Divas in Dubai Pt. 02

But screw convention. This was here and now.

This was exciting beyond belief.

Sprawled somewhere near the centre service line, Trish thoroughly enjoyed a series of prolonged and very intense attention to her left tit. And, as an added bonus, as she licked and nibbled and sucked, Erin's free hand explored her person, from her shoulders down to her thighs.

What a wicked, taunting and teasing exploration that was! Content to examine everywhere apart from erogenous zones, Erin tickled and stroked and tormented.

It would have been easy for Trish to declare all of her person erogenous. Snag was, with her tit being attended to so well, everywhere else seemed less than sensitive. Well, her pussy wouldn't have felt less than sensitive . . . if those knowing fingers would only go there for once!!

'Erin,' she gasped. 'Please . . . '

That prompted prolonged and intense attention to Trish's right tit. And that wicked, taunting hand shifted from the insides of her thighs (where, of course, it had often come close but never touched her pot of honey), onto the curves of her hips.

'Please,' she gasped again.

Not that Erin was listening. It was half an hour or more until she finally slid lower, her hard nipples tracing lines on Trish's quivering, moist flesh. Trish's excitement levels skyrocketed.

'Oh yes,' she murmured, 'yes please.'

Erin proceeded to dine on her, alternating, being sweet and gentle for a spell and then switching to forceful and hot-blooded. No, she kept switching from Dr Jekyll to Mrs Hyde. And she was very deliberately unpredictable with it, if rather noticeably one-sided. Mrs Hyde got to play the biggest part (obviously!) and poor old Dr Jekyll was reduced to eating scraps.

Even so, it was the best eating Trish had ever had.

And those knowing fingers at last ventured inside her. That certainly didn't go amiss.

'Oh yes,' she sighed, time after time. 'Oh yes, yes please.'

Countless orgasms in, Erin decided she wanted to scissor. Unlike basic tribbing, they hadn't done a lot of scissoring before. But that didn't matter. Still in whirlwind mode, Erin repositioned Trish so she was mostly lying on her side and, semi-kneeling, closed in until their vagina mouths kissed.

And then she fucked Trish long and hard.

Make that very long and very, very hard.

Trish was in her element but still felt grateful when, another eternity later, Erin wanted to switch to a straight missionary fuck. Scissoring had been fun but she reckoned Erin had taken advantage of her relative inexperience. Switching like that, face-to-face and taking it slow, at least she wasn't the only one cumming and cumming.

*****

After a break for glasses of iced water Erin agreed it was Trish's turn to serve with new balls (or, rather, without any balls at all). Trish obligingly gave her a big dose of her own medicine, happy to find the reporter was as nice and tight as ever.

(Meaning nicer and tighter than any other girl she'd ever known.)

Then, not totally convinced that she'd given as good as she'd got, she produced her extra-special toothbrush.

Ultrasonic, that little beauty vibrated over 190million times a minute.

Erin didn't seem entirely convinced but, after a lot of the usual New York wise-talk, she submitted and was soon crooning encouragement.

And she was by no means the only one crooning.

Using the flat side behind the bristles like a paddle, Trish made snail-like progress over every inch of the brash reporter's sex, starting with her labia, regularly switching from left to right, inside and out, thoroughly treating both sides top to bottom. Then, a little more cautiously, she concentrated on Erin's inner lips, taking care to get everywhere apart from the v-joint at the top of her folds.

'Your clit can wait,' she said softly, dragging out the wait almost indefinitely.

'No it can't,' Erin countered amid grunts and groans, moans and whines.

But in the event it had to wait, didn't it? New York journalists weren't the only ones who knew how to take advantage of a girl.

Well, were they?

*****

Afterwards, much afterwards, flat on their backs, side by side and somehow close to the baseline, they stared up at the ceiling and gradually caught their breath.

'That was amazing, Trishy-baby,' Erin half-sighed, half-giggled. 'I did wonder how you'd survive in a society without sex toys.'

'I was planning a sex-free week,' Trish lied. 'And how did you get in my room, by the way?'

'Sorry, I cannot reveal my sources.'

'Erin, I'm up here worrying about my privacy and you stroll in like you own the place. Never mind protecting your friggin' sources, how did you get in?'

'Put it this way: I have contacts within WWE Security. They made sure I arrived unseen by any of those revolting paparazzi.'

'Come off it, you define the word "paparazzi". You're the last person they should be letting in to my room.'

