Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32
Hi everyone! This one is going to be a little longer — I’m moving halfway across the country (America, that is lol), and getting settled in to a new area, culture, job, and everything else different that comes with moving to a place that’s almost the exact opposite of where I was. I wanted to give you all something that might take a little longer to read, and maybe it’ll be worth revisiting because it’s that entertaining — so maybe you won’t miss me as much. I hope I’ll have time to write over the next couple of weeks, but I’m not going to promise anything — except that I will be back. ¦ Nessi
“…and we’re back live in the studio with FPW’s Thursday night Hour of Power,” John begins. “If you’re just joining us, I’m John Johnson, with me is the regularly-vanquished ‘Vixen’ Vanessa Gray, and you … you missed a short but intense mother-daughter match with Dana Davis beating, eating, fisting, and then pinning her daughter Daniella in a canvas-soaking opening match. What’s coming next, Ness?”
“A semi-final match for one of the spots in an upcoming Fatal Four-Way — the winner of that match will leave the ring with the FPW Championship belt around their waist. For the first spot, ‘Nasty’ Nicole LaRue faces one of our shemale sensations, Chantal Santee!”
The electric guitar strains of the Pretty Reckless’ “Take Me Down” starts over the speakers, the entrance curtain flying aside as Nicole stalks down the entrance ramp. Raven hair, now hi-lit with purple, swishes around her pale shoulders. Emerald eyes flash under black eyeshadow, and matching lipstick adds a stark contrast to her pale cheeks. Silver barbells glint at the pinnacle of each pale pink nipple; black & white patent-leather mid-calf boots clap on the thin mats, muscles swimming under the thigh-high fishnets covering her lithe legs. The crowd starts a “NAS-ty! NAS-ty! NAS-ty!” chant, drowning out her music.
“And here she is,” John’s almost stumbling over his words as Nicole strides around the corner of the ring, “at 5’5″ tall, 117lbs and -” he yelps as Nicole arrives at the booth, clapping a black fingerless-gloved hand over his mouth. Her other hand swipes the hand mic from the booth, lifting it to her dark lips.
“Shut off the fucking music, and shut. The fuck. UP,” she growls. The crowd’s torn between booing and continuing the “NAS-ty” chant. Muffled rumbling crackles the speakers as she rolls into the ring and hops to her boots, leaning on the top rope. Bright green eyes scan the audience, as if memorizing faces for future retribution.
Moments pass, the crowd’s curiosity dialing the boos and chant down to a low susurration. Nicole tips the mic to her parted lip – “YOU’RE FUCKING HOT, NICOLE,” a guy’s voice offers from the seats in front of her.
“There’s a Captain Obvious in every crowd,” John observes.
“I know,” a grin graces Nic’s black lips, green gaze finding the heckler, as the rest of the crowd makes a little hole around the hefty neckbeard. “At least one of you mouth-breathing fuckheads has something resembling good taste.”
“How does she know what he tastes like,” Nessi wonders.
A “FUUUUUCK YOU! FUUUUUUCK YOU! FUUUUUUUCK YOU!” chant starts up, answering her. She turns back to ring center, walking a slow circle, gloved hands held high, welcoming the tsunami of hate.
It takes more than a minute for the chant to die down. When it does, Nic turns to face “that guy”, bare forefinger lancing in his direction. The mic rests against her lower lip as she purrs, “I wouldn’t fuck you knuckle-draggers with his dick.” There’s a pregnant pause. It gives birth to: “If he can even find it.”
A low “ooohhhhh” sighs through the studio. Nic’s hand drops, and she turns to face the entrance. “Speaking of ‘finding dicks’, whenever you’re done playing with your ‘tomacock’, Chantal, feel free to come on out. Don’t rush for me — I get paid the same for beating, eating, or waiting on you.”
