by: Hawkeye
The crowd crackles with an odd energy, Shea�s legions of fans murmuring in concerned curiosity. How would she bounce back from the worst experience of her life? Would she? And how did a FAWN newcomer already get the opportunity to strike Shea down?
Sissy had dispatched and humiliated BabyGurl with astonishing ease, but the FAWNatics in the crowd realize there is a light-year�s worth of difference between the green Detroit street punk and the flower of the Empire. This would be a huge early test of where Landers placed in the pecking order and if Shea could blot out her first unconditional surrender.
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�s face is unusually pensive. She jogs down to the ring, eschewing her interplay with the adoring fans along either side of the aisle. 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.
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.
As Shea settles into her corner, testing the elasticity of the ropes, her mind continued to contemplate her upcoming opponent. Though they had never formally met in a match, Sissy had been around Battling Ring Angels long enough for Shea to weigh her, sometimes, ditzy personality against attributes that were obviously special.
Shea wasn�t fooled by the Louisiana girl�s state of constant distraction to think her any less formidable an adversary. She had seen too much of Landers success to think that. If anyone felt the sting of overconfidence in this match, it might be Sissy. For, when last Shea was in this ring, she had been destroyed in every way possible; her nubile, naked body left hanging like sopping laundry.
Shea stares at the corner of her final humiliation. She had to shake it off. Sissy was tough, but she was no Chrissy. If she had her head about her, this would be a good place to start on the road to recovery.
Suddenly, Guns-n-Roses assaults the eardrums of the gathered throng, the eighties classic "Paradise City" pumping out the arena�s sound system. It is the signal for the entrance of Princess "Sissy" Landers.
The young blonde walks slowly out from the back and begins a slow and meandering walk to the ring. She stops frequently to shake hands, high five, or just generally meet the folks near the aisle. They love her for it. She's a huge fan favorite. Sissy is a toned and athletic looking girl, with her blond hair a little wavy and swaying, as she struts to the ring. Her eyes show a lack of intensity. Like she'd like to be somewhere else. She seems to have little attention focused on the ring. It's almost like she's looking for something more fun to do.
Her ring attire is fairly simple, a white Adidas ringer tee, with blue trim and blue Adidas emblem over a black sports bra. Her soffe shorts are black and doubled once at the waistband to make them look tighter around her perfect thighs. The back of the shorts is decorated with white stitched-on letters bearing her personal motto "Kick It Or Kiss It." Her boots are black with white trim and she completes her look with black knee and elbow pads. She also has a pink backpack, with the words "Sissy's Stuff", on the back. She places it in her corner.
As she rolls into the ring and looks around, you get the feeling she's not 100% into the idea of wrestling. The ref can barely keep her focused as the rules are explained between Shea and herself. She seems to be only half listening. But the second the instructions are finished, her look changes. She becomes focused and intent. She starts to stretch and gets set for the upcoming match.
The two women edge toward each other and tie-up in the middle of the ring with a collar-and-elbow, Shea a tad hesitant. Landers takes advantage of the moment of uncertainty, raising a pointed knee into the tawny, tight expanse of Shea�s belly, a guttural grunt escaping the Brit�s lips as she doubles over, her nervous supporters already silenced. Dropping to the mat and sweeping a leg in front of her as she spins out a 360, Sissy drops Shea tail over tea kettle with an Electric Boogaloo dance step.
The combatants pop to their feet in the blink of an eye, but Sissy, having never dropped out of rhythm, is up first and rakes her nails across London�s eyes, blinding the Brit momentarily. But a moment is all she needs to dip an arm between Shea�s legs. Landers collects her unsteady cargo, lifting her off the mat, resting her for a moment on her shoulder, and twisting into a forceful planting of back against canvas, Sissy slamming the inaugural FAWN champion to the mat with extreme prejudice. Shea bleats in protest with the impact, her back arching, perfect pearlies clenching in pain.
