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lowblow emma
Star
- Joined
- Sep 21, 2013
- Location
- London
I’m a wrestler. Been in the business since my late teens, almost 15 years now, although my persona has changed over the years. To begin with I was Lady Jayne, a blonde with a good figure and big boobs. That made me a natural to be cast as the beauty queen goody, who always played fair. When I hit my late 20s, my agent took me for lunch and told me that my days playing the blonde beauty queen role were over. Change or move on, that was her message. I went home, stripped off and stood in front of the mirror. She was right. Over the years, I’d put on weight, my thighs had become more flabby, my biceps had bulged and there was a roll of fat around my waist. I was still strong and fit and didn’t want to give up, so I decided to change.
My agent relaunched me. I was still Lady Jayne, but that name was now totally at odds with my new character. No longer the goody, I was now the tough fighter who would do what it took to win. To roughen up my image, I had some tattoos and went for the peroxide tart look. For costume, I now abandoned the glamorous outfits and went for a plain bikini style to show off as much flesh as possible. This image was popular with the fans. For my existing fans, I was getting my own back for all the unfair tricks that had been pulled on me over the years. For the others, I was a street fighter who could always be relied on for low blows and dirty tricks. There were lots of grudge matches where I took on fighters who had beaten me unfairly in the past. I couldn’t be allowed to win all the time of course. Sometimes I did, but often the script required the other girl to triumph in the end. It didn’t matter, the fee was the same.
Recently I’ve specialised in the corporate market. The promoter puts on a private show at a small venue for business clients and their customers. The audience is usually on one or two sides only, so it’s like performing on a stage. We usually come on after the meal and the sales pitch. The clients choose the contestants and write the scripts. We act out their wrestling fantasies for them. For an extra fee, the fight can be filmed.
This client’s fantasy was to pit me against a tough female tag team, Sharon and Marlene known as the Bombers. It would begin by following normal tag rules. There would be lots of fast action, with my opponents tagging all the time. They would tire me out and gang up in order to give me a good pummelling. Eventually I would turn on the dirty tricks and overpower both of them. The fight would be filmed for distribution to the audience later, provided (or so I guessed) that they bought the client’s products. That was the plot, but it didn’t go according to plan.
I got no hint of this from the rehearsal. We were to fight barefoot. The client was an underwear manufacturer and wanted to dress us in his own products with bra, suspender-panties and stockings. Only the colours differed. I was to be in red, Sharon in black and Marlene in white. The lingerie wasn’t ideal for fighting; wrestling costumes normally give more support and protection. But the client always knows best. I insisted on wearing one size too small. I always did this to make me look more flabby and tarty than I actually was. When we were comfortable with our costumes, we walked through the fight as normal and then played out some of the trickier moves. We made sure that the two cameras would get good shots of us and our costumes. In effect, we were making an underwear commercial for private viewing only.
Everything went as planned for about three minutes. Sharon was supposed to pick me up and knee drop me. She would then tag Marlene who would jump on me from the corner. But I would roll away at the last minute and she would land on her face. The way this drop was to work was for me to jump into Sharon’s arms and she would move her knee away as I fell so that I would just slide off it, but aching my back to look as if I’d crotched myself. I jumped into Sharon’s arms as planned, but instead of dropping me she carried me across to Marlene and sat me astride the top rope. This was only planned for later when I would dump Sharon on the ropes and then jerk her off. Riding the top rope usually figures somewhere in any show. It looks excruciatingly painful, but if it’s executed properly it isn’t. Your costume is padded at the crotch and you just hold onto the rope and bounce with your feet. But I wasn’t in costume, just thin tight panties. And I wasn’t allowed to get a foot hold. Sharon stood in front of me inside the ring with Marlene outside the ropes and behind me. They pushed the rope forward and back and jerked it up and down. I tried to hang on but the sudden changes of direction kept throwing me off balance. The audience loved this, clapping in time as I rode the rope. Being a true pro, I was aware of the camera and realised that I was directly in front of it. I cried out in pain as the rope cut and rubbed, but I wasn’t putting on the usual performance for the audience; these bitches were doing it for real. After playing this up for the audience, they tagged and just left me on the rope. I managed to drag myself off scrapping the rope across the inside of my bare thigh. You may wonder where the referee was in all this. She was parading around in a fetching bridal lingerie set. Her job was just to count for falls and knockouts. Otherwise all she had to do was show off her costume and keep out of our way. She did her job well.
My crotch felt sore but we all improvise to some extent and this had given the camera a good shot of my legs in their stockings and suspenders. That would please the client. So I just resumed the plot from where Marlene was supposed to stand up after landing on her face.
