Go for a cover pin.

You’re not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, so you just hook her leg and press down on her shoulders, going for a quick pinfall point. But the ref hasn’t even gotten over to you to start the count before you feel her arms wrap around you and squeeze as tightly as they can, trapping you in one of Dinah’s favorite holds: a bearhug.

Too late, you remember where that expression about gift horses came from in the first place.

Easily holding you in place, she yanks her leg free of the hand that was hooking it and stands up, freeing herself to use all her considerable muscle power to squeeze you into submission.

“Uh-oh,” the announcer winces. “John fell for the Cowgirl’s bait hook, line, and sinker—and she reeled him in for one of her favorite finishers.”

“Y’know, I’ve wrestled a lotta big, strong, burly men,” Dinah tells you conversationally, as you writhe fruitlessly in her grip. “Men who thought they could boss me around no problem. Then I got ‘em in this hold...”

A sudden pulse of her Amazonian arms draws an embarrassing whimper from your throat.

“...and they learned who the boss really was,” she finishes with satisfaction.

You continue wriggling to try to get out, but it’s no use. Her grip is like a vice—and she seems to be actually enjoying your motions.

“Ooh, yeah, keep squirmin’,” she encourages seductively. “Feels good.”

Perhaps as a reward for your accidental stimulation, she starts rubbing herself up and down against you, caressing your chest with her bounteous rack. But the excruciating pressure of her bearhug doesn’t slacken—if anything, it increases.

It’s too much. You tap out frantically on her thigh. The buzzer goes off, and she drops you unceremoniously, letting you collapse into a heap.

The timer has almost run out, but ever the competitor, she can’t resist taking one more chance to flaunt her dominance. She flexes dramatically and gestures to her biceps, addressing the crowd:

“See what you can do when you’ve got some real muscle on your arms instead of those tiny little twigs John’s got?” she taunts.

The crowd pops as you stand up, glaring at the Cowgirl. She just giggles and puts her hands on her hips, facing you down dominantly as the match winds down.

You’ve lost a point for a submission.