No Holds Barred in Sacramento

'Who would ever have believed you had one!'

'Oh I have several. I just rarely use them. For you I'm making an exception.'

'Stay right there.' Trish got off the bed and headed for the door. 'I'm going for wine,' she said. 'Are you hungry?'

'We can have a midnight snack later,' Vic replied, 'after round two.'

She stared up at the ceiling and smiled to herself while she waited. By querying her identity Trish had been alluding to that sex they'd just had; lots and lots of sex, nearly all vanilla-flavoured. The bright red strapless strap-on had been the nearest they'd come to kinky. What was more, the red strapless strap-on was going to remain the nearest they came to kinky. Fucking each other with fingers and tongues would do from here-on.

I'm going soft in my old age, she thought, chuckling. I'm going soft and I'm glad.

Trish returned with two glasses of white. They sat side by side on the edge of the bed and sipped slowly.

'Today's my first alcohol in five weeks,' Trish said. 'I've been abstaining ahead of you-know-what.'

Vic frowned at that. 'I've cut down,' she admitted, 'and I don't drink much in the first place. But no alcohol in five weeks . . .'

'I intend to win,' Trish said simply.

'And I do too.'

'I wouldn't expect anything less.'

They chinked their glasses and, after struggling for the words, Vic said, 'I owe you an apology for what happened in London.'

Trish shrugged, unintentionally jiggling her wonderful tits. 'It's water under the bridge. We're both big girls, aren't we? Neither of us got damaged; not even emotionally.'

'I'm sorry anyway. Not that it happened, but about the way it happened. I won't be pulling another stunt like that again.'

'You won't have to pull any stunts to get to fuck me. Just ring and ask. Unless I'm thousands of miles away the answer will always be yes.'

'Will it, even without ropes and blindfolds?'

'Of course it will. This afternoon was the nicest surprise I've had in ages.'

'And will you still be saying that after Sacramento?'

'Yes, Victoria, I will. Whatever happens, win or lose, we need each other. Think Ali and Frazier; we might not get as famous as them, but we need each other just like they did.'

Vic watched Trish put the empty glasses on a cabinet. 'I don't think Ali needed Smokin' Joe the way I need you right now,' she observed.

Trish laughed and tossed her the strapless device. 'Good catch,' she said. 'Now come here and show me exactly how much I'm needed.'

Chapter Six

Erin Brook showed up unannounced on the Tuesday morning, elfin, ballsy and brash as always. Although reporters were excluded from Trish's vicinity and she was renowned as being one of the most inquisitive, she somehow got in without security noticing. Such sneakiness on her part was not actually necessary because Trish would have cleared her in a flash. But Erin did like to beat a challenge, almost as much as she did like to break a big story.

'Oh,' Trish said in greeting, 'it's you.'

'Yes, it's little me,' Erin agreed, heading straight for the poolside bar and helping herself to wine. 'Do you want one or are you still being virtuous.'

'I'm always virtuous,' Trish replied, managing to keep a straight face for all of three seconds.

'Does that mean a fuck is out of the question?'

With almost anyone else Trish would have taken offence. With Erin she took it for granted. She was sort of indebted to Erin. Illegally detaining her in that log cabin had been a naughty thing to do.

And besides, she was incredibly good in bed . . .

'Water for me,' she said. 'We can negotiate about the fuck later.'

'Talking about fucking, have you had that gorgeous black security guy yet?'

'Do you mean Fred?' Trish laughed, 'as if I'd tell the likes of you.'

'I bet you have.'

'And I bet you'll never get the truth out of me. Red-hot needles wouldn't do the trick.'

Erin laughed enchantingly. 'So where is all the training?' She gestured right and left. 'Shouldn't you be pumping iron?'

'I've done all the strenuous stuff,' said Trish. 'These last few days are a careful blend of relaxation and modest exercise. Obviously you wouldn't know that.'

'Sure I do,' Erin objected, thrusting a bottle of spring water in Trish's direction, slurping dry white as she did so. 'I'm here to record the champion's every last step, so I naturally prepared before I set off. I already know how she trains, sleeps and shits.'

'I won't ask about your sources,' Trish said primly, 'particularly not about the shitting bit.'

