The Warrior Goddess

Erica reeled from the force of the overhand right.

It was a little stronger than she anticipated; her vision swirled, the cries of the surrounding crowd faded. For a moment even she wondered if she was going to stay on her feet, but she managed to pull herself back together in time to see Juarez charge her for the finishing blow.

Of all the people Erica had known in her so-called career, Pablo Juarez was, hands down, the biggest asshole she ever squared off against. Oh, he could back it up, sure; the 5'5", 197 lb. man moved like a fox and hit like a tank. Erica was not afraid to admit that his undefeated record was earned.

And it wasn't even the comments he made. Being a woman in this environment -- a young white woman, no less -- meant that she was going to hear some nasty shit from her male competitors. Juarez claiming that he was going to rape her in the pit in front of everyone? Compared to what she had heard throughout her rise to the top, the threat was adorable. However, the psychological warfare had moved beyond words and into infuriating emotional terrorism. Her friends started getting viciously attacked. Late night phone calls became routine. She even received cum-stained pictures of her getting changed in the locker room. Juarez had really crossed the line between "psyching out your opponent" and "being a total dick."

It angered Erica, but she knew that was the point. So she played along, tearfully threatening to kill Juarez, cut him up into pieces, mail his dick to his mother, blah, blah, vengeance, blah. That would make Juarez confident that she had been softened up, and he would stick to his usual gameplan. He wouldn't have the incentive to figure out that, amongst other critical weaknesses that Erica would exploit during their sixteen minute brawl, he left his midsection open whenever he charged his opponent.

Erica sidestepped Juarez's charge and quickly pivoted in time to land a devastating kick to his stomach. With Juarez doubled over from the surprise blow, Erica landed a powerful right uppercut that knocked him flat on his ass.

The crowd started coming back into focus now, and the sudden change in momentum had them going apeshit. Erica fed off the energy, delivering a few spirited stomps to Juarez's stomach. When she was pretty sure she felt the crack of a rib under her foot, she pinned his shoulders with her knees and started pounding on his face for all she was worth.

When the referee finally stopped the fight, Juarez's face was a distorted red mass that could only mutter semi-conscious gibberish. For good measure, Erica grabbed his limp right hand and twisted it until she heard a sickening snap. And before the ref could pull her away, she managed to yell in Juarez's ear "Have fun jerking off to my picture now, you dumb motherfucker."

Her work done, the bruised and bloodied Erica stood in the center of the ring and posed victoriously for the crowd. The 26-year-old minx had started as a novelty in mob kingpin Lou Torretto's underground fighting circuit a couple of years ago. The area the fights took place in was referred to as "The Pit", situated in the basement of a dingy gym Torretto owned. The Pit itself was a large circle dug in-ground, closed off by chicken wire and surrounded by cheap bleachers. It was a little less chaotic than the typical fight club and, despite the outwardly appearance, attracted a decent class of people.

Torretto's first impression of Erica was that she was some crazy bitch with a death wish. Everyone, himself included, expected her to get dominated by her stronger, heavier male opponents. That first match was practically sold as a comedy: "This stupid broad just graduated college and her idea of rebelling against Daddy is to throw down with feral brawlers twice her size! This is a five spiral crash, boys!" When she won it by submission after fifteen minutes, it was written off as a fluke. So she won the second fight by knockout in seven minutes; it still wasn't good enough. So she went on an incredible 14-win streak that was long enough to turn her ironic appeal into genuine adoration amongst follower and fighter alike. When she finally did lose -- by knockout in a 45-minute epic -- she was applauded. Torretto later remarked that he had never seen anything like it in his 17 years running The Pit; there were people who lost a lot of money on her, too drunk on the spectacle to be angry. They actually laughed as they cut checks for as high as two hundred large.

Her scrappy personality was a big part of her popularity, but it helped that she was easy to look at. The only traditionally beautiful qualities she had were natural 36C breasts and a firm hourglass figure, shown off quite nicely by the dark grey sports bra and gym shorts she wore in the pit. Otherwise, Erica's dark brown hair was cut short to give her opponents one less thing to grab, and her body was covered in tattoos.

