Nobody loves the boss, but when Bethany Christian�s visage appears on the FAWNtron, the statuesque brunette beauty suffers the indignity of a crescendo of boos and catcalls. From behind her desk, she waits for quiet with a sour look on her face. These are the people she was paid to reach and, along the way, reach into their pockets for the price of admission, not to mention the almighty merchandise dollar. Desperately, she hangs on against her emotion and the overwhelming urge to call this rabble what it is. To be sure, tonight�s venue isn�t the best place to find a friendly crowd. LA can be nasty and the crowd loves showing the leading lady a thing or two.

As the �SLUT� chants soften to a dull rumbling, Bethany straightens in her chair.

�Thanks for that warm SoCal welcome. It�s great to be in the City of Angels.�

The crowd pops, Bethany grinning at the ease of their manipulation.

�In tonight�s next match, you fortunate FAWNatics will witness one of my greatest triumphs as commissioner.�

The crowd boos even the hint of puffery.

�FAWN is always looking to provide you the best, and as much as that means ridding ourselves of old dead weight�are you listening Portia?� Bethany adds with a wink. �It means finding unsurpassed, new, and yes, sometimes vicious talent, whether that means signing top established names, or developing the best through our burgeoning feeder system. I�ve been instrumental in making F2 something to be proud of�something that is the envy of every other league. One of the products is the young wolf who will devour her lamb tonight.�

The crowd boos lustily, but Bethany coolly ignores them.

�All my employees should keep their eyes and ears open tonight. Don�t think you�re bigger than me�or the fans,� she adds tardily. �None of you are out of the woods�out of the reach of the hungry, young wolves.�

With that, the features of Bethany Christian slowly fade from the screen, replaced with the French Tricolor, the masses jeering like Pavlovian dogs.

Anciline de Cyr appears from behind the curtain at the upper stage. Clad in a delicate and delicious black lace and satin bustier with matching panties, the alabaster beauty struts proudly down the aisle to the ringing sounds of �La Marseillaise� in black leather ankle boots, Mme. Legare at her side. Haughtily, she ignores the fans, both those who cheer her (signs read VIVA LE FRANCE! and DE CYR = DE LIGHT) and those who jeer her (particularly one scrawled sign that says GOT YOUR WHITE FLAG READY TO WAVE, FRENCHY?). She displays no sense of distraction from the roar of the mob, her eyes fixed with steely resolve on the ring, her body moving with a grace that only those born to high station and supremely confident in themselves can possess. De Cyr exudes an aura that bespeaks she is indeed superior to all assembled here, and for at least a few moments, many of the fans watching her tonight very nearly believe it to be true.

The Frenchwoman climbs the ringsteps and slides through the ropes, slowly, surely. She arrogantly parades around the squared circle, claiming this territory within the Staples Center as her very own. No one would take it away until she ceded it back to the quivering body of her broken opponent, her adieu having been bidden.

The lights dim as t.A.T.u's rendition of "How Soon is Now?" blasts over the PA. Within seconds, Cynthia Mitchell emerges at the top of the ramp, retaining the new look she modeled at Fall from Grace. The purple bikini top both supported and flattered her modest but not unpleasing figure, the fabric rising into a solitary strap over the left shoulder, leaving her right one bare. The short shorts had become more of a set of bikini briefs, exposing more hip, thigh, belly and buttock than her former gear. It was a new look. And clearly, the fans thought a very good look on her.

Cynthia makes her way to the ring, slapping hands with as many of the fans as she can. Her expression is bright and cheerful, yet there is clearly an intensity and strength of purpose within her as she heads into battle. And a battle it would be. Anciline de Cyr had quickly established herself, both at FAWN2 and in her debut here.

Undefeated. Unbeatable. Her accomplishments had generated an aura of superiority, which was complemented only too well by her own natural arrogance. Not only did she never lose, she carried herself in a way that suggested the very concept was below her concern.

That was going to change tonight, if Cynthia had anything to say about it.

Reaching the ring, Cynthia moves toward the nearest turnbuckle. Then, with an assured smile, she scales the buckles. Cynthia launches herself in a twisting backflip into the ring, sticking the landing perfectly, facing the center of the ring, poised and ready for any attack that might be forthcoming.

But none is. In fact, de Cyr appears more annoyed than motivated. She pushes away from her corner, motioning Cynthia forward, even before the bell. The young brunette decides against the invitation and stretches her limbs while testing the elasticity of the cables.