She now dived at my legs, knocking me to the floor and jumping onto my chest. She lay there trying to get a fall. The ref would start to count and each time the count got to two I would push her off. The idea was to give me a breather and the audience some lingering crotch shots as I wriggled to get free. Sharon was supposed to be getting her breath back as well, but instead she climbed into the ring and started unfastening my suspenders. I struggled and kicked at her, but she pushed herself between my thighs and freed all the suspenders on my left leg before rolling the stocking down. I was focussing so much on her that I almost forgot to lift my shoulders in time. Sharon twisted round and did the same with the other suspenders and stocking. Then she stood between my legs and pulled at the stockings, lifting my legs into the air until they were free. I pushed Marlene off and stood up bare legged, wondering what they had in store next.
I did wonder if they were going to strip me. If that was what they had in mind, they would find a real fight on their hands. I’m a wrestler, not a stripper. Ripping off my opponents’ costumes is part of my repertoire, but they’re always wearing a thong underneath and I’m careful to leave it in place. But I had nothing else on. I couldn’t imagine anything worse than standing naked in front of an audience of barely sober businessmen. That just shows how limited my imagination was.
I was supposed to pin Marlene down for a fall with her legs over her head, displaying her plump ass to the audience. Just as the ref was about to count three, Sharon would jump in and get me from behind in a crotch claw. She was supposed to grab my costume while I jumped around pretending I was trying to free myself and screaming as if I were in pain. She would then let go and I would roll pretending to be in pain. Instead of sticking to the script, Sharon took hold of a handful of flesh. With only skimpy panties for protection, her nails dug into my crotch that was already sore from the rope ride. Pulling to free myself just made it worse. When she let go, I didn’t need to pretend to be in pain.
With them both in the ring, they set about seriously throwing me about. I was dragged around by my arms, legs and bra straps. Marlene even grabbed hold of my tits to haul me to my feet. They used every throw in the book and stamped on me when I was down. I was thrown against the ropes and into the corner posts. My arms were tangled into the top two ropes and I was chopped and drop kicked repeatedly while I hung there dangling. All this was part of the plan, but everything was faster and more vicious than we’d rehearsed. I was so disorientated that when I was pinned down and spanked, I couldn’t tell you which one held me and which one gave me the hardest thrashing I’ve had in my life since I broke my dad’s watch. The ref could have given them a fall, because I made no attempt to get my shoulders off the floor, but she probably didn’t notice.
When we reached the stage for me to turn the tables on my tormentors, they had just dropped me on my belly. Without giving me a chance, Sharon took hold of my arms and Marlene took my ankles. They swung me up and down before tossing me onto the top rope. I grabbed hold instinctively to save myself falling out of the ring. As I clung onto the rope, Sharon slid out the ring and pulled on one of my legs, while Marlene stayed in the ring and pulled on the other. My legs were splayed and they were grating my crotch back and forth across the rope. I screamed at them to stop. The audience was cheering wildly. I mouth “Stop this” at the ref, but she carried on posing. I clung to the rope and tried to ease the pressure on my crotch but without any success. The rope was dragging across my lips and catching my clit. Then they started dragging me along the rope. The delicate fabric of the panties could only take so much and tore, leaving me unprotected. The ropes have a smooth coating, but it still burnt my bare flesh. Eventually they let go and I fell with my legs tangled in the ropes. They pulled me free by my bra straps. The stitching of one tore away, leaving my left tit swinging free, but that was the least of my worries. They dumped me in the centre of the ring. I was vulnerable now, physically exhausted and mentally defeated, but they didn’t move in for the knockout. That meant only one thing. There was worse to come.
While they held back, I staggered to my feet and stood there swaying. My hair was bedraggled, my left tit was exposed, my face was tear stained and the shredded crotch of my panties hung down with my suspenders. Marlene struck first. She was behind me when she delivered the kick. I had my legs spread to help maintain my balance. Her foot shot up between them and smashed into my bare and tortured crotch. I was immobilised by shock when Sharon dropped to her knees and delivered a rising punch, forcing her knuckles between my lips and grinding them into my clit. When the pain hit I couldn’t breathe and collapsed gasping to the floor. I clutched my crotch and squeezed my thighs for protection, but that made the pain worse. When I took my hand away, there was blood on it. My whole abdomen was on fire. It felt as if my genitals had been ripped out. I tried to stand but my legs gave way. I just sank to the floor with my legs spread and begged them. “Please, no more, please. I can’t take any more.”
The Bombers danced around to the applause of the audience as the ref raised their arms in victory. Not only was I defeated, I was completely humiliated. All I could do was to stare up at them and jabber between my sobs. “Look what you’ve done. You’ve completely ruined me. I’m not a woman any more. Who’ll be able to fuck me after what you’ve done? I’ll never have children after this.”