A couple of moments later, the thrumming drums and Native war song rumble the speakers, the entrance curtain parting. Chantal steps through — olive skin and thick, perfectly-arched eyebrows, high cheekbones, and a sharp, narrow jaw lend an exotic look. Thick black hair flows over her shoulders and down to her mid-back, a cloth headband helping keep it under control as she runs down to ringside, hands extended to high-five fans. Her arms and legs pump, beaded cloth bands circle her biceps and thighs. Simple cloth moccasins slap on the rubber mats, her smooth, shaved cock and balls swaying as she runs.
“This match is for ONE FALL,” John begins, the audience dutifully echoing “ONE FALL!!” – before he continues: “for a spot in the FPW Championship Fatal Four-Way. There’s NO time limit, NO disqualifications, and that one fall? Counts anywhere.”
“Introducing first,” Nessi picks up, “from Santa Ana, New Mexico, at 5’9” tall, 136lbs, burdur escort 34C 28 36 with a 7″ cock, she’s 21 years old — and one-half of the ‘War Party’, Chantal SANTEE!!” The crowd roars as she sprints the last few steps to the ring and launches, sliding in under the bottom rope. Her hands push on the rough canvas, toes of her moccasins digging in like a sprinter awaiting the starting shot — or bell. Except she doesn’t wait: the boards rumble as she barrels into Nicole! The mic flies out of Nic’s hand as Chantal’s olive shoulder connects with her pale belly, an “OOOFFFFFF!!” of air exploding from pursed black lips. The two crash to the canvas — Nicole on her back, Chantal atop her, the bigger Native shemale sitting up and straddling Nicole’s hips. Fists balled, she starts raining blows down on Nicole, the pale woman’s arms covering her head. Finding another target, Chantal’s knuckles SMACK! into Nic’s breasts, grinding the gleaming barbells between her fists and Nic’s ribs! The boards rumble as Nic’s boots kick the canvas, trying to flail Chantal off of her.
The speakers crackle as the mic lands on the thin outside mats, a feedback squeal making everyone cover their ears before the mic’s muted by Kat or Annabelle in Control. As soon as they recover, the crowd roars to their feet, picking up the count-along as Chantal continues drilling fists into Nic’s breasts: “SEVEN! EIGHT!! NINE! TEN!!”
Chantal pushes off of Nicole’s hips, standing astride the pale punk, cock swaying in the warm lights. She throws her fists up and whoops a war cry, the audience joining her. Nicole rolls on her front, tight cheeks rolling as she belly-crawls for the ropes. As soon as Nic’s fingers crook over the bottom rope, Chantal’s olive-skinned fingers twine through her black-purple hair, “helping” Nic to her boots.
“A rough start for Nicole LaRue, as Chantal’s not wasting any time delivering the offense in this match,” John observes.
“I’ve heard ‘The best defense is a good offense,’ or something like that,” Nessi answers.
“That explains a lot.”
Chantal’s got Nic backed into the ropes, the cables biting into her pale shoulders and cheeks for a moment before the big shemale leans on her, pushing her into the ropes; she reverses direction, tugging Nic out of the ropes by her hair and using it to flip her forward. Nic’s world spins upside-down then rightside-up, her ass impacting the boards with a BAM!, legs out in front of her. Her black lips part in shock, emerald eyes unbelieving, as Chantal drops to one knee behind her, the other knee digging into her spine. The shemale’s left arm wraps under Nicole’s chin, the beaded band on her bicep scraping against her jaw as Chantal wrenches on Nic’s neck. Cheers wash over the ring, and Chantal’s right hand slips over Nic’s hip and between her thighs, fingers wiggling between her bare slit and the canvas.
“What’s that supposed to mean, John,” Nessa accuses.
“It explains why you’re ‘vanquished’ so much, ‘Vixen’! You’re terrible at offense and defense!” Laughs burble around the studio. Inside the ring, Nic’s hips squirm, trying to keep Chantal’s fingers from hooking inside her. The Native’s arm ratchets down on Nicole’s neck.