Erin laughed again. She had a good laugh. It worked miracles at the worst of times and only got better when sex was involved. Trish had been self-lubricating from her first glimpse of the petite sexpot; by now she was getting wetter and wetter by the second.

'So why are you here?' she asked, 'as if I didn't know.'

'I don't just want to fuck you,' Erin replied. 'I'm going to share your life for the next few days. You owe me that much. And you did promise me unlimited access. I'm going to take you up on that and dog you every inch of then way until you triumph.'

'And what if I lose?'

This time Erin's laugh was more of a witchy shriek. 'Lose? Like hell will you lose; it ain't even a possibility.'

*****

Armand had doubted himself for a while now. In his heart of hearts he was gay and proud of it. In all the years since his youth he had never once (not ever, not even slightly) been attracted toward a woman. He could put a hand on his heart and swear that, despite his daily contact with beautiful women, he had never felt the pull.

Trish was different, though. He didn't know why, but Trish allured him. Lunacy; he knew that it was lunacy. As a physical trainer he had touched a thousand well-built female bodies . . . and maybe a million less-than-well-built female bodies . . . without once feeling the faintest flutter.

But Trish really was different.

Misunderstanding his own emotions, Armand parked in Trish's driveway. He was proud to be the one guy with unlimited access to the blonde beauty. Okay, so security checked him in and out but their attention was only perfunctory . . . they looked for stowaways on the back seat; otherwise they just waved him through.

So far today all was as per normal. Well, there was loud music blaring from the poolside area, but that was hardly unusual. Trish liked loud music while she worked out; and old, loud music at that. The Boss and Debbie Harry tended to rule. The Clash weren't entirely unknown. Today it was Bat Out of Hell, which wasn't a surprise . . . Unlike this unexpected visit.

Armand wasn't really sure what he was doing here. It was a rest day; a day when Trish was due to do nothing more energetic than soaking up the sunshine. Yet she was an exercise-aholic. His cover story was that he'd dropped by to make sure she wasn't in the gym, or doing hundreds of lengths of the pool, but in reality . . .

Well, in reality he wanted to spend some downtime with her.

And being brutally honest, he wanted to see if she might make a play for him.

He shook his head ruefully, reluctant to get out from behind the wheel. He may have never felt attraction toward any other woman but he did feel it toward this one. And this one was one of the many who'd made it clear they were attracted to him. It was his body, of course; his perfect toned body, aided by passable good looks.

Trish had made all sorts of positive comments. He'd laughed them off before but wouldn't do that today. Although what he actually would do if encouraged was another question entirely.

Jesus Christ, he thought, I couldn't fuck her . . . I'm sure I couldn't physically do that . . . but could I stop her from fucking me?

The answer to that was far too murky to analyse.

Leaving his car, knowing that if she wasn't in the gym Trish would be on her poolside patio, he did a half-circle of the house . . . and froze.

Trish wasn't alone. She wasn't decently dressed, either. Neither was her guest.

Fuck, he realized, that's Erin . . . Erin Brook.

Common decency should have demanded he left. Come to that, the simple fact that he had little or no desire for women should have made him retreat.

He did not.

From his position, slightly elevated, looking down on two topless ladies on their sun loungers, he couldn't help but admire the bodies on display. He was, all said and done, an admirer of perfect physique. And, even if his attention was inextricably drawn to Trish, he couldn't start to discount her visitor.

He had recognized her immediately. The global superstar reporter had a tiny body but it had been assembled by someone with a gift for genius.

She was infinitely better than exquisite.

Fuck common decency; the loud music had drowned out his approach and turned him unwittingly into a voyeur. And right then, even if he was supposed to be above snooping on mere women, he had no impulse to stop.

Trish's tits were astounding.

Erin's were much smaller but, in proportion, even more prominent.

Screw me, he thought, I've got a hard-on!

The realization stunned him.

And still he couldn't bring himself to walk away.

The two females couldn't hear him but they could clearly hear each other, despite Meatloaf's best

efforts to drown them out. As he (snooped) watched, Trish said something that made Erin laugh.

Then Trish reached out and took Erin's hand.

The hot air in Armand's lungs became scalding. He tried to haul in breath and simply could not.

Meanwhile Erin stood and removed her panties. Then, as naked as the day she was born, she straddled Trish, not actually sitting on her face but holding herself just above it, well within the reach of a lascivious tongue.