Sharon and Marlene just laughed and climbed out of the ring. At least the ref had the decency to help me to my feet and support me back to the dressing room. We left to thunderous applause. The audience thought it was all an act.
My agent was furious when she heard what had happened and contacted the promoter. Apparently the client wanted something special, so the promoter paid the Bombers extra to beat me up. Nothing extra for me, except a desire for revenge.
My agent relaunched me. I was still Lady Jayne, but that name was now totally at odds with my new character. No longer the goody, I was now the tough fighter who would do what it took to win. To roughen up my image, I had some tattoos and went for the peroxide tart look. For costume, I now abandoned the glamorous outfits and went for a plain bikini style to show off as much flesh as possible. This image was popular with the fans. For my existing fans, I was getting my own back for all the unfair tricks that had been pulled on me over the years. For the others, I was a street fighter who could always be relied on for low blows and dirty tricks. There were lots of grudge matches where I took on fighters who had beaten me unfairly in the past. I couldn’t be allowed to win all the time of course. Sometimes I did, but often the script required the other girl to triumph in the end. It didn’t matter, the fee was the same.
Recently I’ve specialised in the corporate market. The promoter puts on a private show at a small venue for business clients and their customers. The audience is usually on one or two sides only, so it’s like performing on a stage. We usually come on after the meal and the sales pitch. The clients choose the contestants and write the scripts. We act out their wrestling fantasies for them. For an extra fee, the fight can be filmed.
This client’s fantasy was to pit me against a tough female tag team, Sharon and Marlene known as the Bombers. It would begin by following normal tag rules. There would be lots of fast action, with my opponents tagging all the time. They would tire me out and gang up in order to give me a good pummelling. Eventually I would turn on the dirty tricks and overpower both of them. The fight would be filmed for distribution to the audience later, provided (or so I guessed) that they bought the client’s products. That was the plot, but it didn’t go according to plan.
I got no hint of this from the rehearsal. We were to fight barefoot. The client was an underwear manufacturer and wanted to dress us in his own products with bra, suspender-panties and stockings. Only the colours differed. I was to be in red, Sharon in black and Marlene in white. The lingerie wasn’t ideal for fighting; wrestling costumes normally give more support and protection. But the client always knows best. I insisted on wearing one size too small. I always did this to make me look more flabby and tarty than I actually was. When we were comfortable with our costumes, we walked through the fight as normal and then played out some of the trickier moves. We made sure that the two cameras would get good shots of us and our costumes. In effect, we were making an underwear commercial for private viewing only.
Everything went as planned for about three minutes. Sharon was supposed to pick me up and knee drop me. She would then tag Marlene who would jump on me from the corner. But I would roll away at the last minute and she would land on her face. The way this drop was to work was for me to jump into Sharon’s arms and she would move her knee away as I fell so that I would just slide off it, but aching my back to look as if I’d crotched myself. I jumped into Sharon’s arms as planned, but instead of dropping me she carried me across to Marlene and sat me astride the top rope. This was only planned for later when I would dump Sharon on the ropes and then jerk her off. Riding the top rope usually figures somewhere in any show. It looks excruciatingly painful, but if it’s executed properly it isn’t. Your costume is padded at the crotch and you just hold onto the rope and bounce with your feet. But I wasn’t in costume, just thin tight panties. And I wasn’t allowed to get a foot hold. Sharon stood in front of me inside the ring with Marlene outside the ropes and behind me. They pushed the rope forward and back and jerked it up and down. I tried to hang on but the sudden changes of direction kept throwing me off balance. The audience loved this, clapping in time as I rode the rope. Being a true pro, I was aware of the camera and realised that I was directly in front of it. I cried out in pain as the rope cut and rubbed, but I wasn’t putting on the usual performance for the audience; these bitches were doing it for real. After playing this up for the audience, they tagged and just left me on the rope. I managed to drag myself off scrapping the rope across the inside of my bare thigh. You may wonder where the referee was in all this. She was parading around in a fetching bridal lingerie set. Her job was just to count for falls and knockouts. Otherwise all she had to do was show off her costume and keep out of our way. She did her job well.
My crotch felt sore but we all improvise to some extent and this had given the camera a good shot of my legs in their stockings and suspenders. That would please the client. So I just resumed the plot from where Marlene was supposed to stand up after landing on her face.
She now dived at my legs, knocking me to the floor and jumping onto my chest. She lay there trying to get a fall. The ref would start to count and each time the count got to two I would push her off. The idea was to give me a breather and the audience some lingering crotch shots as I wriggled to get free. Sharon was supposed to be getting her breath back as well, but instead she climbed into the ring and started unfastening my suspenders. I struggled and kicked at her, but she pushed herself between my thighs and freed all the suspenders on my left leg before rolling the stocking down. I was focussing so much on her that I almost forgot to lift my shoulders in time. Sharon twisted round and did the same with the other suspenders and stocking. Then she stood between my legs and pulled at the stockings, lifting my legs into the air until they were free. I pushed Marlene off and stood up bare legged, wondering what they had in store next.