�CLANG�

Mitchell skips to her right as Anciline moves in a straight line turned arc, FAWN�s wrestling aristocracy curving to lessen Cynthia�s options, de Cyr swiftly closing the gate around her foe, leaving Cynthia with only a quarter of the mat with which to work.

This is apparently a situation Cynthia wants nothing to do with, as she tries to slide out to her left and open up the mat again, but Aniciline will have none of it. She catches the brunette with an extended arm and heaves her back into the corner, Mitchell vaulting back into the buckles, a grimace emerging as her back strikes home.

Turning 90 degrees, de Cyr delves into Cynthia�s breadbasket with a thrust kick, then raises her right boot under the drooping Mitchell�s chin, pushing her first straight, then back across the top rope with a choke. Cynthia is lifted off the mat, her legs pumping spastically to recover a foothold on the canvas.

�Choking�me,� she sputters between gurgling noises, her face turning crimson.

The dissatisfaction of the crowd finally convinces the ref to jump into action and, four seconds later, Anciline stands in front of her wilting foe, observing smugly as Cynthia sucks in some oxygen, her arms slung over the top rope.

The Frenchwoman pushes in close, her body pressing hard against that of Mitchell. Although the same height, the difference in body types is immediately apparent, Anciline�s sturdy, curvy frame pinning the slender Cynthia in place despite Mitchell�s efforts to push her away.

�OOOF�

Cynthia�s toned midriff accepts an uppercut from de Cyr and another brings a second grunt, the dirty blonde equally as effective with her right or left. She slams another set of balled fingers to Cynthia�s belly.

�GUHHH.�

The brunette�s body slumps around the impaling fist, Anciline pushing it in to further relieve Cynthia of her breath. She mutters something �en Francaise� that doesn�t get nearly as much reaction from Mitchell as her fist does when it is removed. But unfortunately for Cynthia, the downright bullying that de Cyr had begun the match with is far from done.

Anciline lifts Mitchell�s left arm with hers, locking it above her head. She ducks, pivots, and drives a kidney punch into the ex-tag champ�s defenseless side with a straight right, the force and pain lifting Cynthia to her tiptoes. Her beautiful features contort, eyelids clenching, lips pursing.

Involuntarily, she lets out a squeak of a �stop�, but de Cyr only responds with another, Cynthia feeling as if her internal organs are finding new spots in which to settle.

The French aristocrat, apparently bored with pounding her opponent�s soft underbelly like a side of veal, allows Cynthia to falter away from the buckles. The dirty blonde spins behind her, taking Mitchell�s right arm along. She traps the limb in a tight hammerlock as she moves between Cynthia and the corner.

With only a moment�s deliberation, perhaps so she can give herself a chance to dislocate Cynthia�s shoulder with a vicious tug that brings a squeal from the brunette, Anciline proceeds with a crisp, textbook belly-to-back suplex, but with an added de Cyr twist. The haughty blonde wraps her arms around the waist of the brunette, lifts Cynthia up with ease, Mitchell�s face, one of shock, with how quickly she is airborne and the speed with which she is tumbling over Anciline�s shoulders. But what is totally out of the blue for everyone but de Cyr is how she uses the middle buckle to her advantage, the back of Cynthia�s skull cracking into the lightly padded bundle, Anciline using it as an otter might crack open a clamshell. The Frenchwoman turns with a self-satisfied grin and reviews the wreckage. Cynthia is in a fetal ball, cradling, with both hands, the back of her head, eyelids again clenched.

Anciline takes a moment to adjust her bustier, which has become slightly ajar, her generous, milky-white contents threatening to burst from their silken casing. Quickly, it is back to work, though Anciline hardly feels she is even gaining any exercise with this overmatched girl.

This was a FAWN champion, of sorts?

Grabbing Cynthia�s legs under the calves and pulling her out of her protective bubble, Anciline slides the shellshocked brunette under the corner buckles and, falling backwards, slingshots the teen queen, ever so briefly, into the lower half of the bottom buckle, her face slamming into the �dead end� with incredible force. No longer knowing what�s hit her, Cynthia can only lie at the terminus of her abbreviated trip, eyes unfocused, mouth agape, her body stilled.

Unfortunately, de Cyr still has plans for the overwhelmed brunette. The ferocious mademoiselle lifts Mitchell by the ankles and props her against the corner in a headstand, an extended knee lodging her in place, Cynthia�s terrified countenance facing the ringpost and the front rows of the shocked onlookers beyond.