The Princess quickly returns to business. Gathering Shea�s legs and pulling them wide, she ignores London�s plaintive wave and shoots a boot to the intersection of her gorgeous gams, a slight imprint of a tread left on Shea� blue bikini briefs.
Shea squeals in anguish, her hands dropping to her crotch as Sissy pulls her foot away. The British Bombshell gulps in both agony and dismay, eyes unable to contain a growing concern, this was quickly turning into a painful rerun.
Still holding Shea�s legs high, Sissy steps through, and looks down upon Shea�s beautiful features, morphed into a pained mask.
�Hehe ~ you have bad knees,� she giggles, before releasing one leg and spinning in place to lower into a Figure-4 leglock. Unfortunately for the loopy blonde, she only gets halfway. With her backside turned away from Shea, the Brit pistons her free leg up and out. Letting Sissy�s motto be her guide, she buries her boot into the rump of the Princess and leg presses her into a vault that sends Landers airborne and frees Shea from the dangerous entanglement.
Sissy maintains her balance and turns back from whence she came with a look of complete frustration, her lips in a pout.
�Hey ~ that was like ~ cheatification.�
(Hey, I made up a word.)
As Shea pushes painfully to her feet, Sissy charges full speed, disconcerting grin reapplied. However, the wily, wiry vet is ready and waiting. She sends the FAWN newcomer tumbling away with a precise hiptoss. The Princess rolls to her feet with a grimace and pushes out of the corner.
Perhaps the third time would have been a charm, but Sissy wouldn�t see it, her second headlong attack met with a spectacular hurricarana that spins her to the mat, her back slamming hard against the canvas, a dizzied Princess staring up into a Schoolgirl pin, Shea�s shins across her biceps, wrists pinned in London�s tight clutch.
ONE
TWO
With Sissy�s senses still in a bit of a fog, instincts kick in and kick her out of trouble, Shea toppling over the top of Landers� reclined form, then slapping the mat in frustration.
The Brit gives herself only the barest moment of disappointment and is quickly back to her feet. Sissy, having rolled up to a seated position, legs extended, eyes staring blankly ahead, is the recipient of a dropkick to the back of noggin. Landers� head whiplashes forward from the attack, her body folding like a garment bag. And there she remains as Shea kips to her feet, an ovation from the crowd accompanying her.
�You�re back,� Shea whispers to herself. �Ya �ave ta believe it.�
Snatching a handful of Sissy�s long golden locks, she pulls the delta diva to her feet and stretches an arm over Landers� neck. Locking it in place, she sprints forward a few steps, athletically skips from middle to top rope and pushes away in the opposite direction, spiking Sissy�s forehead into the canvas like a lawn dart, the springboard bulldog executed to perfection. The pslightly psychotic royalty lies spreadeagled on her face and chest, left leg twitching softly.
Shea, feeling every ounce her old, proud self, kips up again to the reverberating cacophony of the crowd. A slight sheen coats her bronzed body as she flashes both a winsome smile and a �V� for victory to the masses, then returns to Sissy, the blonde having pushed her way to all fours.
But alas, London�s Dunkirk, or maybe on this Independence Day, Yorktown, comes from out of the blue. Into the blue of Shea�s bikini-covered crotch delves the balled fingers of Sissy Landers, catching the Brit completely off guard. The Sensational One rises to tiptoes as Sissy rips the blow home, Shea squeaking as the nasty blonde beauty grinds her fist into the Englishwoman�s sweetmeat. London vainly tries to push the invasion from between her thighs, but it is Sissy who brings the torture to an end, pulling her fist free and using a wide-eyed, open-mouthed Shea to climb to her feet.
Sissy shakes a cobweb or two as the tawny Brit massasges her battered pussy. Grabbing Shea�s cheeks between thumb and forefinger, she raises the Brit�s head, she measures the tip of The Bombshell�s chin with her thumb, as if preparing to place the former champ on canvas. After taking a step back, Sissy does just that, with no easel required, collapsing Shea with a dropkick that catches every bit of the chin Landers had marked. The navy-clad beauty flops on her back, legs folding atop her torso, matchbooked body popping back open.
