Big Bad

Big Bad


Manny Tigre posed in the center of the ring like a circus strongman, bare-chested and oiled to a lustrous sheen. His orange-and-black arms rippled with muscles made for seducing the fairer sex, and his legs were painted stone pillars in their sheath of flashy spandex, his feet plinths clad in heavy boots. In a surprising feat of agility, he dashed across the canvas and hurled his massive frame at the nearest turnbuckle, making the ropes droop under the weight of his landing.

A cacophony of both cheers and boos rang out as Manny pumped his fist in premature victory. The boos sounded foreign in his ears; they were a strange language he'd never had to learn in his seven years as a pro wrestler. Just three months ago every fight-fan in this packed stadium had been rooting for him and him alone, but since meeting his match in the beautiful and mysterious Beebee "Big Bad" Wolf, everything that could change had.

Manny had gone his entire career undefeated until his second fight with Beebee Wolf. He eked out a narrow victory during their first match, and still fondly remembered the feel of her body writhing in his grasp just before she submitted. He'd wanted to choke her out in that sleeper hold -- to feel her pulse slow and her body go boneless between his strangling arms, his scissoring thighs -- but sadly it wasn't meant to be.

She disappointed him that night. He'd expected more from a fighter audacious enough to label herself "Big Bad".

With thoughts of that first match massaging his mind, he hopped down from the turnbuckle and stood in his corner. The cheers and catcalls gradually ebbed into hushed murmurs, and then golden silence. In this new quiet, the ring announcer's voice boomed especially loud as he introduced --

"Beebee 'Big Bad' Wolf!"

Fireworks erupted, smoke billowed from hidden machines... and then there she was, a testament to the beauty and power of the lupine form, a vision, ghost-walking down the steel runway that led to the ring, and to Manny. She strode with the springy half-step-half-hop of a bird preparing to take wing. She was all wolf on the outside, her fur covered by a blue-white costume that looked more like paint than nylon, but Manny wondered if perhaps her bones were hollow, like a bird's.

As he watched her climb into the ring, slowly, letting her thighs straddle the middle rope for just... long... enough... Manny's mind ventured back to their second fight. He didn't fare as well that time. To this day the dethroned champion still kicked himself for tapping out in her crossface hold; he had never been so mortified in his life. That night marked his first professional loss, the end of a 38-fight winning streak.

Once in the ring, she swaggered right up to him and mashed her full breasts against his chest, her hands resting on her wide hips. She stood a head shorter than him, and her nipples poked through her thin bodysuit to brush his fur.

Beebee smirked from behind her luchador mask. "I'm surprised you even showed, kitty cat," she said. "After the thrashing I handed you, I didn't think you'd want to do this a third time." Her voice flowed out rich and creamy with seduction, but Manny could hear the malice in it.

"Don't forget we're tied, perrita," said Manny. "One-to-one. Tonight's match will decide which of us is best."

"Sorry, kitty cat, but I'm afraid I already have that answer. Here, I'll give you a hint. She doesn't have a pair of these," she said, grabbing Manny's balls through his costume. He cursed as she gave them a squeeze--tight enough to hurt, but not so much that he cried out or doubled over.

"Bitch!" he growled, slapping her paw away.

"Alright, you two--that's enough," said the referee, a massive rhino in a striped shirt that dwarfed them both. "Save some for the actual fight, why don't ya."

The crowd was roiling again, half of them rooting for Manny, the other half for his female counterpart. The ref ordered both combatants to step away from each other.

"Ready, kid?" He flung the question at Manny, who nodded and crouched into a grappling stance: knees bent, hips low, legs staggered, arms raised and bent at the elbows.

"And you?" This time the question was for Big Bad. She bobbed in place on her toes, shoulders rolling, breasts bouncing lightly with her vertical sway.

"Alright then, let's get it on!" The ref gave his signal and stepped back, making way for the advancing fighters. Neither dog nor cat hesitated for an instant. They clashed in the ring's dead center, their bodies colliding as they clinched, paws roaming in search of advantageous grips.

