Defeated By The Champion

The Erotic Combat League’s ring has drawn a massive crowd tonight, and for good reason. They’re about to witness a rare spectacle: One of the League’s fighters has been selected to compete in a charity match with none other than the Erotic Combat Champion herself. It will be a complete squash match—her skills, both physical and sexual, far outmatch her opponent.

And who’s the unlucky (or lucky?) fighter who will challenge the Champion tonight?

You, of course.

Your heart pounds as you walk down the ramp into the arena, clad only in a robe over the tiny Speedo that’s the standard uniform of male ECL fighters, and the announcer calls out to the crowd.

“Selected by chance, or chosen by fate?” she asks rhetorically. “This young wrestler has been given the once-in-a-lifetime chance to face off against the Champion. His skills will be put to the ultimate test in this spectacular battle. Please join me in welcoming Jack!”

The crowd cheers and claps as you head down the ramp, carrying yourself with more confidence than you really feel. You wave to some of the fans, climb up into the ring, and disrobe, exposing your body to the crowd as you wait for the champ.

You’re not kept waiting long. There’s a blaze of pyrotechnic effects and a huge crowd pop as the announcer starts talking again.

“And now, the moment you’ve all been waiting for. Her record is unmatched, her skills unparalleled. She’s earned her place at the absolute pinnacle of the ECL’s rankings. You know her, you love her, it’s the Erotic Combat Champion, Roxie!”

The crowd roars with approval, and striding down the ramp on the opposite side of the arena, you see her.

Even covered in a robe, you can tell her figure is fantastic. Her hips sway as she walks, or maybe “struts” would be a better word. The robe also doesn’t do much to hide the curve of her breasts, and your eyes linger for a moment. When you finally manage to look up at her face, you see a pair of full pink lips curved into a confident smirk and eyes that twinkle with a mischievous glee that scares you more than a little, all framed by long curls of red hair.

She makes it up to the ring and sweeps her legs over the ropes (and you could swear that the quick upskirt glance you catch was intentional), and enters the corner opposite you, blowing kisses to the crowd.

You’re already at half-mast just from the display she’s put on on her way up here...and then she starts to disrobe.

What she does next is a far cry from the businesslike strip-down that you did. She’s basically putting on a striptease for the audience—and you. And she’s drawing it out. She tantalizes you with a brief flash of cleavage, teases you with a moment’s reveal of a long, smooth leg, and keeps going until you’re practically ready to beg her to take the robe off.

When she finally does, you realize that it was worth the wait.

Under the robe, she’s wearing a tiny teardrop bikini that doesn’t do a single thing to protect what other women might call modesty. And it’s clear that on top of looking amazing, she’s in excellent shape. Those long legs that she teased you with have toned, strong calves and quads, meeting in the middle at a tiny patch of fabric that’s tight enough to hint at what might be concealed underneath. Above that you see her taut, solid abs, and as your eyes keep roving, you can’t help but notice that on top of a huge pair of breasts, her nipples are already hard and straining against the thin fabric of her top.

Noticing you staring, she giggles at you. “Hey. My eyes are up here.”

Embarrassed, you tear your gaze away from her body as you walk up to shake hands with her. She’s got an extremely strong grip, and you once again start to worry about what’s coming your way.

The referee explains the special rules of the match to both of you: it’s a special kind of fight called a “no-mercy match”. Not only are there essentially no rules as to what the fighters can do to each other, the battle doesn’t end until one fighter either knocks the other out, or accepts their submission.

You’re still thinking over the implications of that when Roxie whispers, in a voice too quiet for the crowd to hear, “Hey, Jack.”

You look up at her in surprise—she’s dropped the seductive demeanor for a moment, and is looking very serious. “Yeah?”

“I’m not really supposed to do this, but...sometimes people get hurt in matches like these. So if I’m tossing you around, and you absolutely can’t take any more and want me to stop, just say the word ‘hummingbird’. I’ll find a way to end the match quickly and painlessly.”

“You’re giving me a safeword?” you ask her, brow furrowing in confusion.

She nods. “Better safe than sorry. Let’s hope you don’t need it. Good luck,” she finishes with a wink, as you return to your corners to square off.

“Thanks. Y-you too,” you stammer out, and immediately blush.

She giggles, but nods her head in thanks as the referee shouts, “Fight!”

The bell rings and the match begins.