Tammy DeVille: "Welcome back, ladies and gentlemen, to tonight's main event!"

Buck Ansome: "And it doesn't get bigger than this...high society's reigning debutante, Portia VanBuren, versus the Limey strumpet herself, Shea London."

Tammy: "Well, I guess we won't be left hanging in suspense regarding who you'll be rooting for tonight, huh?"

Buck: "Hey, I have a very simple rule of thumb, Tams...I go with the winner. And there's no bigger winner than Portia. I have only two words for you: FAWN Champion."

Tammy: "But Shea is a former champ herself."

Buck: "That right...accent on the former."

Tammy: "Regardless of your skewed reality, I think it goes without saying that we're in for a very exciting match tonight...although not, I suspect, as intense as what we witness just two weeks ago."

Buck: "In a weird way, tonight's match is almost anti-climatic. I mean, we all know that Portia's gonna win, so there's no drama there. The only real question is, which of her four brilliant finishers will she use to put London out of our misery? Still, after that donnybrook Shea had with Chrissy two weeks ago, almost anything else seems kind of tame."

Tammy: "It's fair to say, I feel, that we won't be seeing the kind of brawl we watched between London and Daniel for the Number One Contender ranking. For one thing, I doubt Shea is up to that level of violence so soon after the last time. And for another, that really isn't Portia VanBuren's style. No, tonight should be more about skill and technique than all-out No Holds Barred fighting."

Buck: "You're only half right there, Tamale...it'll be about technique and skill, sure, but it'll also be about intelligence, and Portia has it all over her opponent in that regard. Shea doesn't have a snowball's chance tonight!"

Tammy: "And that prediction of yours might actually mean something if you weren't dead solid wrong a good 75% of the time."

Buck: "Hey, at least that means I'm right half of the time. I'll take those odds!"

Tammy: (Mumbles) "And people wonder why your taxes are audited every year...."

Buck: "You say something, Tams?"

Tammy: "I said, it looks like the time to meet the combatants is here."

The arena's speakers fall silent. But only for a moment. After the brief hesitation, the sound system booms back to life, posing one question to the amped crowd:

"Do you wanna get rocked?"

Def Leppard's "Let's Get Rocked" pumps over the PA, and Shea London strides from backstage to a thunderous roar from the crowd. The British Bombshell is all smiles, darting down to the ring, slapping hands with the fans as she does so, showing few signs of her recent all-out war with Chrissy Daniel. The gorgeous blonde wears a dark blue sports bra and a pair of matching bikini briefs, the Union Jack in all its glory across Shea's brassiere, no mutiny for her bounty; the remainder of her outfit, a pair of stylish, red wrestling boots. The Brit gives a wink to one fan holding aloft a sign reading 'RULE BRITANNIA!!!'

Reaching the ring, Shea climbs onto the apron and, gripping the top rope with both hands, propels herself up and into the ring, her cat-like agility on display, the crowd erupting. London beams, still showing little in the way of lingering aftereffects from her match of two weeks ago, bouncing energetically on the balls of her feet. As Shea settles into her corner, testing the elasticity of the ropes, her mind continues to contemplate her upcoming opponent.

Almost five months ago to the day, her first reign as a world champion had come to an abrupt and decisive end at the hands of Chrissy Daniel. Almost three months ago to the day, her first chance to reclaim the title came to an equally abrupt end with one swing of Precious. As Shea continues to stretch in the corner, her music fading, Portia's soon to replace it over the arena speakers, she allows herself one final moment to reflect on her last match.

Shea had gone through hell to get to this point. And she wasn't about to let that be for nothing. She knew Portia was tough, devious, cunning and determined. Portia was going to have to be all of those things tonight. Because, in a few minutes, Shea would be throwing everything she possessed at the champion. One of two things was going to happen tonight: either Shea London was going to come out of this match FAWN's first two-time world champion, or she was going to be left unconscious in the ring.

There would be no middle ground.