The face only becomes more frightened as Cynthia can feel her legs spread. She wriggles to free herself as she imagines the worst, but is pinned in place, purple bikini briefs and the tender tissue beneath pointed skyward. It takes but a moment and Cynthia�s fears are realized, Anciline slamming into the exposed crotch with a mighty double axehandle blow that seems meant to split Mitchell down the middle. And for all appearances on Cynthia�s face, it might have, as her baby blues bulge, her face turns into a twisted death mask, pallor staved off by all of the blood flowing to her head from being top over tea kettle. The crowd�s boos turn to �ooohs� as de Cyr�s clenched hands splinter the brunette�s lovebox.

There is a hint of satisfaction as de Cyr allows Cynthia�s already ravaged body to fall to the mat chest-first, but little more. No pinning attempt. Certainly, no overt celebration. In fact, the satisfaction changes to a look of disgust as Anciline turns her back on the fallen Mitchell, Cynthia�s ass now slightly raised to allow her hands easier access to her throbbing pussy.

The aristocrat marches to the far side of the ring where Mme. Legare sits next to the Canadian announcing team (French Canadian, of course). In a perturbed, but composed soliloquy en Francaise, Anciline directs her executive to notify FAWN management, Miss Christian in particular, that this - de Cyr waves her hand in a sweeping arc toward the body of Cynthia, - this will just not do. As Mme. Legare nods and punches buttons on her cell, Anciline turns to her toy and strides back, a riotous cacophony of catcalls chasing her.

Yanking the limp, brunette ragdoll to her feet, de Cyr pulls one of Cynthia�s hands free of her own crotch and guides her to the middle of the ring where she buggywhips Mitchell to the ropes. Cynthia bounds back toward an awaiting Anciline who�s already doubled over to toss her plaything with a back body drop. However, Mitchell finds the wherewithal to dig deep and ignore the pain from between her thighs, leapfrogging the Frenchwoman. At the opposite set of cables, her inborn athleticism kicks in and she leaps onto the middle rope, popping back at a whirling Anciline with a springboard crossbody. The crows roars as Cynthia spreads her wings, flying at the wide-eyed dirty blonde, but they, and Cynthia, are taken aback by the strength of the curvy beauty, Anciline merely accepting Cynthia into her arms.

Triumph turns to panic, Cynthia struggling within the curled arms of de Cyr�s embrace, and just as quickly it turns to anguish, as Anciline drops her cargo atop an extended knee in a debilitating stomachbreaker. Cynthia�s bare tummy is gutted by the femur and kneecap and she rolls off in a fit of coughs and groans, wrapping her arms around her gored midsection.

Sensing an opportunity to break down and demolish yet another region of her outmatched adversary, Anciline lies next to Cynthia, the brunette softly rolling from side to side as the knots in her belly untie and her breath returns. Jerking Cynthia�s upper body slightly off the canvas, she slips her left leg underneath and slides it down to a point that it dissects the middle of Mitchell�s back. Then, with a couple gyrations, she �swallows� Cynthia up her legs, like a croc with dinner plans, finally slamming the scissors shut with her right thigh across Cynthia�s pert bosom, the brunette�s moderately-sized tits squeezed flat to her breastbone, her diaphragm likewise compressed. Anciine locks her legs at the ankles and pours every ounce of energy into the body scissors, a few beads of sweat emerging on her brow for the first time.

Cynthia squeaks in pain, her breasts being pulverized with the pressure generated by the aristocrat�s steel bands disguised as legs. The mousy chirp might have been a bellowing howl, but her lungs couldn�t find the air to let loose.

Anciline curses in French at the bug-eyed Mitchell, the brunette too preoccupied with the crushing tightness in her bosom to try and interpret any language, including English. Was this what a heart attack felt like? Would her tits be pushed outside-in? For that�s what it felt like. It was hard to compare rationally, at the moment, but it sure felt like Ivy had nothing on this girl.

The Frenchwoman turns her head and shouts something to Legare, who responds to the ref with the translation.

�Ask the girl if she wishes to continue, monsieur.�

The referee slides next to Mitchell.

