No one, yet, but the match is still going

You find yourself smashed between them, Manso underneath you and Jones laying on your chest. You twist and writhe beneath Jones, trying to push him off you, but you can't seem to get any leverage. You can feel the arm under your shirt travelling higher, starting to pull your shirt up your torso, fingers sliding beneath the front of your bra. The other hands continue to rove your chest and back, arms wrapping around your sides.

Manso abruptly shifts beneath you, actually pushing both you and Jones upwards several inches. Your butt comes into firm contact with the ground, and you sense an opportunity to slip free. You spread your legs apart, then arch your back, pressing back against Manso. In the split second where everyone's weight is shifting, you take advantage of the brief moment where there is very little pressure on you to slip downwards, scooting your butt towards your feet as it drops towards the mat again.

As you slide out from between them, you feel a few things happen. First, the fingers beneath your shirt catch the clasp of your bra, and you feel it spring open, your breasts wobbling slightly as they're freed of the constraining material. Second, the arm beneath your shirt drags it upwards, towards your head. Your arms catch on the arms around your torso, stopping your slide.

"Those cheeky bastards!" you think to yourself, as you raise your arms above your head. With the arms around you no longer hanging up on yours, you pop free, sliding down the mat amid grunts of surprise and your shirt flashing above your head, catching around your wrists. You're thankful for your gymnastic training at this moment, as your legs are spread rather wide to allow this feat of flexibility. The snaps of threads popping in your shorts is missed by everyone.

In a single fluid motion, you bring your feet together, slip your wrists free of your shirt, and roll to your feet, turning to face Manso and Jones again. As they scramble to their feet, you slide the open bra off first one shoulder, then the other, watching as the two men stare at your heaving breasts as you drop the bra to the floor.

"Its' not over yet, boys," you state as you drop into a crouch again. The slight breeze the motion makes against your damp lower lips reminds you of the splitting seam of your shorts, and you finally realize it must have split more during the scuffle. The men let their eyes rove over you once more, eyes stopping on your crotch for a second, before sharing another glance and splitting around you again.

A moment later, they've charged you again, and once again you all drop in a pile of bodies on the floor, a hand kneading your breast, another one sliding into the waistband of your shorts, and a third sliding across your crotch, finding your moist pussy and running across it.