Heavy orchestral chords flow over the darkened arena. A white-hot pin spot breaks the darkness and falls upon fortune's favorite, as Shirley Manson's distinctive voice surges from all corners of the arena. Portia Ophelia VanBuren flips her shoulder-length mane of strawberry blonde locks and struts down the aisle to the strains of '�The World Is Not Enough' by Garbage, hips swaying as she turns the trip into a sashay down the runways of Paris or Milan. White lace panties flash in a Maxim-like version of Morse code from beneath a tennis skirt sufficiently high as to be outlawed by the WTA. Above, her white lace tanktop is sheer enough to be eye-catching on a Monaco beachfront, the ensemble tastefully accessorized with Gucci shades and a diamond tennis bracelet around her left wrist. Oh, and ten pounds of leather and gold strapped around her waist, symbolizing the very best in wrestling.

Portia, patrician features held high, barely glances to either side as she makes her way to the ring, doing her best to ignore the throngs of human cattle that rush the restraining barriers with a cascade of boos. If she catches sight of one fan banner reading 'Praise for Only the VeryBest', she does not acknowledge it; after all, does one acknowledge the obvious? One fan waves a small Union Jack over the railing, but loses his grip and the flag falls to the arena floor. Without breaking her stride, but by gently moving ever so slightly to her right, Portia is able to trod across the fallen banner with her boots, perhaps best symbolizing her attitude towards Shea London herself: She is beneath contempt, and good for no more respect than one would give a doormat.

Portia looks relieved to arrive at the ring, distance restored between her and the hordes of wannabes and never-weres. The strawberry blonde ascends the ringsteps and slides into the squared circle as if it were her personal property, sauntering to each corner, pumping a fist or two into the last set of buckles. She owned everyone. All eyes drawn to her, Portia was in her element. The center of attention and envy. As it should be and ever would be.

Buck: "Both wrestlers have got their game faces on tonight! Each seems absolutely convinced she's going to be the one to walk out of this ring with the belt when it's all over."

Tammy: "Right you are, Buck...neither Portia or Shea are betraying even the slightest hint of doubt or apprehension. If each of them wrestle half as good as they seem to think they are tonight, then we're in for a match for the history books!"

The referee gives both wrestlers a perfunctory once-over, gone over the basic rules, and instructed them to keep it a clean fight. Then the bell sounds, and the time for all of the training, all of the strategy making, all of the psychological warfare, has come to an end. The time is now for battle alone.

Having once made the dangerous mistake of turning her back on Portia and leaving herself wide open for a sneak attack, London does not take her eyes off of her opponent for a moment as they circle one another. VanBuren seems to realize that her rival is primed for some act of treachery, and the socialite makes the most of it, casually sauntering around the ring as if she were bored to distraction, causing the Brit to torture herself wondering just how her foe was going to seek to sneak attack her.

But as VanBuren had suspected, London was over-thinking the situation, and that caused the Brit to be distracted just enough that she didn't fully comprehend how close her opponent was drawing to her. Suddenly, the two antagonists were locking up, but London was a shade slower, and VanBuren quickly executed a short armlock, taking special effort to twist her foe's hand back at the wrist as far as she could, and then twisting it a little further than that.

The British blond screamed as she felt pain explode in her wrist. She was in this very match because Chrissy Daniel had suffered a broken arm in their battle, and now the fear that Shea herself might now lose because of a similar injury...and the irony did not escape her...gave a little tinge of panic to her thoughts. But it was that very panic which forced her to ignore the pain as best she could, and to try and escape.

Shea tried to get her free hand on Portia's chin so as to push her away, but the champ cannily turns and tucks her head so as to frustrate the Brit. In desperation, London grabs at VanBuren's hair, but the titleholder immediately calls out, "Hair, ref!," and the official commands the Englishwoman to release her handhold, which she dutifully does.

But if the champion is proud of herself for keeping her victim stymied, she likewise is unaware that London's efforts had been a feint, and that she had really been slowly inching the two of them ever closer to the ropes, which Shea is finally able to grab with her free hand. The referee orders Portia to break her hold, which she grudgingly does only at the count of four and a half.

More alertly yet just as cautiously, London moves away from the safety of the ropes and again begins circling her rival. Portia abandons the pretense of disinterest and likewise moves with caution. As they both lunge to lock up, it's Shea this time who seizes the advantage, hiptossing her foe to the canvas, and keeping her there with an armbar.

