fight well and lacks the willpower to win.’
My spirits fell as I realised I was backing a losing horse. Still, miracles do happen, occasionally, I hoped, crossing the fingers on my free hand. The girls came to blows. Isla ducked and weaved. Bonnie hunched her shoulders, grimly determined. Just one punch. If you can land a punch. Come on, Bonnie, you can beat her, know you can. I watched her throw a poorly aimed right hook, I think it was, missing her target’s head by miles.
‘Oh, you missed!’ yelled Isla, greatly amused, showing her fans a slip of the lip, all wry smiles.
She dropped her guard. The haymaker smashed into her face, catching her by surprise, splitting her bottom lip forcing her kisser onto her jagged teeth, cutting her lip in a deep gash, filling her mouth with blood. She gagged, coughing up blood, spitting out a stream of scarlet saliva over her chest, breasts and belly.
I felt Pav’s hands kneading my breasts. Aroused by the profuse outpouring of the girl’s blood, I lifted my bum, felt between my thighs, and slid my man’s rigid tarse inside me. His hand slid down my belly.
My girl threw her fists up in the air, hysterical, euphoric, ‘First blood to me! First blood to me!’
Isla spat a thick gob of blood at the pit. I waited, motionless, rivetted, glued to the silver screen while she spat out still more blood then dribbled her ominous words: ‘You’ll pay for that Laird.’
She reared up on her haunches, bloodied but unbowed, embattled, weakened, down but not out, flattening her opponent with a deadly kick to the jaw. My girl slumped to the ground: out cold.
I came ferociously, baring my teeth, snarling, scratching, pressing my breasts against his chest as Pav came inside me. Finally subdued, we sank into the tepid broth, calming, easing in unison.
He took his hand off my belly, let go of my breast, and gasped, ‘Please, turn them off,
Sherrill.’
I’d seen enough.
I reached for the remote and switched off, ready for bed and a dreamful night.
Maud
I wiped my mouth with the back of my wrist and got up off my knees. My hips rubbed against the cripple’s thighs. My face was full of blush. He was spent, shattered. I put on my dusky pink salmon fig leaf underwear and kissed him softly on the cheeks.
This was the ritual I performed for him every night. Why, because I felt sorry for him being so cruelly paralysed from the neck down after his horrific car crash. He had no family or friends to love him, only me. He depended on me to stay alive. I had, pretty much, dedicated my life to his care in every conceivable way.
My intimate act over, I glanced at the screen. The fight finished with Isla undisputed winner. Her victim lay comatose in a pool of fresh blood on the floor.
‘Is there anything else I can do for you tonight?’ I asked my client, patient, employer, manager.
‘No, thank you, dear, nothing else.’
‘You beauty! Get you into bed then, shall we?’
He squirmed in his wheelchair acting like a spoilt child, shaking his head, ‘No, I want to watch!’
I brushed the slick of wettened red hair off my face and smiled lovingly at him. He was alright I suppose, an ankle biter, harmless enough, demanding, sexually demanding, at times. That was to be expected after all he’d gone through. Then there were the sheilas, helping him inject them in the mirrored room downstairs. Still, who was I to complain? He paid well. Gave me a roof over my head. Long vacations in Oz in the summer.
I often wondered how he’d cope without me, his fighting girls, the rewards from our mysterious benefactor, every time they won a fight. I put on my loving, affectionate, caring, smile. The smile that never failed to break his heart.
‘Alright, how about I make you a nice cup of cocoa with some choccy biccies. Sound good?’
He laughed at me, recovering his feeble strength a little, ‘Thank you. Sounds very good.’
‘I’ll be back in a moment then. Don’t go anywhere I wouldn’t.’ I had the cruellest sense of humour.
He gripped my wrist with his one good hand, ‘No, wait!’
I flinched.I scare easily when I feel the strength of an insane man and he did appear to be clinically insane.
‘Stay with me while they finish,’ he pleaded to me, pathetic to watch, really, ‘Please, for me?’
‘If you promise me you’ll have your nightcap after and let me tuck you up in bed, sweetheart.’
He didn’t talk. We both watched Isla straddle her unconscious sparring partner, feel her pulse, examine her jaw, the back of her head, for signs of swelling. She might have damaged her girl’s brain tissue leaving her concussed, would have shaken her mentally. Boxers, cage, pit fighters, brawlers, died, suffered permanent brain damage, loss of memory, disability, from lesser blows than her decisive kick. She lay sprawled over the rug inert, oblivious to the world. I feared the worst. Minutes passed.
He was panicking like mad, ‘Think she should call a doctor, don’t you, dear? Call a doctor.’
I hated the way he called me that: dear. I found him condescending. He had no respect for me.
‘I think she should, too,’ I said calmly, ‘Would you like me to try to contact her on my mobile?’
Thankfully, the girl blinked an eye, her other eye. I sighed with relief as she came to. Her head and body showed good signs of recovery but her neural system was in tatters. She tried to stand, stumbled. I watched Isla cradle her head to her motherly breasts, comforting her. Ah, so sweet!
‘Come on, girl, let’s get you to bed,’ she said, lifting her in her tensed arms, carrying her beaten darling out of sight of camera, up to bed.
Meanwhile, he perched in his wheelchair staring at the blank screen revitalized no doubt by the thrill of naked females in combat fermenting his corrupt mind. I switched the television off, said I’d go and make his cocoa.
His obsession with the girls was spinning out of control. I was beginning to have serious doubts about his sanity, his fetishistic fantasies. Secretly, I’d planned my exit
strategy, a safe way out. As soon as I’d put my patient, poor, sickly Stead, to bed, I went to my room and called Munroe.
*****
From Thrill Ride by HJ Furl, my exciting debut novel about human blood sports out on amazon.