Manny found the first opening. With his confidence already burgeoning, he muscled Beebee into a side headlock, biceps rigid as he hugged her temple to his chest. His thrumming heart pounded her ear through layers of bone and flesh -- bump-bump, bump-bump, bump-bump -- and his pulse quickened from a trot to a canter.

Was he really this nervous so soon? This excited? The crowd was a sweeping squall of clamorous babbling, and suddenly the lights seemed too bright, too hot.

Beebee locked her arms around his middle and lowered her hips, grunting as she tried to drive him toward the ropes. He held his ground, not budging an inch. They held the pose for a moment -- just a moment: Beebee pushing, Manny flexing and squeezing, both grunting. Then the wolf drove her pelvis into Manny's thigh and bolted upright from her crouch. She tore his boots from the canvas, hoisted him up... up... up -- and then took a step and slammed his tailbone down on her knee.

Pain shuddered up his spine. He fell face-first to the canvas, dizzy with pain, the stadium throbbing around him. With a battle cry rattling the bars of her ribcage, Beebee skipped off the canvas and dropped her elbow on his back. A second pain-shudder rocked his spine.

Fangs gritted, he rolled over and tried to stand, but his legs would have none of that. Beneath the crowd's uproar of endearments and insults, Manny's keen ears caught the faint tap, tap, tap of Beebee's boots streaking across the canvas. She was heading for the ropes. Preparing for take off.

Now was his chance. As Beebee sprang off the top rope and somersaulted his way -- no, moonsaulted, her body sailing in a mesmerizing arc -- he took and breath and laid still, feigning helplessness. Seconds before impact, his knees darted up to thwart her attack. Her abs folded around the hard joints, and flecks of spittle sputtered from her lips.

A solid counter, but she was back up a moment later, and so was he, the two of them panting and clutching their respective hurts. Now neither was so eager to engage, as had been the case at the match's start. No charging this time, no colliding and clinching, only slow shark-circles and gauging glares.

Past experience had taught Manny to be weary of the she-wolf during these lulls in action. She was never clumsy or slow-footed, but when the thrill of battle pumped its heat under her skin she had a way of undoing herself. She grew brazen. Sloppy. Even a little foolish. But the lulls gave her time to collect herself, to think and plan and plot her opponent's demise.

She could be methodical when the battle-flames cooled to a smolder. But then, so could he.

"Look at you, kitty cat, so eager to get your tail handed to you." Her mask moved with the slight stretch of her less-than-half smirk. She spoke the truth. He was eager for her, the ache between his legs evinced as much. But he also wanted to win, to avenge the death of his once perfect winning streak. His record would always bear the stain of that defeat, but he could repay her the kindness tenfold. He could do more than beat this bitch. He could break her. All he needed was a little patience.

"Come on then," she said, beckoning him with a half-lidded leer. Come on, she mouthed the words this time, her tongue slithering out to lap at her chops.

The she-wolf kept talking as she drew closer, kept taunting Manny, crude insults and promises of coming pain dripping from her lips. The tiger knew this game well. She wanted him to listen and succumb to anger, to watch her mouth, but he eyed the rise and fall of her breasts instead, reading the fatigue written there, and focused on the curve of her corded thighs, and the feet that shuffled below.

He inspected the whole of her body, waiting for it to reveal her next move.

There, a push off her trail leg, a takedown -- he flared his stance and prepared to sprawl. The move was a feint. Instead of tackling him to the floor, she dove into a roll, pushed off the canvas with both palms and thrust her boots into Manny's gut.

The blow doubled him over. Acting on instinct, he grabbed her by the ankles, spun, then hurled her down to the canvas. She landed on the back of her head, was jarred a moment, then rode out the momentum of the throw and rolled back to her feet.