Erin visibly gasped as Trish began to lick. Talk about Paradise by the Dashboard Light!

Armand had never had fantasies about women with men, not even as a teenager. And the idea of two women making out together had never occurred to him. He knew that it happened, of course, but had made no effort to wonder how it was done. Now, seeing it starting to happen before his eyes . . .

Well, he was astonished. His experience of sex exclusively catered for masculine preferences. Trish's version didn't seem to have preferences at all. As he watched . . . no gaped . . . at them they frequently changed roles and positions, kissing and sucking at each other's groins and tits. No, there was nothing in the least masculine about the things they were doing.

And nothing about it was less than wonderful.

It gradually struck Armand that this was his first sight of genuine love-making. He'd believed that he had made love himself in the past, but now he could see that he had not. Okay, he had sucked and quite tenderly fucked but he hadn't ever made love; not like these two women were making love to each other.

And why haven't I, his brain screamed. Why haven't I when it's so obviously fantastic!

Bizarrely, there was no temptation to join in. Less bizarrely, there was no temptation to reveal his presence. Rooted to the spot, half-hidden by a wall, he stayed where he was and kept schtum. If he didn't move they wouldn't notice him; not while they were so absorbed in each other.

Absorbed? Yes, they were absorbed all right, and so was he.

He must have spied on them for at least another hour before he snuck away.

And he was back in his car before he realized he'd cum in his pants.

Chapter Seven

Vic had gone into lockdown. Her version of strict training had involved fighting as hard and as often as possible, and it had worked well. Now it was her mind that needed the coaching, not her body. Consequently, since that untypical idyll in Trish's LA hideaway, she had hardened her heart and gone back into Mistress Victoria mode.

Well, she was still resolved to give up the handcuffs and canes, but she wasn't going to allow any thoughts of love and affection; not until the fight was over and done with, anyway.

However sexy Trish's ass was, she was determined to whip it here in Sacramento.

Here tonight. Here and any moment now.

Victoria was as good as certain that she would prevail but she hadn't forgotten Trish's onslaught back in Boston. The sex goddess might be smaller, but she was tougher than nails. And she was just as determined as she was. No way was she going to underestimate her.

Even if she was the world's best lay . . . and even if she did have the world's best tits.

Cancelling images of her rival's naked body, Victoria began to psyche herself up. Finding a way to do so was easy. She simply dwelt on her stalker a while.

It was hard to know how The Sioux had got her number. She had given her the fucking phone for God's sake; given her it with the incriminating photos and a sincere farewell. But somehow she'd got the new number. Somehow the stalking bitch was still on her case.

Victoria forced calm into her soul. She had no use for dominance right now, had she? Apart from the dominance she was going to display in the squared circle. She needed to be calm yet focused and inspired; that would do the trick.

But all those missed messages . . .

The Sioux had become a pain. Sex-wise she was physically rewarding but demanding with it. She was, in short, an inconvenient fuck. All that flogging and ropes! Okay, so there wasn't a lot wrong with flogging and ropes, but not morning noon and night.

Well, not always with the same demanding slut, anyway.

Straight sex with Trish had been infinitely better. And it had been better with Mari-Lynn, too. Was she losing her marbles or was there more to the physical act than she'd ever reckoned?

After years and years of practice, she decided that there possibly was.

But now the night had come. At last it was time for the ultimate showdown.

Well, assuming Trish was right (and she probably was) this may only be the first of a sequence of ever-bigger confrontations. The concept excited and intrigued Victoria, but not enough to make her want to lose. Who knew, this could be a one-off after all. And even if it wasn't, even if there really was a safety net, why should she fail to win the first real, bona fide clash?

Snarling, the sweat of bloodlust running between her breasts, Victoria left her dressing room and made her way to the ring.

'Trish, Trish, Trish!' half of the audience roared.

'Vic, Vic, Vic,' the rest replied, just as aggressively.

Then Fanfare for the Common Man blared out and Trish strutted onto the gangway.

Fuck, but she was beautiful.

Recovering her composure, Victoria snarled at her.

Trish strutted on regardless.

'Trish, Trish, Trish!' the audience roared.

'Vic, Vic, Vic,' as many voices responded.

'Come on, bitch,' Victoria yelled. 'Bring it on!'