'I think you'll find one or two of them are sympathetic to both of us. And I'm convinced word won't get about. It certainly won't from me, anyhow. I'm your co-conspirator, remember?'

Trish remembered Erin's follow-up article. Tastefully and subtly written, it had admitted they were more than friends without revealing any sordid details. It had also echoed WWE's stance on the way the world perceived women. "We are not chattel anymore," she'd said. "What right has a Los Angeles reporter to spy on single women and broadcast the lifestyle choices they make?"

'So was it Fred who let you up here?'

'No comment.'

'I bet it was. You've been twisting him round your little finger ever since you set eyes on him.'

'You're being ridiculous.' Erin giggled again. 'Haven't you seen the size of him down there? He'd hardly twist round my arm, never mind my pinky.'

Chapter Five

Tuesday's conference went more or less as expected. Trish's opening address thanked everyone for being there and for accepting her "as I truly am". She went on to apologize for being reluctant to speak to the media until then and invited questions.

'Here I am,' she said with her muscular arms out in a conciliatory way, 'alone and at your mercy. Ask away. I'm game for anything.'

The initial flurry contained nothing she hadn't anticipated. Answering truthfully, she raised a few laughs and offended no-one.

Well, maybe no-one apart from Thursday night's eliminator opponent. Aware Thursday was only a shoo-in, nobody even mentioned that trifling event.

Not that Thursday night's opponent was offended. Kelly was only young and much of a rising star. And she was by no means stupid. Losing a major, scripted bout to Trish would be the highlight of her career so far. Next time, she must have told herself.

Next time . . .

Eventually a guy with an English accent raised his hand, interrupting the flow of banal queries.

'To put the record straight,' he said, 'can you confirm there was no chicanery in that title fight with Victoria.'

Trish was always wary with Brit reporters, and with good reason. Their so-called "red-tops" made the National Enquirer look like the New York Times.

This reporter was very-well-spoken though. There again, you never could tell with Brits. A lot of the more refined ones had no scruples at all.

Like that king who chopped off all of his wives' heads.

'I want to be as frank as I possibly can be,' she began. 'I do like Victoria but there is no love lost, if you know what I mean. Losing that title fight to her was my all-time low.'

'So you dearly want to win the belt back from her?'

'It's "my" belt, not "her" belt but yes, I dearly want it back.'

'Meaning from her, not someone else?'

'Put it this way, I'll be there Friday night, cheering her on. And I'll want her ink on my contract the second she leaves the ring.'

'What if Molly wins?'

Trish laughed. 'Molly's second on my hit list. But Victoria's right at the top. I'm going to beat her at some stage, whatever. If Molly wins then I'll beat her. Then I will give Victoria a shot at my title so I can beat her as well.'

'This all sounds scripted to me,' a reporter from Chicago put in.

Trish's laugh couldn't have been more scornful . . . or more genuine. 'Screw scripts,' she said. 'I am for real. I don't think I'm divine but I do have the drive. If I have to train ten times as hard as either of them, I will. If I have to train a thousand times as hard as them, I will. Trust me, I will win.'

A few of the younger attendees applauded her obvious sincerity.

A different Brit posed a fresh question.

'So what sort of lesbian are you?'

Trish looked at his ID before answering. If it'd been News of the World she would simply have told him to fuck off. But it was the Daily Telegraph, so she gave him time of day.

Well, to a degree she did.

'Do you have a wife?' she asked, 'or a girlfriend or boyfriend?'

'That's hardly the point . . .'

'No,'' she pounced, 'that's entirely the point. How would you feel if the friggin' California Sun ran a story about you screwing in a Sacramento hotel room? How would your wife feel? And what if you were with someone else? What if you were caught out with your girlfriend or boyfriend?'

'I hear what you're saying, but . . .'

'But hang on a mo. Before you say I'm a celebrity and you're not, aren't we both human beings?'

'I wish I was half as human as you,' the reporter said, grinning, 'but point made. Forgive me. I'll try not to be so clumsy in future.'

'Well said.' She took her turn to applaud. 'To be honest, I haven't a clue what I am. I suppose I'm a bisexual rather than a lesbian. But I'm not into classifying myself. In fact I wouldn't really know where to start.'

The guy from Chicago raised his hand again. 'Before you two go off on a love-in, what about Erin Brook? How does she fit in from here-on?'

Trish pointed to the back row. 'She's right there. Ask her yourself.'