He was on her in seconds, his fist whistling toward her jaw. The first punch found its mark, and Manny's cock pulsed as he felt knuckle meet chin. The second punch curled into her cheek, turning it. The third knocked a spray of sweat from her face. The fourth --

The fourth Beebee deflected with an open palm. She guided the blow off course, then curled her fingers around his wrist and pulled, running his snout into a pointed elbow. His head popped back... and then swung forward, an iron mace on a short chain that caught her between the eyes.

They punched; they kicked; they threw; they tumbled, giving and receiving in turns, and in equal shares, trading blows like unwrapped and unwanted Christmas gifts -- here: a fist for a boot, there: a knuckle for a heel, a knee for an elbow, a curse for a cry, a grin for a grin, a laugh, a single unified voice, and a taste of the ropes and the turnbuckles and the canvas for each.

Manny had forgotten his record as he clinched the back of Beebee's neck and buried a knee in her gut. Her body folded around the hard joint, her butt jutting out, and her feet momentarily left the ground. Punishing her body felt good. The crowd clogged his ears with cheers, and that felt good too. His perfect record be damned; this was enough. The cheers, the sweat, and even the pain -- it was all more than enough.

She blocked the second knee strike with forearms, raw from deflecting blows all night. Her head lurched forward to catch him on the chin, and as he staggered backwards, his clinch broken, she swiveled her hips, raised her leg and cracked his temple with the instep of a heavy boot.

Had Manny been a lesser fighter, he would have fallen. Had the kick's power not been halved by fatigue, he would have fallen. Had his pride and his lust and the frenzied crowd not been propping him up, he would have fallen. But he was a fighter among fighters, and Beebee was all but exhausted, and he was proud and lust-struck and fan-adored, so he swayed, and tottered, and saw white, and ached, and he did not fall.

Squinting through hazy eyes, Manny thought he spied something new in the she-wolf's less-than-half smirk, something unguarded and impressed. Then she sprang up, flipped in midair and landed in a sitting position on his shoulders, her pelvis laying against his face. She smelled like sweat and feminine arousal.

"You've been fun, kitty cat," she said, her thighs drawing together to hug his neck, "but I'm tired now. It's time we called it a night."

He stood bearing her weight for just long enough. As his knees buckled, Beebee threw her head and shoulders toward his feet in a tight backwards arc. He said farewell to the canvas, was flipped head over heels -- his body a rag doll between the she-wolf's thighs -- and then said hello to the canvas again, reintroducing himself before even finishing his goodbye.

The whang of flesh against vinyl was loud and moist. Manny's eyes fluttered as he blinked up to find Big Bad sitting on his neck, her brawny thighs straddling his skull. Her folded legs were steel coils clad in glossy spandex that molded to every ridge and ripple of her physique. Beautiful.

Still stunned from the slam, he was helpless against the powerful paws that grabbed his ears and lifted his head, bracing his chin against Beebee's pelvis. Clutching him with her thighs, she leaned back on her arms for balance, palms flat on the canvas, and straightened her iron coils into iron braces. His shoulders came off the mat as she crossed her ankles and elevated her hips, and he gasped, his throat shuddering between her thighs, against her warm sex.

The shudders made her wet. She tossed her head back with a moan that was almost a laugh, her once pliable legs taut and inflexible. Flexing near her hardest had caused new ridges to streak along her inner thighs; they cut into Manny's neck like a horizontal guillotine that was bladed on both ends. But as tight as her grip was, the tiger sensed that Beebee was holding back.

"Ah, how cute," she said, looking down her full breasts to savor the sight of his feeble struggling. "You think you still have a chance, don't you? That's just adorable."

Manny's cheeks were flushed from a lack of air, and from the strain in his weakened arms that pulled at the suffocating thighs. His paws were a pair of massive mitts, but still her quadriceps dwarfed them. With another laugh-moan, she twined her fingers behind his head and rolled to her back. Her legs stood ramrod straight, and her crossed ankles hung high above his head, like a finial mounted atop a flagpole.

Fans roared for Beebee to wring the tiger's neck, and she obliged them, but only for as long as she liked. She pulled down on his head, purring as she buried his face in her lower abs, then splayed her thighs, letting his cheek pillow against her.