The designs weren't overly elaborate or even colorful, but she had line drawings of angel wings on her shoulders and upper back, connecting to an abstract design above her breasts that prominently featured a large fleur de lis above her cleavage (which was slight in a sports bra that held down her boobs). Below that, spanning the width of her taut stomach, was a design featuring the word "Salvation" hanging tantalizingly below her navel. Another small abstract design sat on the small of her back. All in all, Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Model was not her look, but nobody seemed to mind.

Erica watched as Juarez was carried off by a couple of Torretto's thugs, and smiled. Torretto had found out about the shit Juarez was pulling, and was ready to fuck him up at the drop of a hat. Erica asked him to let her handle things in The Pit before deciding if he wanted to break off a piece (literally, as Torretto put it) for himself. She thought the beating she doled out would've been enough.

"Guess I thought wrong," she told herself.

Torretto allowed his fighters full use of the gym's locker rooms to get cleaned up and changed in. However, the "male" and "female" designations were largely ignored; both rooms were used for the benefit of separating fighters who still wanted to kill each other before and after a fight. Torretto never expected to have a woman fighting under his banner and wasn't about to change things just because one was crazy enough to sign up.

It didn't bother Erica, though. After her headlining bout, she hung out in the exercise area, icing the night's bruises and treating any cuts while her male cohorts finished showering and dressing. She suspected that these days she could shower with the boys without much grief, but out of respect -- not to mention basic common sense -- she waited her turn.

After a few playful parting shots to her opponent for next month, Erica was finally alone. Juarez had used the Women's Room this week, so all things being equal, Erica left her stuff in the Men's Room to avoid him. She went there to take her shower.

The hot water felt damn good on her sore body, and she sighed in relief as she began to scrub the grime of the fight off of her, wincing as she brushed over the occasional bruise.

She thought about Juarez's threat to rape her in front of everyone, in the middle of The Pit. While everything else was unnerving as hell, the threat itself didn't bother her. She wondered why; she had been raped before, and what little of it she could remember was far from pleasant. Her best guess was that Juarez's threat wasn't grounded in the actual violence of rape (though that was definitely present), but rather the shame and humiliation of being exposed and rendered helpless in front of a crowd that normally saw her as untouchable.

Try as she might, Erica found no shame or humiliation in the idea of a hundred people watching her get fucked. The forced entry would be terrible, no doubt about it, but would it really be so bad if her fans -- who couldn't possibly perceive her as an innocent, despite the alias she fought under -- saw her naked?

Erica closed her eyes. Her hand traveled downward toward the sparse tuft of hair above her entrance.

She replayed the fight with Juarez in her mind, but rewrote the ending. This time, Juarez knocked her down. It was her shoulders pinned to the earthen floor. He looked out to a crowd that was anxious to see his next move.

Erica twirled the hairs of her muff around her finger.

Juarez backed away from her carefully, not wanting to give her too much space to make a move, as if she could -- or would. He reached out and clutched the front of her cheap sports bra. With a powerful yank, he ripped it clean off her chest, exposing her firm, smooth, tattooed chest to a fan base that was always curious as to what her tits looked like.

As the crowd in her head roared with approval, Erica's other hand began to toy with and tweak her puffy nipples. The hand that ventured south began to massage the skin just outside her lips; they began to ache about as much as her wounds, but in a much different way.

Juarez flipped Erica around and hauled her little shorts off of her ass, inciting the crowd even further. As he pulled off his own shorts, the crowd started a chant: "Fuuuuck her! Fuuuuck her!" Erica felt a hand on her neck pushing her into the ground, then felt the entire weight of Juarez on top of her. His hot breath blew in her ear as his solid eight inches slid into her tunnel.

Erica shuddered as her fingers plunged into her depths. The crowd had never been louder or more approving, and as always, she fed off of it. She moaned like a whore, determined to turn this debasement into empowerment, determined to make Juarez angrier so he could drill her harder. And after she had her fun, she'd turn it around with a chop to the throat and make him pay for thinking he could humiliate her. She'd beat him so bad, he'd have to learn to walk all over again. His plan would backfire; she wouldn't be a helpless rape victim, she'd be a warrior goddess who allowed his disrespectful ass to penetrate her out of perverse curiosity and convenience.