VanBuren grits her teeth and slowly starts to work her way back up to her feet, defying the pain in her shoulder. Yet, just as she makes her way upright, London deftly reverses the pressure, forcing the champ to her knees. Again, methodically, Portia strains against the pressure and gradually gets to her feet again.

Just as Shea is about to reverse the hold yet again, with the intent of sending the blond crashing onto her backside, the socialite takes advantage of that half-a-heartbeat in which the Brit eases up on the pressure, throwing a punch that catches London in the side of the head.

Releasing her hold as she staggers away, London fails to brace herself for a second blow to the head, this time a Rabbit Punch to the base of the skull, which causes her to grab the ropes to hold herself up. Portia follows up with several Kidney Punches that cause her victim's knees to buckle, but Shea does not go down. Instead, she whips her left arm back, her elbow finding Portia's chin with telling effect. The champ stumbles backwards from the force of the blow.

Wasting no time, London nails her rival with a Standing dropkick. VanBuren crashes to the mat, but uses her momentum to roll back to her feet...and in perfect position for a second Dropkick. Again, the blond rolls with the blow and rises, and again London launches a Dropkick. But this time, the champ wisely jumps back, causing the Englishwoman to hit only empty air. Shea lands hard on the canvas, momentarily stunned by the impact, and Portia moves in a blur of motion, grabbing the Brit by the ankles and spreading her legs.

Portia pauses, allowing the implication of her predicament to sink into Shea's mind...and to allow the cacophony of cheers and jeers to swell from the masses...before the debutante slams her boot down hard into the Englishwoman's groin. London gasps from the pain, her eyes wide as saucers, a strained squeak escaping her throat. Then, VanBuren does a Double legdrop onto her opponent's thighs. Shea howls as it feels as if her hamstrings are suddenly jerked to the point of ripping, jerking up awkwardly into a sitting position. With regal disdain, Portia slaps the Brit across the face, causing London to fall back to the mat.

Almost dispassionately, the champion then begins to focus on her opponent's right leg, specifically her knee. Methodically, the East Coast socialite alternates twisting the joint, stomping it with her feet, and landing kneedrops to Shea's already battered limb.

Buck: "Uh oh...this is exactly what London wanted to avoid in this match! Portia is keeping her grounded and she's working over the teabag's weak spot."

Tammy: "VanBuren knew full well going into this match that Shea's knee was still tender from her battle with Chrissy Daniel, and the champ is wisely targeting that. Things are certainly looking bad for Shea London at this moment...if she can't escape and get started on an offensive of her own, I don't think we'll be seeing the belt change hands tonight."

Almost as if in answer to the commentator's words, however, the Brit lashes back; Portia grabs Shea's leg and begins to set up a Spinning Toehold, but before VanBuren can fully apply the pressure, London kicks with her left foot, hitting the champ in the rear end and sending her stumbling forward. Blocking out her own pain, Shea somersaults backwards to the ropes, which she uses to haul herself up to her feet, although she's clearly favoring her right leg.

Portia, furious that her rival has dared resist her, charges at the blond, intent on delivering a Clothesline that will either decapitate the Englishwoman or send her over the top rope to the arena floor...preferably both. But at the last instant, London twists so as to use VanBuren's own momentum against her, and it is the champion who finds herself sailing through the air out of the ring, only to come crashing down into a painful heap on the unforgiving cement floor.

Grabbing the top rope with both hands, Shea flips up and over, bringing her body splashing down upon Portia. The champ gasps for air, desperate to replace the breath that has been knocked from her lungs by the successive impacts of both floor and foe. London then stands up, grabs Portia by her expensively coifed hair, and drags the champion painfully to her feet, leading her stumbling over to the announcer's table, which she then introduces VanBuren's face to! The socialite's knees buckle and she slumps back down to the floor.

As the referee count drones on, London again grabs her opponent by the hair and hauls her back into the ring. She then sets her up for a Monkey Flip, the result being VanBuren thrown face first into the corner turnbuckle. The dazed champ turns herself around to face her foe, but she is too stunned to do much of anything else, her arms draped over the top ropes to hold herself up. London charges the corner to deliver a splash...but is met with the sole of Portia's boot, which the champion has managed to raise at the last instant.