Like rising from her bed on Christmas morning, the Princess skips a happy circle around the slow-rising �parent�, Shea shakily pushing to her knees. As she does, Sissy bounds friskily to the corner, climbing to the top like a jungle feline. She waits to pounce as Shea makes unsteady feet. Slowly, London scans the ring, tottering as she turns, finally coming to Sissy�s corner, only to be met with a flying forearm from the loony blonde, who had timed her leap perfectly. The strike knocks the Blonde Bombshell to the mat as if shot. She lies, eyes wide and vacant, limbs pointing to each side of the ring, arms softly, vaguely clawing at the air above her like an overturned turtle trying to right itself.
Shea�s enigmatic foe slides down next to her, but instead of pushing her advantage, Sissy begins licking the back of her hands and grooming her disheveled blonde locks.
�I like Kitty Cats!� she shouts. �But they�re not as cute or clean as me.�
(Where�s my littler box? ~ hehe)
Landers hops to her feet with one of Shea�s legs in tow. Viciously, she stomps the inner portion of the Sensational One�s left knee.
FOUR. FIVE. SIX.
The crowd mindlessly counts along as Sissy tries to turn the ball and socket into powder.
SEVEN. EIGHT. NINE.
Sissy stops, the crowd continuing onto TEN, just out of sheer momentum. The Princess waggles an index finger.
�Silly crowd!�
Shea, spasming throughout, trying to escape, finally gets her tenth and final stomp. The tawny blonde Brit wails as she clutches her joint, tears welling.
But it was only the start, for as Shea writhes in agony, Sissy turns her attention farther down London�s sleek, silky gam, spinning into an ankle lock. Shea�s cries of desperation only grow in timber and pitch as now her ankle is twisted in ways that are clearly not intended, many of her fans forced to look away, Sissy giggling, as she winds the Brit�s foot one way then the other.
London inches toward the ropes, each millimeter paid for in excruciating fashion. The ref slides down next to her.
�What do you say, Shea? You want to give this one up?�
The Blonde Bombshell�s heart skips a beat. Oh yes, hell yes, she did. The second time would be so much easier than the first. But the second would lead to the third, and the tenth, and the�
�No. NOOOO,� Shea wails, shaking her head, her second negatory emphasized courtesy a cruel twist by Sissy, but it is the last she can offer, as London makes the ropes with the tips of her outstretched fingers.
The ref yells for the break and starts his count, Sissy releasing at four and then some.
Immediately, she yanks Shea to her feet and locks in an arm bar. Steadying on her good leg and the ropes, the resourceful London reverses matters. Landers growls as the Brit cinches it in.
�Little copycat,� she snarls.
(I bet she passes counterfeit pound notes.)
Princess throws an elbow back with her free arm, but Shea ducks it, and uses the momentum to whip Sissy to the opposite side of the squared circle. As Landers� black boots patter across the canvas-covered plywood, London pushes into the near ropes and limps behind, gathering momentum of her own. It�s enough to meet a returning Sissy with a solid cross-body block that knocks the wind from the surprised psycho. With opportunity knocking, Shea hooks a leg.
ONE
TWO
KICKOUT
Instead of pounding the mat in frustration, Shea pounds the chin and chops of Sissy, her left hand immersed in Landers� golden mane, her right, rocking Sissy�s world. After five crosses, the Brit lets Sissy�s head flop to the mat, the coconut of the punchdrunk Princess lolling to one side then the other.
London struggles to her feet and limps to the nearest corner, a good eight feet from Sissy�s prostrate form. She climbs to the buckles as if in slow motion, her left leg almost dragged along for the ride. There she sets up, her back to the ring, her gaze upon the cheering multitude. She sneaks a peek over her shoulder and pushes off in a moonsault, screaming as she forces both legs to do their duty and carry her to victory. Shea doesn�t reach her normal azimuth, but the soaring beauty is still a sight to behold, and the distance is there. She crashes down across Sissy�s chest, the Princess� lower body spasming upward then receding to the mat, an exhausted Shea able to recover and drape her body across the otherwise stilled blonde�s lightly rolling bosom.