Nessa rolls her eyes, “Anyway. Offense is happening in the ring right now, as Chantal’s got a one-armed half-sleeper locked in, going for a fingering combination!” Nicole’s gloved palms pull at Chantal’s elbow, trying to loosen the hold enough to slip out. She kicks her boots out, trying to scoot out of the hold, but Chantal’s fingers slip in the literal opening, burrowing in Nicole’s folds.
Black lips part, a sighing pant slipping out. Nicole’s emerald eyes soften. Olive fingers crook and worm their way inside her folds, her legs parting as she sits near the middle of the ring. The crowd’s roaring, and Ivy’s at her side. “Nic, do you give up?” She tries to shake her head, but can’t with the Native’s muscles squeezing her neck. Her right hand lifts, waves Ivy off — and reaches backward, fingers questing.
Found it! Fingers curl around Chantal’s shaft, the soft cloth of her gloved palm stroking the steely shemale’s veiny ‘tomacock’. The Native blinks, a quiet “Ooohhh,” slipping from her lips.
“Let’s go CHAN-tal! Let’s go CHAN-tal!” starts up — it’s not answered by a counter-cheer for Nicole. The pale punk doesn’t need it — her fist pumps Chantal, as Chantal’s fingers squirm deep inside her. Both sets of hips roll like waves at low tide.
“Ness, do you remember super-soakers?”
“Sure, why?”
“I wonder how many pumps it’ll take to make Chantal squirt all over the first row.”
Ivy’s circling the two like an ebony shark, waiting for cum instead of blood. Nicole’s boots drag inward, heels almost touching her cheeks. A grin graces Chantal’s lips, the crowd cheering as her fingers part Nic’s narrow lips, pouring deep inside her folds; fingertips crook, massaging her rough patch, drawing a tortured groan bursa escort from Nicole’s lips. The roars echo off the walls, the crowd’s full attention on the big screen and Nicole’s pulsing folds.
Few people notice Chantal’s dreamy expression, the stiff throb of her cock, or the wires of muscle standing out in Nicole’s forearm as she strangles the shemale’s shaft. The roaring cheer falls apart as Nicole starts standing, thigh muscles shifting under their fishnet stockings, powering Nicole to her boots. The fingers in her pussy hesitate, distracted, as Chantal tries to both wrench on Nic’s neck and finger her back under control. The cheers falter, replaced by boos that pour over the ring as Nicole manages to stand. Her hand slips from Chantal’s cock, both gloved palms cupping the back of the shemale’s dark hair.
Nicole kicks her legs out, dropping to her ass and yanking Chantal along for the ride. They land with a BOOM! from the boards, the shemale’s jaw crunching on the top of Nicole’s head. Chantal’s vision dims and the world yaws out of control. A faint BAM! announces her landing on the rough canvas, flat on her back, spread-eagle. She blinks up at the lights. Breasts roll as she breathes. Her cock sways in the air, almost like a windshield wiper. A silhouette blocks the lights, and warm cloth stops her cock’s pendulous motion. Moist warmth snuggles her shaft, hugs her head. The warm cloth’s gone from her cock, and pushing on her shoulders now. She swims through the mental murk trying to make sense of it, her cock calling with an alluring song of pleasure as slick velvet slides over it.
“ONE!!” Ivy’s hand claps, the audience refusing to count along, showering Nicole with a “You SUCK! You SUCK! You SUCK!” chant instead. She throws her hair back behind her shoulders, hips slipping up-down, her shaved slit meeting Chantal’s base with slick slap!s. Warmth boils in her depths, threatening to burst like a dam and flood all over Chantal’s hips. Her breasts sway as she rides the stunned shemale, a sneer on her black lips, emerald eyes boring into Chantal’s hazy hazel ones.