Warrior goddess...the way it sounded in her head was sublime, turning her on even further. An idealized woman, the perfect fantasy of men, representing the fighters of The Pit. As adept at pleasure as she was at pain. She would honor many with her presence, but bless only the most worthy with her embrace, and damn the insolent with total annihilation of the spirit -- which, of course, would include partial annihilation of the body.

Her mind drifted back to The Pit as her fingers picked up speed, but the rational side of her brain kicked in, reminding her that an angry Juarez was likely to disfigure her. It was just enough to flutter her eyes open and catch sight of the shadow being cast on the wall.

The irony of stopping (or at least slowing down) her impromptu masturbation session because a stranger was watching was not lost on Erica, but if some jackass who stayed behind was going to pounce on her, she wanted to be ready to fight him on general principle. She continued her movements, pretending not to see anything, waiting to see if the shadow was going to make a move of his own.

It didn't. She decided to call him out. "Hey, shithead," she demanded without turning around, "What do you want to do?"

"Oh, fuck! I'm sorry," the shadow exclaimed as it disappeared. She heard footsteps moving towards the exit.

"You're SORRY?" Erica called out, almost laughing.

"Yeah," said the voice from outside, "I didn't think a woman would be in here, I'll just go--"

"No no, wait up," Erica said, impulsively. If a friend walked in on her, they likely would've went about their business, maybe stealing an occasional glance. If he wasn't so friendly, he'd just jump her. She never imagined anybody just staring at her without making a move before. Hell, for that matter, she never imagined anyone apologizing for it.

Either way, the footsteps stopped, and she was interested.

"So," she asked the throughway that led to the locker room proper, "you see me masturbating in the shower and not once do you think 'I should give her a hand?'"

"I wasn't raised that way," said the voice; Erica detected a bit of a Midwestern tinge in it. "Besides, I saw you fight. I don't know if I could take you. You're Angel, right?"

"Angel" was indeed Erica's alias, as in "Angel of The Pit," named for the tattoos on her shoulders. And the admission that she could kick his ass made her laugh.

"So," she said, "You're a fan?"

"Well, yeah," said the voice, "But I'm here because the guy that runs things booked me for a match next week, and I wanted to get a lay of the place."

"Mmmm," Erica smiled, "Fresh meat." Erica backed up a bit and turned off the shower. "You're pretty humble for someone who's supposed to be a fighter. Humble fighters tend to get chewed up around here."

"I believe that," the voice admitted, "But Mr. Torretto said I was built for it, and I like the money he's offering, so I guess we'll see."

Erica pondered her next move. The appropriate thing to do would be to just let him leave, get dressed, and wish him good luck on the way out. Tonight, however, presented extenuating circumstances. This guy wouldn't fulfill the vivid fantasy that was about to bring her off, but horny was horny, and the fact that she hadn't even seen his face yet was an odd turn on. Besides, with the Midwestern accent and the possible fighter's build, he was a likely hottie.

The only concern at this point was scaring the poor guy off. But if he was the type to stick around on her request, maybe it would be okay.

"Well," she said, "Maybe I should get a look at you."

"Okay...you're decent now?"

"Do you really want me to be?" she smirked.

The rational part of her brain warned her about the trouble she was in. If it got out that she banged another fighter, the respect she had built up with everyone else on the circuit would crumble. Everyone would forget that she was not to be fucked with and focus on the fact that she would put out under the right circumstance.

The man behind the voice showed himself. He was a young man -- couldn't have been any older than 22 -- but he was tall and solid, with short blonde hair and sparkling blue eyes, wearing a football jersey and sweatpants that had a sizable tent poking out of them. He was a corn-fed hunk, all right, the cheap clothes adding to his oddly arousing humility. Erica told the rational part of her brain to shut the fuck up and let her have this.

"Take off your shirt," she said.

He did so, cautiously, revealing that he was built like a Marine.

Erica nodded in approval. "Oh yeah, you've got the body for it."

He smiled, and took a deep breath as Erica slinked forward. "Angel?" he asked.

"Yes?" she purred, closing the distance.

"Are we going to have sex?" he asked, wiping his forehead.