�Do you wanna give it up, Cynthia?�

In many ways, she certainly did. But not in the most important. Cynthia shook her head and de Cyr rewarded her with yet more exertion, the brunette vainly prying at Anciline�s straining, muscular lower limbs without so much as an inch of effect. A considerable sigh escapes both women�s lips simultaneously, Cynthia, perhaps losing the last of her breath and will; Anciline losing patience. To the great good fortune of the ex-tag champ, the curvy French beauty releases her scissors, rolls Mitchell from between her legs, and dispassionately rises to her feet.

She picks up Cynthia and, deciding her foe can�t stand on her own, leans her against the ropes. With a look of loathing and disappointment, she examines the wavering beauty from one side then the other, casually strolling in an arc around the brunette, before finally returning to her starting point. Rearing back, she lands a staggering open-hand slap that spins Cynthia 90 degrees, long chestnut strands exploding outward on impact as she falls into the ropes, the cables bracing her and rebounding her in time for a backhanded edition to the opposite cheek. This time Cynthia wheels in a complete 180, her back to her tormentor as she sags over the strands, staring helplessly into the downcast eyes of her new teacher, Belle Armstrong.

The Armstrong matriarch knew from experience that sometimes you ate the bear, sometimes the bear ate you, but this Grizzly de Cyr was simply playing with its food.

From behind, carefully, almost delicately, Anciline snakes her arms around Cynthia�s neck and head and fastens on a sleeper hold, her body pressing tightly to Mitchell�s back as she leans in for more leverage, Cynthia�s arms waving wildly, reaching back for any handhold and finding none.

This girl didn�t deserve the Maginot Line, Anciline thought. Putting her to sleep like a mongrel was the best for both of them.

The brunette�s eyelids begin to flutter, her hands merely sliding softly atop Anciline�s grasp rather than digging in. Within seconds, they fall from even those pitiful efforts and drape across the top rope, their position unnoticed by the Frenchwoman.

To the focused De Cyr�s astonishment, she realized there is a count and it is at three. She releases in the nick of time, saving herself from disqualification.

Peeling Cynthia off the ropes, the dirty blonde scoops and slams in a regally fluid motion, Cynthia vaguely registering the impact with an arched back and a clouded frown.

The aristocrat uses Cynthia as a mat, stepping atop her broken form at the waistline, and through the ropes to the apron outside, the younger Mitchell sibling gurgling her dissent.

Anciline measures Cynthia and grabs the top rope with a dual overhand grip. Showing an astonishing agility, to go with her already proven strength and ring generalship, Anciline leaps over the ropes in a somersault legdrop, Cynthia�s graceful neck the next target.

But summoning up the courage of a Mitchell and the downright orneriness of an Armstrong, Cynthia�s legs push against the mat and roll her out of the way of the falling mademoiselle, Anciline taking a healthy bump to her derriere that leaves de Cyr in obvious pain for perhaps the first time. She slaps the mat in anger and massages her lower back as she pushes slowly to her feet, Cynthia still unable to join her until the blonde grabs a handful of hair and �helps� her up.

The drooping Mitchell�s chest heaves as she tries to expand her second wind from survival to offense, but it seems she�s taken too much sustained abuse, being overwhelmed by the undefeated de Cyr from the beginning. Anciline rears back, cocking a European uppercut and fires, catching nothing but air, as Cynthia sidesteps the missile.

Taking advantage of a now off-balance Anciline, Cynthia slides in behind and ensnares de Cyr�s arms and head in a full nelson. Quicky feeling the surge of strength through Anciline�s shoulders as she regains her balance, Mitchell quickly decides it�s now or never and musters the strength, barely, to take an incredulous de Cyr off her feet and deposit it her with a mat-thumping full nelson face slam. Cynthia introduces Anciline�s sculptured cheekbones and full lips to the canvas with a banshee shout, both she and the crowd feeling as if a shroud has been pulled away and the brunette is reborn.

A shaken and stirred Anciline rolls to her back, eyes glassy, but still, in a way, disbelieving in that she is looking UP at this disheveled, bruised, and beaten creature in purple; lightly tanned skin glistening and beaded with sweat.

�Impossible,� she whispers.

Cynthia grabs a wrist and yanks Anciline to her feet, eager to show the aristocrat she is very wrong. With a whip, the reenergized Mitchell sends the blonde flying to the far ropes. de Cyr tries to put on the brakes, but only does so to the point that Cynthia�s hurricarana is made easier, Anciline�s world suddenly engulfed in Cynthia�s thighs and crotch, but for a moment, as the gymnastically-inclined FAWN star flips backwards, bringing the blonde with her in a mind-scrambling tumble. Anciline hits the canvas hard, skidding to a pained halt. As the flustered Frenchwoman tries to regain her bearings and rubs out an increasingly painful knot in her back, Cynthia is flying about the ring, not about to let her momentum go to waste.