“TWO!!” Chantal’s cheeks flex, pushing her hips up to meet the steamy softness sliding over her. That chant — is the crowd telling her she sucks? Her eyebrows — those amazing, perfect eyebrows — furrow in worry. Hips on autopilot, they meet Nicole’s allegro rhythm, the pale punk’s hips swaying, glancing her throbbing head off of her walls. She bites her lip, loud huffing breaths pouring through her nose as she tries to control her breathing — tries to fight the churning in her balls, the pressure rising in her fleshy pipe.
“THREE!!” Nicole’s hips dance, her cheeks rippling as she claps her hips over the Native’s, tensing her walls and slashing Chantal’s captive cock against her insides. “Unn,” she breathes, eyes closing, trying to hold on and outlast —
Chantal jolts, her thick muscles rigid under olive skin. Her cock throbs, pouring molten goo inside Nicole.
“Chantal’s in trouble,” John exclaims, the crowd trying a “Let’s go CHAN-tal!” chant again.
The creamy cum pouring in Nic does it. Ragged breaths rasp through her lips — with a tremble, the dam bursts; juices mix with Chantal’s cum, pouring back over her shaft, down her hips, over her smooth balls. It follows the cleft of her crack, pooling against Chantal’s cheeks.
“FOUR!!” The “Let’s go CHAN-tal!” chant reaches a furious pitch. The shemale shudders, soaked in Nic’s juices and her own. She blinks. Nic’s eyes are closed, lips parted, muscles shaky.
“Nhhhhh-ooooooooo,” she pleads, willing herself to –
“FI- NO! NO! FOUR COUNT!!” Ivy holds up four fingers.
“I don’t believe it,” Ness almost screams into her mic, shooting to her feet along with the rest of the crowd. “I don’t fucking believe it! Chantal Santee gets her shoulder up at the literal last microsecond, and this match goes on!!”
Nic’s breasts heave. The bell didn’t ring. The crowd’s going fucking insane. “What the fuck,” she groans in Ivy’s general direction. An aftershock shivers through her thighs and arms.
“She got her shoulder up. Four count, Nic. Keep going.”
“Fuck,” Nic sighs, sliding herself off of Chantal’s still-throbbing cock. It bobs, gleaming in the bright lights. Nic rolls, sneaking out under the bottom rope, and stumbles over to the commentary booth. “Wanna clean me up, John?”
“Sorry, Ness, duty calls,” he grins, flipping his headset off. Nic rests her cheeks on the edge of the table, spreading her legs as John settles to his knees, burying his face in her shaved slit. Her black fingernails slip through his hair, pulling him into her as his tongue swirls its way past her entrance.
“What the FUCK? What the FUCK? What the FUCK?” asks the audience.
“Chantal’s trying to recover in the ring, while my commentary partner tries a new flavor of protein shake. How is it, John?” Ness’s tone is sour. John nods, flashing her a thumbs-up.
Chantal rolls çanakkale escort on her front, her right hand cupping her throbbing shaft — a few last drops of cum soak into the canvas under her. Ivy’s hand caresses her shoulder, “You ok to go on?”
“Yeah — yes. I’m fine,” Chantal rattles. She palms the canvas, sitting on her knees. Fingers brush the hair from her face as she looks for her opponent. Nic’s outside — sitting on the edge of the commentary table, head back, eyes closed, as John’s tongue slurps at her folds. Chantal waits. Breathes. Focuses. Hazel eyes watch as Nic’s hips roll, letting the raven-haired wrestler’s ego — and John’s tongue — wrench another orgasm out of her.
Nic’s fingers pinch her barbells, twisting; a harsh, ragged moan pours from her black lips as John’s tongue stirs and slurps at the salty-sweet mixture inside her. “This is FUCKED-up! This is FUCKED-up!” the crowd sharing their own commentary. Ignoring them, she slips her thighs up on John’s shoulders, her boot heels digging into his back as she grinds herself on his face. The steaming pressure builds, that electric haze threatening to wrench her again. His tongue slips out. Taps her clit.