But the blow is only a glancing one, and after a few dazed moments, Shea is on the attack again, landing a Judo Chop to the champ's chest that resonates throughout the arena, and which elicits a chorus of "Whoooooooooooooooooooooooo" from the throng. The Brit then Irish Whips VanBuren towards the opposite corner; Portia manages to reverse it and instead throws Shea to the corner, but instead of crashing into the turnbuckles, London uses her momentum to charge up them, and without a moment's pause, she pushes herself off and hurls through the air, slamming into her foe with a Cross bodyblock that sends both women down to the mat, but with the champion clearly at the disadvantage.

Tammy: "Shea London is on fire! She has turned this match around and is using her strengths...her speed and agility...to really take this fight to the champ! VanBuren seems totally overwhelmed by her opponent"

Buck: "How much longer is the referee going to turn a blind eye to London's blatant cheating?"

Tammy: "Spin it any way you have to in order to sleep at night, Buck, but the fact is, Shea is in charge of this match. And...wait! It looks as if the challenger has something special in mind for the champ!"

As London knees on her left knee, she drapes VanBuren over her right leg, then flips up her tennis skirt to reveal her derriere in all of its glory. With a devilish smile and the fervid encouragement of the crowd, Shea then begins delivering one stinging open hand spank after another to the champ! Shocked out of her stupor, Portia angrily yelps as each slap hits her, her face reddened by a fury to match the redness of her bottom.

Satisfied she has taught the self-absorbed heiress a touch of humility...or at least suitably humiliated her on live television...Shea pushes her victim off of her knee, allowing VanBuren to fall to the mat. But as London stands up in order to resume her offensive, she is unprepared for her opponent to dive at her, delivering a shoulderblock to the Brit's right knee.

Collapsing to the canvas clutching her aching knee, the blond is wide open for a crude, yet effective, headbutt to the groin. Needing time to marshal her own reserves of strength, yet unwilling to relinquish control, Portia cannily flips Shea over onto her stomach and applies a half-Boston crab to the Englishwoman's weakened limb. London slaps the mat in pain and frustration, but through gritted teeth, tells the ref to "Sod off!" when asked if she wants to submit.

Next, Portia releases the hold and delivers a few stomps to Shea's vulnerable knee. But as she then reaches down to grab her foe by her flaxen mane, London manages to suddenly roll the champ over for a small package. VanBuren kicks out before the count of three, but she's clearly shaken by this near-pinfall, and she puts some distance between herself and her foe in order to plot a new strategy.

As London forces her body to get to its hands and knees...and she clearly distributed her weight to her left knee...VanBuren charges her, grabs her by the hair to yank her to her feet, and then snares her in a side headlock. The champion grinds away at the hold for a few moments, and then rushes forward several steps to take the Brit down with a bulldog. Shea's body flops like a ragdoll from the impact, but Portia shows no mercy as she again hauls her rival to her feet and again wraps her arm around the Brit for a headlock.

This time, VanBuren parades around the ring, yelling out at the fans. "So this is your champion, huh? This is the 'great wrestler' all of you plebes thought could beat me? Well, take a good look, because this is the last time you'll ever see this loser...I'm going to send her crawling back to whatever English gutter she crawled out of!"

But the socialite's hubris has allowed her opponent to recover enough to suddenly surprise VanBuren by wrapping her arms around the champion's waist, lifting her up into the air, and then bringing her down with an atomic drop! Portia is launched several feet forward from the blow, crashing to the canvas while clutching her now-throbbing crotch.

Yet the effort has cost Shea as well, having put additional pressure on her injured knee. She clutches the ropes to hold herself up, her right leg angrily rebelling against the burden. But the challenger knows she can waste no time for recovery...if she wants to win, she has to strike while VanBuren is vulnerable.