Speeding away from the fallen de Cyr, she leaps onto the middle rope and backflips to her objective, lionsaulting across the open expanse of black bustier covering Anciline�s midriff, the plush tummy giving way beneath the harsh impact.

�UUUNGH�

Either end of Anciline jackknifes around Cynthia then fades back to the mat, shoulders flat against the canvas.

The ref jumps in and slaps the mat.

ONE

Anciline throws an elbow up with power to spare, Cynthia rocking off her body. But the sprightly Mitchell notices something in Anciline�s eyes. Not a �how dare she�, but a �how IS she�. Cynthia jumps to her feet and races to the nearest set of buckles as the undefeated de Cyr rises in stages.

Cynthia waits on the top buckle like a tiger ready to pounce, Anciline finding unsteady feet and turning to locate a quarry that suddenly had other ideas. She only sees a flash of chestnut, cream, and purple out of the corner of her eye, Cynthia having found the perfect timing to launch into a flying headscissors. Again, the slender, but powerful legs surround her vision, before she is spun away like a top, landing on her head and shoulders after a somersault, half-gainer, with a twist. And though that combo was a nice dive into water, onto lightly-covered plywood was another matter. The crowd buzzes as the arrogant Continental lies spreadeagled, spasms up for a moment, then recedes to the mat, arms and legs, once again, outstretched.

In the blink of an eye, how this match had changed. And within two blinks, Cynthia is once more atop a corner post. This time, she does not wait, launching into a skyscraping frog splash that meets meat, the brunette again collapsing Anciline�s breadbasket; a full, plump teat forced out the top of the blonde�s bustier, Anciline grunting on impact and groaning as Cynthia slides atop her. Pulled into a tight upturned cradle, de Cyr�s loose mammary falls onto its owner�s chin, nearly seeming to have a life of its own, one where it wishes to smother its owner.

The refs drops to one knee next to a shouting Cynthia as the crowd rises to its feet in anticipation.

ONE

TWO

THR--

KICKOUT.

Cynthia slaps the mat in frustration, pleading with the official with her eyes. He simply shrugs and directs her back to action.

Anciline, though she had escaped the pin, is in no condition to do much more, even when Cynthia mischievously undoes a couple of the ornate, 18th century buttons at the bottom of de Cyr�s garment. But unlike some of the more unseemly girls in the federation, Cynthia�s actions were not for show, but for go.

Clenching the digits of her right hand into a set of curled talons, Mitchell sinks a stomach claw into the Frenchwoman�s glistening ivory skin and the lush, receptive flesh underneath. The already battered midsection of Anciline gives way under the intense carving fingers, Cynthia able to dig deep.

Anciline fights to maintain her composure, but after a minute of this torture and the addition of a spinning twist of Cynthia�s handful of flesh, she shrieks out a high-pitched �MAIRDE�.

The ref moves into place.

�Quit?�

He was keeping it simple, even though Anciline had an English vocabulary that dwarfed this mental midget�s. The blonde shakes her head.

�NOAAAHHHHH�

An increase in pressure morphs de Cyr�s answer, beads of perspiration streaming over Cynthia�s skin and dripping off her long locks onto, what was now, a sponge-like set of bustier and panties; healthy rim of ivory skin between them, a set of digits gorging amidst that flesh.

As much as Anciline could hardly admit it, she needed to do something�and fast. This girl had her if nothing changed. Her mind was jumbled from the pain and she might say anything soon. English or French.

As Cynthia leans in for yet more leverage, she gets a little careless. Moving within reach of Anciline, the blonde rises and, fighting through the pain it took to do so, scrapes her nails across Cynthia�s eyes. The brunette wails as her hands fly to her face, Anciline released from her torture and the near capitulation she felt emerging. The arrogant aristocrat sloughs that thought off even as the pain from her belly will barely allow her to move.

Unfortunately, a half-blinded and fully-enraged Cynthia has other ideas on whether Anciline will be moving and she reaches down to pull the dirty blonde up to one knee.