The conference room was utterly crammed with half of the attendees standing. Although very late in arriving, somehow Erin had got a seat. She was also wearing dark-rimmed glasses which were as far as Trish knew a novelty.

Maybe she wanted to seem even more intimidating than ever.

If that was the case, it worked. Sitting in silence, not even making notes, Erin looked like the most efficient secretary the world's most powerful businessman had ever had. Except that was at best an understatement. Ten minutes with her and the world's most powerful businessman would have decided to retire to the Virgin Islands . . . or maybe Antarctica.

'Erin said it all in her latest article,' Trish said sweetly. 'We are best friends and lovers.' Crossing fingers behind her back she added: 'Not here in the Emirates, of course. And not like a committed couple. If you don't believe me, ask her. She'll tell you the same.'

A hundred of the world's leading reporters looked at Erin but, not-so amazingly, questions were few and far between.

*****

Tuesday through Thursday afternoons were spent rehearsing with Kelly and went well indeed. So too did the Tuesday and Wednesday evenings, mostly spent with Erin in right and left parts of the service court, taking turns to serve, volley and smash.

And Erin's serve-volley was excellent. Who said Federer was the only modern master of that art!

Then it was Thursday and the title eliminator.

Forgone conclusion or not, Trish was on edge throughout. The absolute worst bit was close to the end, after an exaggerated exchange of brief dominances, when Kelly threw her against a post.

Going with the plan, Trish cushioned the impact but made it look as if she hadn't. As she feigned agony there audience drew in one simultaneous breath, momentarily voiding the arena of oxygen.

Then, theatrically limping, she caught hold of Kelly's arm and returned the favour. Kelly took her posting well and rebounded straight at Trish . . . only to be met with an elbow smash that put her out for the count.

Well, not really; just enough to satisfy all extents and purposes.

Erin was particularly attentive that night and lingered almost until breakfast before returning to her own room, ten floors lower down the skyscraping hotel.

And then it was Friday night, time for the big one.

*****

Trish did not feature in that night's programme but had a part to play. Consequently she watched most of the title fight from what was effectively the stage door, getting the best view in the house, and getting to see Victoria gradually overcoming a fired-up and very determined Molly.

Watching the two girls in action was interesting in all sorts of ways, not least because of how they were dressed. Officially the arena's status had been "approved". That meant it was classed along with beaches, waterparks and artificial islands as far as dress codes went: Western clothing was allowed and didn't need to be modest. The divas as a whole, however, had opted to wear catsuits in the ring, concealing all bare flesh aside from their hands, necks and faces.

Oh those catsuits! Trish was wearing one of several she'd brought, all varying coloured Lycra and relatively tight-fitting. Yes, they were "concealing", but those little beauties certainly looked good on her.

Molly, in contrast, had gone for red PVC. She looked good too, but was eclipsed by Victoria, who had gone for soft black leather.

Like wow! Watching them clad like that . . . well, it was like watching a naughty video.

No, it was infinitely better.

PVC or leather . . . what a choice!

Not that PVC was ever going to prevail.

When it became obvious Victoria was closing in on a win Trish left her privileged position, making her way to the top of the ring walkway, taking care to keep away from the entrance, safely out of sight.

Sure enough, within a couple more minutes Victoria landed a decisive forearm and the audience went wild. Trish could barely hear the referee ponderously counting Molly out amid the din.

'Vic-tor-i-a,' the crowd roared, 'Vic-tor-i-a.'

'And the winner,' the referee declared, aided and abetted by overhead mics, 'the winner and still undisputed champion of . . . the . . . WORLD . . . is . . . VICTORIA!!'

Trish could easily picture Vic going from corner to corner, up on the ropes, holding the belt high over her head, revelling in possessing it.

Revelling in possessing Trish's belt . . .

Suddenly the lights in the arena dimmed. Spots came on, picking out the walkway. Music blared. It was Fanfare for the Common Man and it was louder than loud.

It was Trish's cue.

Knowing every eye would be watching and waiting, she stepped through the entrance and made her way down the walkway, leading with her tits and wiggling her hips. The spots were on every step, picking her out, flattering her curves (as if they needed help!).

'That's my belt,' she cried, coming to a halt halfway to the ring and pointing, her own overhead mic ensuring everyone could hear. 'You have it under false pretenses,' she went on, 'but not for long. Two week's tomorrow in New Orleans. That's when I win I back.'