Moving with a swiftness that belies her exhaustion and pain, Shea gambles on a finisher. For months, she has been refining and perfecting a variation of the bow and arrow submission, believing her London's Bridge to be as effective a finishing move as any in FAWN. Now she subjects her foe to the hold. Properly applied, it can reduce its victim to screaming her submission within moments. And scream Portia does, even if it is in defiance against what now seems to be inevitable surrender.

But then, Shea's body begins to tremble. She shuts her eyes as if to block out some tremendous agony. Suddenly, with a moan, she releases her London's Bridge, and pulls her right knee close to herself, hugging it as she rolls back and forth.

Tammy: "This is unexpected! Shea seems to have done as much damage to herself with her hold as she did to Portia! Her right knee must be more injured than even she realized."

Buck" "Tams, this is just like I've always said...wrestling should be left for the professionals. Obviously, Shea London does not have the level of expertise needed to apply such a hold, and as a result, she not only injured herself, but she could have seriously injured Portia as well. Kids, don't try this at home!"

Moving slowly, as if underwater, a gasping and clearly exhausted Portia VanBuren drives herself up to her knees, then flings herself at the prone form of her opponent, wrapping her hands around Shea's throat in a crude chokehold. The official forces her to break at the cusp of five, and VanBuren follows suit by putting London into a sharpshooter. The Brit's fists beat a tattoo on the mat as it not only feels as if her tender knee might break, but that her spine might as well. Still, London refuses to submit.

Seemingly growing bored with the sharpshooter, the champ releases it. She then grabs Shea by the hair and lifts her head, taunting her with words heard only to them. Next, she yanks London upright and wraps her arms around the Brit's waist in preparation for an atomic drop of her own...except that it is never delivered. Instead, Shea suddenly springs to life and nails the champ with a stunner.

Both wrestlers lay on the mat motionless for several long moments, their chests rising and falling as they suck in precious air, their eyes glassy. But then, calling upon some deep reserve of power, Shea manages to sit up, then get to her feet, then stagger over towards her opponent.

Portia stares up at her rival with an almost uncomprehending gaze, as if her fogged brain can't rationalize what is occurring. VanBuren makes no effort to shield the legdrop that is delivered to her chest, knocking the wind from her.

This is it...everyone in the arena can feel it. Although it is unclear which wrestler might yet claim victory, there is a palpable sense in the air that victory is nevertheless close at hand.

Feeling energized, as if she is drawing upon the energy of her thousands of fans in the arena, London awkwardly walks to the corner of the ring, leg limping badly, and cautiously mounts the top turnbuckle, facing out towards the crowd in preparation for a match-ending moonsault. Raising her arms above her head, the blond takes a moment to acknowledge the deafening roar from the spectators. Here, her body battered and bruised, slick with sweat and marred by scratches, the Englishwoman has never been more magnificent. She seems to swell with both power and pride. This was her glorious hour, the culmination of years of struggle.

If there's one thing Portia VanBuren cannot stand, it is when someone else has something she does not. While this may be London's hour, VanBuren only needs a moment of it to make things right for herself.

Literally functioning on instinct alone, the socialite forces herself up to her feet. Then, in a motion that was less walking than lumbering, she pushes herself towards the corner where her rival stands poised to fling herself into the air. The unsuspecting Shea is unprepared for Portia to shove her hands against the Brit's feet, sweeping them off of their precarious perch on the ropes.

London comes falling down crotch first on the steel turnbuckle, her eyes wide as saucers, her mouth twisted into an agonized 'O' as no sound escapes her lips. She sways uncertainly for a few moments, but then Portia grabs her by the hair and pulls her backwards. Her legs caught in the ropes, Shea now hangs helplessly in the corner.

Buck: "Tree of Woe, baby! Chalk up another win in the VanBuren column, 'cause this one's as good as over."

Tammy: "Things look bad for Shea. She's gotten out of some tough fixes in the past, but I'm not sure she has any miracles left in her bag of tricks to save herself now."

Buck: "She'll need that bag of tricks when she's working some Liverpool street corner, because after this, she's washed up as a wrestler. 'Why, 'ello guv'nor, fancy a go for a shilling?' Mark my words!"

Tammy: "I am more disturbed and appalled by the way your mind works than ever."