�I�m not duhh��

The Frenchwoman interrupts Cynthia�s first address of the night with a European uppercut that swings Mitchell�s head back with a whiplash. The target returns to de Cyr, this time a bit glassy-eyed. She lands another looping forearm that shoots Cynthia�s head up, the noggin eventually drooping back in range. But the third time is not the charm for Anciline, as Cynthia blocks the effort and grabs the arm, yanking her previously smug foe to her feet, and sending her off with an Irish whip.

Anciline�s freed breast bounces gloriously as the Frenchwoman bounds into the far ropes and comes hurtling back at the woman who sent her on the journey. Cynthia�s acrobatics are again on display, as she leaps into the hard-charging blonde, again her legs collect a stunned Anciline around the head, the aristocrat�s cheeks pressed by the brunette�s thighs, pouting lips within an inch of her thinly-covered sex. Again, Cynthia flips back with her payload, meaning to deposit de Cyr with a thud and, most likely followed with a finishing coupe de grace.

However, Anciline has something of her own to showcase. Leaning back when Cynthia attempts to send her tumbling, she uses the leverage and her own considerable strength to hold firm in her stance and, as Cynthia peels away in her backflip, the dirty blonde catches her ankles and crouches down into a readymade Boston Crab of an extremely vertical variety (think Walls of Jericho).

Cynthia, unsure of how her plans turned so foul, nonetheless IS sure of the incredible pressure being applied to her back and the desperate situation she is in. She cries in agony as Anciline pours the pressure on.

�Let go,� she squeals, knowing full well the plea will not be answered in the way intended.

So it comes as a huge relief when de Cyr makes the mistake of getting the Crab a little too vertical and she slips out of the maneuver. While still in Anciline�s grasp, de Cyr still with dual handholds around the brunette�s ankles, Cynthia splayed in front of her, Mitchell welcomes the relief nonetheless.

Alas, for poor Cynthia, the relief is short-lived, and the mistake is not one after all. Anciline dips to one knee and exchanges her grip about Cynthia�s ankles for snaking her arms around Cynthia�s raised upper thighs. Still confused, and thinking Anciline is going for the pin, the teen �crunches�, Pilates-style, her shoulders off the mat, but this only assists the clever Continental in her real goal. Like an Olympic weightlifter, Anciline clean and jerks Cynthia off the ground. Only as Cynthia�s jackknifed body is aloft, held momentarily by Anciline slightly above her shoulder level, does the brunette realize her lethal predicament and, by the time she does, the trap and the Maginot Line has already been sprung.

Cynthia�s arms windmill as she hurtles to earth on the receiving end of a demolishing powerbomb, the lithe brunette bouncing from the mat-thumping impact, her body settling to the point of its final demise, arms and legs spreadeagled. The remainder of the fatal combo is a fait d�accompli. Anciline, her cocksureness instantly returning as if it had never left, lowers herself atop Cynthia�s semi-conscious form, the dirty blonde pressing tightly against her in a grapevine pin, her body feeling the pulsating shudders of Cynthia�s final throes. There would be no comeback from this devastation and, indeed, there was no reason for the coupe de grace of the Maginot, the consciousness-sucking breast smother. But a de Cyr always finished what she started and the ref, watching in amazement, doesn�t even move for a count on the pin. Enthralled, he watches as Cynthia�s weakly writhing features are enveloped by the French Alps; one, bare and snowy, the other, black as night. Mitchell�s arms weakly push against the avalanche of Anciline�s fleshy globes, but it is of no use, and quickly, mercifully so, she is overcome, her arms falling to her sides, the stirring of her chestnut strands finished.

Finally recovering from the magnificent sight, the ref lies next to the conqueror and her conquest and raises Cynthia�s arm once, twice, thrice. Each time, the limb falls like a felled tree, slapping the mat with its own version of a three-count.

The ref stands and waves Cynthia out, making Anciline�s triumph an official one, the PA instantly announcing it to the befuddled crowd.

�YOUR WINNER BY KNOCKOUT ANCILINE DE CYR.�

Anciline ascends to her feet, every inch the pompous aristocrat she�d been at the start of her trial. Without a hint of emotion, she lifts the deadweight that Cynthia Mitchell has become. She drapes the brunette over a sinewy shoulder, Cynthia�s legs flaccidly flopping in the front, her lower back curving around the shoulderbone, her head lolling chin over forehead, and her arms swinging like dual pendulums, as de Cyr takes a victory lap around the ring, the big game hunter with her lifeless quarry.

Fox hunting may have become illegal, but at least with FAWN, she could have this slightly stimulating substitute. WINNER: Anciline de Cyr