"Is the little kitty cat feeling sleepy?" she taunted, patting his cheek to rouse him from slumber's door. He began to stir -- to make a move, mount a counterattack, something -- but a hard smack turned his cheek and stopped him cold. At least it felt hard. It might have been light and playful, but he couldn't tell in his woozy state.

"Bad, kitty," she teased, slapping him again. "Did I say you could move?"

Moving slowly, like she had all the time in the world, Beebee grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and dragged him back to his feet. A debilitating knee strike brought him to his knees, and as he knelt before her, dazed, she wedged his head between her thighs, breasts pointing toward his tail. Down on hands and knees now, his muzzle pointed at a sweat stain on the canvas, Manny saw her ankles cross and her calves morph into diamond shapes.

She stood at first, bent forward with her arms straight, the heels of both palms resting at the edges of his lower back. Then her legs bent into a figure four around his neck -- her calf under his chin, knee curled around her own instep -- and the globes of her sculpted rear squeezed together with force enough to crack open a walnut. Manny collapsed onto his chest, head-swirled, and Beebee grunted, her back arched, tail raised and frozen in a half-curl as she crushed him.

Manny's pride was his only defense against defeat now, and it wasn't proving very effective. He might have chastised himself for falling prey to this she-wolf again, but in that grueling moment he could think of nothing but his own neck sandwiched between ribbed muscle, and the coming blackness. His cheeks turned from red to blue, but still he refused to tap. Beebee matched his stubbornness. She grabbed her instep and squeezed him even harder, ignoring the burn of exertion spreading through her muscles.

"We're done here, kitty cat," she said with a breathy growl. "Have been for awhile now, so quit your posturing and tap out. Be a good little kitty and put it right here." She swatted her butt with her free hand, showing Manny where to touch her.

And he did touch her, only he didn't tap, his paws caressed the muscles that rippled beneath smooth, sweat-soaked spandex. He had given up on fighting back, but his pride wouldn't let him tap, not again, not after that first gailing defeat.

"Fine then. Have it your way, tough guy." Beebee dropped to her side and cinched Manny's trunk between arms ready to crush. Her legs snapped straight like rebounding rubber-bands, the movement flicking sweat, and one of her paws reached for his groin, grabbing and squeezing. "I think I'll crush these too while I'm at it," she said, laughing her cruelest laugh of the night.

The new pressure in his lap set him kicking and thrashing. Tears rushed to breach the corners of each eye and flow freely, but he grit his teeth and bit them back.

"That's it," Manny heard his tormentor call from far away. "Take your nap kitty cat, you've earned it."

She held her grip for a few seconds after he passed out, enjoying the shudder that coursed through his body as sleep took him. Then she rolled her kitty cat to his back and sat on his chest and neck, her arms raised, biceps flexed in a victory pose.

The crowd roared, loving it.

-----------------------

Manny's head drooped in shame as he withdrew a towel from his locker and slung it around his trapezius. His body ached all over, especially his neck, which he massaged with an open paw. His ego had taken the worst of it, though. He'd gone from undefeated to twice-beaten in a matter of months, with both losses coming courtesy of the same fighter.

That fighter entered the locker room now, ghosting on the balls of her feet. Manny tensed as she drew closer, though not from fear or nerves. Beebee pulled off her mask and leaned forward to peck his cheek. When her lips came away from his face, they were canted in their usual quarter grin.

"Am I ever gonna see you smile for real?" Manny looped his arms about her waist and pulled her closer.

"Depends," she said. "You ever gonna beat me in the ring?"

"I've beaten you."

"Once." She jabbed a finger into his collar bone and edged him back. Then Beebee stepped away, her hips pushing past his arms as if she were walking through saloon doors. He said nothing more, only watched her go.

Halfway to the showers she stopped, hip-shot, and tossed him a beckoning look from over her shoulder. She remained silent as well, but her quarter grin stretched to a full half.