Erica stopped short, just a foot away from the man's frame. He had six inches and fifty pounds on her, and yet she completely owned him. She glanced down at his erection, then looked back into his eyes as she played with the waistband of his sweatpants.

She asked him "Do you want to?"

And all he could do was nod.

Erica briefly considered pulling his pants down, but instead took his hands and guided them to her chest. "Touch my tits," she instructed, and he grasped her firm breasts with both hands. "No," she ordered, grabbing his wrists, "TOUCH them. Like this." She guided his hands, brushing his rough fingertips across the smooth skin of her boobs, shivering as they dragged over the buds of her nipples.

Erica let go, and the stranger -- her stranger -- got the message, using his fingertips to trace the lines of her body, starting with the fleur sitting on top of her chest, down to the outline of her breasts and the grooves of her abs, finishing with the lettering above her cleft.

"Salvation?" he read.

"Get down on your knees and see for yourself."

Once again, he complied. As Erica pressed her partner's face into her aching pussy, she decided that having an anonymous sex slave was the best thing ever. "Oh yeah," she ordered, "Lick that cunt!"

Her stranger moaned, sending a little jolt through her center as he lapped at her swollen lips.

"Mmm, yeah! You like how I taste?" He grunted affirmatively, sending another tingle through her. "OHH, yeah, that's it, baby! You like my idea of salvation?" This coaxed another appreciative grunt out of her partner, a long one that drove Erica wild, just as he started snaking his tongue into her passage.

"YEAH! Keep telling me how much you love it," she cried as she began to grind his face as hard as she could. Her stranger moaned, hummed, and licked to his heart's content, bringing his Angel closer and closer to the edge. Once his tongue popped out to swipe at her clit, it was all over. She leaned backwards and froze in place as hot fire shot through her, tensing her up. She crushed her stranger's head against her crotch and howled as she went over.

The fire subsided, and Erica relaxed, easing up on her poor partner. She stood up straight and helped him to his feet with every intention of returning the favor. Until, that is, an idea crossed her mind.

"Have you been inside The Pit yet?" she asked.

***

Erica led her servant straight to the basement without throwing any clothes on. She found her way to the control booth with little problem and flipped a switch, flooding The Pit with light. It seemed different when it was just her and someone else; with a full crowd, the place seemed active and electric. Now, the emptiness was crushing, yet strangely intimate for such an open space.

"So this is where I'm fighting?" he asked, having already descended the steps into the sunken circle.

"It's where you will be fighting," corrected Erica as she slinked down the steps and over to his side at the very center of The Pit. The hot light on her naked skin made her feel deliciously exposed, and she couldn't resist giving her vulva a little rub before guiding her man onto his back. "Right now, it's where we're fucking."

"Well," he remarked, "It's an interesting place to have sex."

Erica smiled, sinking down alongside him and kissing him full on the lips. When she broke it, she said "When you caught me in the shower, I had come up with a new fantasy for myself."

"Oh?" he asked, as Erica began to crawl back towards his waist.

"Mmm," she confirmed as she began to play with the tent in his pants. "I pictured myself as a warrior goddess, who would bless the most worthy of the gladiators she watched over by fucking them senseless. And what better place to do that than the hallowed ground they fight on?"

"That's definitely hot," he agreed, though he could have been talking about the handjob that Erica was giving him through his sweatpants. "So what happens? With her blessing the gladiator is guaranteed victory?"

"That would be cool," Erica remarked, "Though I certainly wouldn't count on my pussy having magical powers."

"Well, I don't mind pretending," he said.

"Okay," Erica agreed as she slid his sweats over his hips, "Let's pretend."

With her man finally completely naked, Erica took a good look at his cock. It wasn't anything special at seven inches with average girth, but she still thought "It's beautiful!"

"Really?"

"I think the shape is perfect," she remarked as she dipped her head towards his crotch. "It's a true warrior's cock, from base..." She touched the tip of her tongue to the base of his dick, and slowly traced up to the head. "...to tip." She then swallowed the head whole and sucked down to the root in one gulp. She could tell from his groan that his balls were boiling, but somehow he held off. She decided that she didn't want to bring him off with her mouth; it was going to be her snatch that did him in.