VanBuren doesn't rush the moment. She has victory within her grasp, and she knows it. With the self-satisfied smile of a Cheshire cat, she stalks around the ring, waiting for the perfect moment to pounce. Groaning, Shea feebly tries to pull herself free from the ropes, but with no success.

Then, charging with a vigor that she seemed incapable of a mere minute earlier, Portia rushes towards her target from the opposite corner of the ring, delivering a dropkick to the Brit's abdomen The socialite follows up with a double axe handle blow square in the crotch. All Shea can do is moan pitiably.

Grabbing the Brit's top, the champ pulls it from London's body, then uses the garment, proudly emblazoned with the Union Jack, to wipe the sweat from her brow. VanBuren then discards the top, tossing it to the crowd, where several fans scramble over one another to claim it. "Jackals," Portia sneers at the sight.

Motioning to the referee for him to finally make himself useful, the official releases Shea from the ropes, allowing her to collapse to the canvas. Portia takes London by the ankles and drags her to the center of the ring. Then, in a reverse straddle, she pauses to allow the roar from the crowd to wash over her, and then she subjects the Brit to her Portia 911 finisher, hitting London with a combination facesit and crotch claw.

Shea's body writhes on the mat, but she lacks the strength to throw her tormentor off. After more than a minute of resisting the inevitable, Shea London ceases to resist altogether. The bell is sounded.

And as if on cue, Portia falls to her side like a marionette whose strings have been cut. It is as if she was drawing her power from the struggle itself, and now that it is over, she lacks the strength to even remain upright. There is no taunting from her, no proud parading around the ring. She merely clutches the championship belt as it is placed in her hands, and she allows herself to be helped from the ring. London had taken her to the edge and beyond tonight, and it had cost the champion much.

Tammy: "An incredible match tonight from two outstanding competitors! Portia VanBuren manages to hold onto her FAWN title, but it was a very near thing. At several points during this fight, Shea London might very well have claimed the win."

Buck: "I just hope this proves the point to all of those misguided London fans as to who the better wrestler is. Their girl gave it her all, but she came up short, and it's Portia who's being...um, well, carried from the ring. But she's still got the belt, and that's all that matters!"

Tammy: "Somehow, I just don't think we've seen the last of this rivalry."

Tammy is more prescient than she knows, as Portia, pushing her exhaustion aside, does likewise to the flunkys guiding her to the ramp. She wrenches her arms free, giving each �helper� a look of pure malevolence.

That was Shea London on the mat, at her mercy, a superstar since she was in boarding school, bested by her skill and wits. The opponent always tended to improve immensely AFTER Portia had laid them waste, at least in her mind.

Turning to the ring, she cast an off-hand glance at her corner. There �Precious� stood never having moved an inch. Portia�s perfect pearlies shone bright as she reached the apron, realizing that Shea would have nowhere to hide, both from what was about to happen, and what had happened.

She had been too clever for the Blonde Bombshell, picking her apart at her weakest link and there would be no excuse this time. She would have to eat her shit crumpet and like it. But first she had something else to eat.

Portia slid under the ropes, leaving a snail trail of perspiration behind. The strawberry blonde was not looking the height of fashion, but the male members of the crowd hardly seemed to mind.

Her tennis top looked more at place in a wet t-shirt contest, her pale skin glistening, hair twisted and matted. If a spoiled socialite could look like she had emerged from the jungle after a month on her own, Van Buren did, and to her few fans and not some of Shea's, she looked all the better. Ravaged and ravishing.

The time away had given Shea an opportunity to gather some of her wits, if not her power. Breathlessly, she propped herself on her elbows and shook free some of the cobwebs; her considerable, tawny, and bare bosom heaving in oxygen.

Blinking, she looked straight up, but instead of the lights of the arena there were white lace panties surrounded by a tiny disheveled skirt, and from them extended slender legs that met the mat on either side of her head. After a moment, it struck home.

PORTIA! Standing above her.

�No,� she weakly whispered, not to Portia, but herself. Shea pushed weakly at the mat, moving herself a scant few inches, but the panties, which were filling more and more of her view, adjusted to her efforts.