I did wonder if they were going to strip me. If that was what they had in mind, they would find a real fight on their hands. I’m a wrestler, not a stripper. Ripping off my opponents’ costumes is part of my repertoire, but they’re always wearing a thong underneath and I’m careful to leave it in place. But I had nothing else on. I couldn’t imagine anything worse than standing naked in front of an audience of barely sober businessmen. That just shows how limited my imagination was.
I was supposed to pin Marlene down for a fall with her legs over her head, displaying her plump ass to the audience. Just as the ref was about to count three, Sharon would jump in and get me from behind in a crotch claw. She was supposed to grab my costume while I jumped around pretending I was trying to free myself and screaming as if I were in pain. She would then let go and I would roll pretending to be in pain. Instead of sticking to the script, Sharon took hold of a handful of flesh. With only skimpy panties for protection, her nails dug into my crotch that was already sore from the rope ride. Pulling to free myself just made it worse. When she let go, I didn’t need to pretend to be in pain.
With them both in the ring, they set about seriously throwing me about. I was dragged around by my arms, legs and bra straps. Marlene even grabbed hold of my tits to haul me to my feet. They used every throw in the book and stamped on me when I was down. I was thrown against the ropes and into the corner posts. My arms were tangled into the top two ropes and I was chopped and drop kicked repeatedly while I hung there dangling. All this was part of the plan, but everything was faster and more vicious than we’d rehearsed. I was so disorientated that when I was pinned down and spanked, I couldn’t tell you which one held me and which one gave me the hardest thrashing I’ve had in my life since I broke my dad’s watch. The ref could have given them a fall, because I made no attempt to get my shoulders off the floor, but she probably didn’t notice.
When we reached the stage for me to turn the tables on my tormentors, they had just dropped me on my belly. Without giving me a chance, Sharon took hold of my arms and Marlene took my ankles. They swung me up and down before tossing me onto the top rope. I grabbed hold instinctively to save myself falling out of the ring. As I clung onto the rope, Sharon slid out the ring and pulled on one of my legs, while Marlene stayed in the ring and pulled on the other. My legs were splayed and they were grating my crotch back and forth across the rope. I screamed at them to stop. The audience was cheering wildly. I mouth “Stop this” at the ref, but she carried on posing. I clung to the rope and tried to ease the pressure on my crotch but without any success. The rope was dragging across my lips and catching my clit. Then they started dragging me along the rope. The delicate fabric of the panties could only take so much and tore, leaving me unprotected. The ropes have a smooth coating, but it still burnt my bare flesh. Eventually they let go and I fell with my legs tangled in the ropes. They pulled me free by my bra straps. The stitching of one tore away, leaving my left tit swinging free, but that was the least of my worries. They dumped me in the centre of the ring. I was vulnerable now, physically exhausted and mentally defeated, but they didn’t move in for the knockout. That meant only one thing. There was worse to come.
While they held back, I staggered to my feet and stood there swaying. My hair was bedraggled, my left tit was exposed, my face was tear stained and the shredded crotch of my panties hung down with my suspenders. Marlene struck first. She was behind me when she delivered the kick. I had my legs spread to help maintain my balance. Her foot shot up between them and smashed into my bare and tortured crotch. I was immobilised by shock when Sharon dropped to her knees and delivered a rising punch, forcing her knuckles between my lips and grinding them into my clit. When the pain hit I couldn’t breathe and collapsed gasping to the floor. I clutched my crotch and squeezed my thighs for protection, but that made the pain worse. When I took my hand away, there was blood on it. My whole abdomen was on fire. It felt as if my genitals had been ripped out. I tried to stand but my legs gave way. I just sank to the floor with my legs spread and begged them. “Please, no more, please. I can’t take any more.”
The Bombers danced around to the applause of the audience as the ref raised their arms in victory. Not only was I defeated, I was completely humiliated. All I could do was to stare up at them and jabber between my sobs. “Look what you’ve done. You’ve completely ruined me. I’m not a woman any more. Who’ll be able to fuck me after what you’ve done? I’ll never have children after this.”
Sharon and Marlene just laughed and climbed out of the ring. At least the ref had the decency to help me to my feet and support me back to the dressing room. We left to thunderous applause. The audience thought it was all an act.
My agent was furious when she heard what had happened and contacted the promoter. Apparently the client wanted something special, so the promoter paid the Bombers extra to beat me up. Nothing extra for me, except a desire for revenge.