ONE
TWO
THRR-SHOULDER UP!
Sissy, showing a determination no simple, goofy airhead could muster, forces the match on, despite Shea�s heated protestations.
�Ya �ave ta be pullin� me leg,� she shouts, her eyes pleading for the much-needed victory, the irony lost.
Shea can feel the throbbing from her left leg and knows there will be no further liftoffs tonight, but maybe one leg would do for�
London rolls a weakly-stirring Sissy to her right side, drives the sole of her right boot into the small of Landers� back and reaches for both left arm and leg, so as to secure the London Bridge, Shea�s bow-and-arrow submission finisher. Got the wrist. YEAH. Got the ankle. BLOODY GREAT.
But before she can lean back and really turn Sissy�s back muscles and spine into taffy, the Princess slithers free of Shea�s sweat-slickened grip. She spins to face the tawny blonde, pushing away Shea�s good leg and pulling in the bad. Landers gives the leg a wicked whip. The shock wave emanating from her leg, courses through Shea�s body, bringing a shriek of anguish, her nubile body tensing as if in rigor.
Wearily, Sissy pushes to her feet and drops a heavy elbow to Shea�s inner thigh. London squeals and pushes at Sissy ineffectually, grimacing as the daffy newcomer sinks a claw into the sleek, satiny muscle.
�People from England have ~ like ~ bad teeth,� Sissy chides, noticing the gritted pearlies of her foe.
London does not cry out on impact, only an audible exhale escapes her parted lips. Sissy tries to kip up, but falls back to her ass with a sheepish look.
�I coulda five minutes ago. It�s not so tough.�
This time she pushes to her feet in stages and stares down at the sprawled Shea.
�This is the 4th of July ~ you get ~ um ~ beaten without representation!�
Some of the more jingoistic portions of the crowd cheer Sissy on as she moves to the nearest set of buckles and climbs to the top.
�USA. USA. USA,� they chant.
Sissy gives them a sloppy salute and launches.
Shea�s fans, from either side of the Atlantic, hang their heads, as Landers gains altitude, enough, in fact, to pump twice, the signature �Sissy Splash� finding an open and vulnerable Shea, her breathless body shocked and awed.
Not taking any chances, the Princess rolls Shea�s lifeless body into a tight cradle, Sissy indulging in an atomic wedgie of Shea�s briefs to make sure the beaten Brit was going nowhere, but to defeat.
Some of Shea�s true believers may have thought it not a formality, but when the ref slides into place, he slaps the mat�
ONE
TWO
THREE
�without so much as a fluttering eyelid from the bested Shea.
The PA kicks in as Sissy hops to her feet, girlishly skipping around the ring, finally finding her corner.
�YOUR WINNER BY PINFALL�SISSY LANDERS.�
Pulling her pink backpack up to the apron, Sissy digs through the contents, emerging with a microphone, small box of tea, Earle Grey to be precise, and a tiny Stars-and-Stripes. She leads the crowd in some flag waving as she approaches the slumbering Shea.
Sissy tucks the flag in Shea�s cleavage, to the delight of many.
�Let�s face it ~ ummm ~ your country is our 51st state.�
Propping Shea up in a seated position with a genuflected knee, Sissy opens the box with one hand and pulls Shea�s briefs open wide in front. Dramatically, she dumps the leaves into Shea�s privates and lets her waistband return to its low-riding crescent. Sissy massages the tea into Shea�s pubes, so she�ll have some weedpicking to do later.
Landers grabs the microphone and rises.
�Shea ~umm Stadium~ has a Tea Party in her pants and all of Boston is invited.�
(It�s not like they don�t know the address ~ hehe.)
WINNER: Sissy Landers