As fully as Portia�s crotch filled her sight, hovering over her apprehensive features, so the champ�s voice filled her ears.

�I told you and these people I was better than you. Even if they still don�t get it, at least you do. You�re in my league now, not the bushes.�

And with that, Portia settled atop Shea�s face in another reverse stradlle, the buxom Brit weakly pushing at Portia�s thighs, her head twisting, accentuated from the occasional flop of VanBuren�s tiny skirt. But before London�s movements had ended, Portia reared up, leaned forward, and grabbed a hold of Shea�s legs. The limbs, always among the most beautiful, and usually among the most vibrant in the game, remained stilled, leaving the task of removing Shea�s blue bikini briefs a simple one, Portia quickly tucking them in the rim of her skirt.

�I�m not a poor sport, London. I won�t put the 911 on you again. But my people tell me your family is here, so we should give them the full show, so they know what Shea-sy has gotten herself into here in the Colonies.�

Portia stays true to her word in that the crotch claw is not applied, but as she matchbooks Shea�s body, bringing her already inflamed pussy within easy reach, her slender fingers do trace through Shea�s finely trimmed pubes, a clipped gasp escaping the Brit�s lips, now realizing what Portia has in mind.

�Please, Portia.�

Shea talks into VanBuren�s looming undercarriage, but the strawberry blonde can nonetheless hear her plaintive squeak.

�Not with me mum and brothers�uhhh�.GUHHH.�

Portia was apparently unmoved, or at least her heart, if there was one, was not reached. Her hands continued to do the walking, gliding along her lips, then a couple sinking in slowly between.

�Nuuuh.�

Shea commanded her body to remove this socialite sociopath, but it would not obey. Her hips, airborne, spasmed and rocked, as Portia�s digits dipped lower, her fingers flicking within, as though she were playing a soft, sticky keyboard. And there was the pedal!

�OHHH.�

�Yeah, that was good,� Portia giggled.

Shea�s eyes clenched. She couldn�t. Not in front of Mum.

But a few more frenzied thrusts by Portia and she knew the decision was beyond her. She held on for one more stroke and exploded in delight and despair. The bitch had made her Buckingham Fountain.

Shea could feel the warm wetness between her legs dripping down, collecting in her navel for a moment, then quickly filled, it continued to roll over her taut midriff until reaching the undercleavage of her bosom, where the love honey curled around the mounds of flesh, and made its way to the mat.

Shea whimpered for a moment holding back the urge to sob.

�Does the baby want her bottle? Well, Dennehy�s not here anymore. I�ll have to fill in as best I can.�

What Portia filled was the crease in her soaking panties, first her butt cheeks, but as she shifted her weight , the delightful nuances of Shea�s nose, mouth, and chin stroked her barely-covered sex. Portia was being severely enticed into stripping, but there was no telling where Shea�s face had been, so she pumped on with the sheath still in place, barely noticing that Shea�s arms had fallen limp at her side.

Perhaps, it took a few more strokes than if she had been skin on skin, but as the strawberry blonde increased the pace, humping Shea�s face with rabid abandon, she could feel �Jack� bumping against the lid of his box.

It wasn�t quite like Rick or Rich or whoever earlier in the week, but in some ways it was so much better, that fact only adding to the degree of difficulty in holding on.

�Uhh. Unnngh. GLUHHH. OHHH.�

One final deep stroke brought the lava from its orifice, much of the juice pushing its way through the already-soaked panties and onto the lips, nose, and cheeks of FAWN�s would-be 2-time champ.

Portia�s torso and head accompanied Shea�s pelvis and legs in a drop to the canvas. The two bodies, warm, wet, and now sticky, lay against each other, Shea in blissful slumber, Portia appearing the cat who ate the canary. But no, even FAWN had its limits and she had pushed them to the thinnest straw possible.

The crowd would never forget this night, nor would Shea and her family ever be rid of the nightmare. And for Portia, she had clearly established the VanBuren name as preeminent in FAWN history. With Shea and Jeanette, Irena and Chrissy swept from her path, nothing stood before her but an incumbency as long as she so chose and she was in the mind for a nice long reign.