ZAP!! “OOHHHHHH! FFFFF-UCK!” Her muscles spasm, the cables pulling taut under her skin, as juices coat John’s chin, dribbling down his neck, leaving pinpricks of moisture on his collar. Her body heaves, black lips an O of ecstasy.
Chantal slips out under the bottom rope, her moccasins landing on the thin rubber mats without a sound — just like her ancestors stalking a deer, she sneaks up behind the still-shuddering Nicole. Her fingers snarl in the purple highlights and raven hair, yanking Nicole backward over the top of the commentary booth. Nic’s back hits the rubber mats with a THWAP!
Her scalp complains as Chantal drags her off the booth, her back twinging with pain as she lands flat on the thin rubber. Nic blinks up at the lights and the angry Native looming in her vision. Chantal starts a war-dance, accenting every few steps with a hard stomp on Nicole’s breasts, her pierced nipples shooting electric pain into her ribs. Shuddering with aftershocks and pain, Nicole lays there, the crowd screaming and cheering, as Chantal dances and stomps her way all the way around Nicole’s flat form.
Bending over, she twines her fingers through Nic’s dark hair, again, peeling her pale opponent up off the rubber mats and standing her up. Her armbands dig into Nicole’s lower back as she locks them around her waist, lifting the purple-haired punk.
Nic’s staring out at the audience, an aftershock tearing through her as Chantal bear-hugs her, her black & white boots leaving the rubber mats. “Nonononono,” she pleads. Chantal rushes forward, ramming her back into the edge of the apron with a gunshot BANG! Agony lights across her mid-back, the bigger shemale keeping her waist wrapped tight. She lifts, backing up, and BANG! another arc of pain shoots across Nic’s mid-back!
“TWO!” roars the crowd, counting along, as Chantal bears down on Nic’s waist, lifting her for a third ram into the apron. She starts forward. Her head whips to her right — a dull thud courses through her head, like someone just threw a rock at her temple. She staggers, veers right, and crashes on her side with Nicole still in her arms.
Nic’s fingers crawl up the apron skirt, palming the edge of the canvas. She drags herself from under Chantal’s arm and back up to her knees. Her right hand rubs at the line of pain in her mid-back. “Wow, that fist hit Chantal like a freight train,” John remarks, back at his seat. He dabs juices from his chin with a paper towel.
“Nicole spent years studying martial arts, you have to watch out for fists, feet, elbows, and knees when you’re in the ring with her.”
“And she spent a few years doing Lucha Libre in South America, too, didn’t she? So you have to watch for flips and spins and flying Nicoles too,” John laughs.
Chantal rolls to her front, pushes to her hands and knees. The world lurches. She blinks at the thin rubber mats, shakes her head, swims through a sea of vertigo.
Nic kneels behind Chantal, arm on the apron. Emerald eyes light upon rounded olive cheeks, and Nicole slithers in behind Chantal. Pale arms wrap around tanned hips, gloved palms surrounding Chantal’s straining shaft. Nic’s cheeks disappear in the shallow valley of Chantal’s other cheeks, her pierced tongue spearing the shemale’s ridged ring. The rounded metal barbs tease Chantal’s murky depths. The crowd fell quiet.
Slurrrfts! drifted from Chantal’s cheeks as Nic’s black lips sucked on Chantal’s black hole, her pierced tongue scouring the shemale’s walls, stirring the coppery juices deep inside her. Gloved palms and bare fingers stroked Chantal’s shaft, pumping her base and caressing her head. Ivy slipped outside, her fingers caressing Chantal’s shoulder. “Hey. You ok? Can you keep going?”
“Chantal’s in trouble,” Nessi comments, “for those of us who’re super-into anal, an ass-eating submission hold like this is devastating. I can’t even imagine what Chantal’s going through, having a prostate in there, and her cock trapped in Nicole’s hands. You can do this, Chantal. Hang on!”
Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32