She scores!

Ouch!

That’s the first thing that came to mind as the top of Kayla’s foot smacks you square between the eyes.

Still holding on to your wrist, the ebony woman is all smiles as your head briefly snaps up, your eyes just barely coming back into focus until she pulls the same foot back and-

“Uggghhh…” An audible gasp escapes your lips as she delivers a particularly nasty punt kick to your exposed midsection, nearly folding you up like clothes on a hanger in the process.

Your knees buckle, your eyes water, and that nauseous sensation now circulating in your stomach finally forces you down into a partial kneel.

“I’m sure the rookie is just now aware of this, but for the folks watching at home, Kayla also happens to be a trained kickboxer. The more you know…” The announcer’s teasing words are only a minor irritation, but out of the corner of your eye you can make out something rather major dropping down like a crater on you.

With the slightest of ease, the veteran sexfighter firmly presses down on the base of your neck with her bare foot, her leg muscles visibly flexing as she forces you down to the mat with her dainty hand still gripping your wrist.

Motherfu- Instead of finishing your thought, you instead taste the canvas as your face is forcibly pressed against the surface.

“By the way, that was me taking it easy on you. Way easy,” you hear Kayla’s voice ringing above your ears.

Every muscle in your body screams for retaliation, but just as quickly your aching gut cancels even that out.

Instead, you focus mainly on freeing your still captive arm, which at the moment is still being twisted in a way that is pure hell for your elbow joint.

“If I wanted to, I could make you tap right now,” came Kayla’s smug, self-assured voice yet again. “It wouldn’t be pleasant for you, but I figured you don’t want to scream out like a total sissy. Well…”

Her lips curl into a coy smirk. “At least not yet.”

“I’ve taken worse,” you attempt to lie through gritted teeth and a defiant grimace, only for that facade to quickly dissolve as she gives you a sharp twist of your wrist to pump even more searing discomfort through your forearm.

“No one is worse than me,” she tells you matter-of-factly, her dark eyes flashing dangerously down on you for emphasis.

Her eyes remain stormy for a moment longer before they’re replaced by a much lighter, more mischievous hue.

If only to add further insult to injury, she plasters her foot over your cheek, her narrow arch now covering your right cheekbone while her toes wriggle dangerously close to your eyes.

Admittedly, the soft texture of her wrinkled flesh is somewhat soothing, and the fresh black nail varnish on each of her toes does give you something nice to look a-

Snap out of, dude!

Momentarily forgetting the stinging pain in your wrist-joint in favor of quite visibly staring at her bare foot currently on your face, you start to glower up at her resentfully only to see the worst-case scenario.

“Like my foot all over your face, John?” she teases you, obviously noticing your delayed reaction of ‘disgust’ to her degrading act.

“Not at the moment, no, but you’re gonna love my dick up your a-ow!”

And again, she twists your wrist painfully, forcing you to eat the remainder of your sentence.

“Btw, it isn’t wise to threaten the woman who currently has the power to dislocate your shoulder and still make you tap out,” she reminds you rather forcefully, her smile deceivingly potent.

“So, anyways, since I’ve got you here, I figured we’d play a little game,” she beams down on you.

You almost groan out loud. “What game?”

“I’m thinking of a number that’s either 23 or 47. I want you to guess which one I’m currently thinking of right now. No tricks, just basic probability. You’ve got a 50% chance here,” she explains to you.

“But,” you sigh to yourself, “There’s always a catch.”

As if reading your mind, she goes on, “If you guess the wrong number, I’m going to put you in an extremely painful submission hold, one that you will _not _get out of. But, if you guess the right one, then I’ll put you in a hold that you have a 10% chance of escaping.”

“Only 10%?” you scoff up at her.

“Beggars can’t be choosers, sweetie,” she shrugs coldly. “Now, I suggest that you pick a number, so we can see just how lucky you think you are…”