Victoria was still up on the ropes, snarling. New Orleans was news to her. Leastways it was as far as fighting with Trish was concerned. Not that she seemed reluctant to fight.

'Here and now,' she yelled, dangling the belt in Trish's direction, taunting her with it. 'We can sort this out once and for all.'

Trish was intercepted by officials in black and white-striped shirts and ringside security before she could take her up on that. Allowing herself to be led back up the walkway, walking backwards and facing Victoria as she went, she shouted, 'Take care of it for me. Keep it safely. And I'll see you in New Orleans.'

'Trish,' someone shouted off to her left. Trish.'

Almost immediately others joined in.

'Trish, Trish, Trish,' resounded throughout the arena, drowning out renewed cries of 'Vic-tor-i-a, 'Vic-tor-i-a.'

'New Orleans,' she repeated.

Victoria just waved the belt and kept snarling.

Chapter Six

Despite the omnipresent air-con Trish had been sweating under the heat of the spotlights. Taking off her Lycra second skin she decided a shower was in order. And her changing room was surely equipped to oblige. It was large enough to accommodate a full soccer team, never mind a solitary female wrestler.

But hey! The price of stardom!!

Setting the water temperature at "cold", knowing that in these parts that meant "lukewarm", she stepped under the jetting water and laughed to herself. Victoria had known she would be making an appearance to confront tonight's winner, of course. She just hadn't known she would be given a time and place. In fairness neither had Trish. She'd only found out when the Commissioner told her, maybe ten seconds after tonight's contenders were safely out there in the ring.

New Orleans, she thought, thoroughly lathering herself with a bar of soap-on-a-rope, there in the Superdome . . .

There to get my title back . . .

There were still bouts ongoing out in the arena. As she pictured herself taking back her belt a big roar resounded, audible through the walls and over the hiss of jetting water. One of the guys must have just done something impressive and the audience had duly responded.

That'll be me, she assured herself. Two weeks' time and that'll, be me.

The other, less expected sound within her dressing room didn't immediately startle her. WWE's camera crews had a certain "right to roam" and often turned up unexpectedly. Okay, so a lot of their footage was not broadcast, but they had a video graveyard that could have sold for billions. Upbeat as she was, totally at ease in her body, she shouted out what could only be taken as an invitation.

'Hello boys, I'm in here.'

Then she froze as Victoria strode into view.

'You fucking bitch,' Victoria said in greeting, partially unzipping the front of her catsuit, almost far enough to let her simply marvellous tits spill out. 'This is my belt. You're not getting it. Not ever.'

The golden belt was over her shoulder, as if it belonged there and always would.

Taken by surprise, her legs unexpectedly weak, Trish raised a snarl of her own.

'I'm having it back. There's no question about that.'

Victoria laughed and hung the belt over a convenient rail before pulling her leather top lower.

Now her tits really did spill out.

Now they were more marvellous than ever.

Her nipples were the size of diamonds from the Crown Jewels . . . and quite possibly harder.

'Shit,' gasped Trish, lost for a more intelligent word.

Glint-eyed, remorseless, Victoria stripped off and entered the shower, immediately grabbing Trish by the pussy with so much as a by your leave.

Trish cried out in gratitude.

Ferocious as per always, Victoria bit her neck. Uncharacteristically submissive, Trish wailed.

'Oh fuck me yes, yes please!'

Victoria's teeth were all but penetrating Trish's skin. Their wet tits were slippery-slidy together and Victoria's left hand couldn't possibly have been in more intimate contact. A small sun grew inside of Trish, inside her (as yet un-penetrated) vagina, swiftly swelling and swelling. She wasn't expert in any sort of astronomy or astrophysics but suspected she was part of the birth of a supernova.

Didn't they set off as tiny stars, swell and swell and then die in a titanic explosion?

Yes, only to be reborn as a new, tiny star . . .

Expert or not, Trish knew only too well what was happening to her. Victoria's rough, strong hand was on her sex, gripping it, using her palm to apply a lot of direct pressure to her clit. The rest of it . . . fingers and all . . . were perpetually clasping and relaxing, clasping and relaxing.

Not that she was relaxing much. By anyone else's standards Victoria's "relaxed" equated to "very firm" and "clasped" equated to "vice-like".

Fuck but it felt good!

Letting go of her neck, a fraction before burying her choppers into Trish's defenceless shoulder, Victoria growled: 'Come on, cum with me.'