Catch

Applause erupted as Octavia ambled up to a wrestling mat laid in the middle of the underground gymnasium. Three sets of rusted steel bleachers surrounded the mat, their benches wide enough for spectators to stand on. Typical gym paraphernalia occupied pockets of space beyond the mat and bleachers: worn heavy bags dangled from chains attached to the ceiling; dumbbells lay heaped in a corner; cracked mirrors hung from the walls, as did posters declaiming trite fitness aphorisms such as “No pain, no gain” and “Go hard or go home”.

Dozens of eyes latched onto Octavia as she stood before the mat, waiting. A memory flashed through her mind: her first cello recital at Canter U. She recalled the assemblage of critical stares that had stripped away her confidence then, peeling back layer after layer until all that remained was a frightened foal clutching a heavy hunk of wood and strings.

She had always disliked crowds, and being the center of attention, but she didn’t mind the ring of eyes presently circling her, mostly because they weren't exclusively watching her. The throng of ponies occupied themselves with idle conversations, boisterous arguments, flirtatious advances… Octavia noticed two pegasi hovering above a section of the crowd, gloating and making crude jokes as a satchel of coins passed between them.

The crowd was a diverse bunch. Most of them were young ponies, restless twenty-somethings drawn by the allure of secrecy, violence and potential sexual misadventure. But there was also a sprinkling of middle-aged faces peppered into the mix: school teachers and housewives keen on escaping their colorless lives. Octavia could only imagine the dozens of professions and lifestyles being represented among the crowd. Doctors and janitors. Lawyers and ex-convicts. Society’s dregs rubbing shoulders with its elites, both parties ignorant of the other's presence. She liked the thought of that—a world united by perversion, made equal by the want of flesh.

While she waited, Octavia took her first step onto the mat, sighing as the blend of vinyl, polyester and foam yielded beneath her, altering its form to match the shape of her hoof.

An upward glance revealed a cluster of light bulbs dangling from wires embedded in the ceiling, each emitting a low, intimate glow. She spied a familiar pegasus stallion floating there, screwing in a new bulb. He was small for an adult stallion, and the blotchy brown spots dotting his white coat made Octavia think of grazing cows. His mane was black, and so were the five tally marks adorning his flank: four vertical lines with one diagonal slash intersecting the others. Once finished with the bulb, he glanced down at Octavia and shot her a wink with a spotted eye.

The spotted stallion watched a few more ponies trickle into the gym, competitors and spectators alike, then glanced down at his watch. It was two minutes till midnight.

Showtime.

“Ladies and Gentlecolts!” he exclaimed, gliding down toward the mat but never touching it. The crowd fell silent, and a unicorn seated in one of the front rows levitated him a blocky-looking microphone. He tapped it twice and said, “Oh, that’s much better,” before restarting his introduction. The crowd chuckled at his jest. The microphone wasn’t plugged into any speakers; it was just for show.

“Ladies and Gentlecolts! For those of you joining us for the first time, please allow me to introduce your emcee, your ring announcer, and your official score keeper for tonight’s lurid attractions... Mr. Incorrigible himself... the one, the only, me: Tally Marks!” Tally gave a whimsical midair bow, earning a round of applause from the crowd.

“All right fight fans, as of this moment our first bout is officially underway!” He aimed a spotted foreleg at the earth stallion standing opposite Octavia on the mat. “Introducing first, the challenger to my left, fighting out of the blue corner. This freestyle submission wrestler boasts an impressive record of 4 victories, with only 1 defeat, and 3 victories coming by way of flying leg-bar. Joining us from the small town of Ponyville, and currently fighting out of Van Hoover... fight fans, make some noise for Pit newcomer, Blues Noteworthy!”

Blues stepped forward and waved to the crowd, his thin, low-cut wrestling singlet contorting with his movements. Stallion wrestlers were a rare sight at the Pit, and Blues, with his revealing attire, impressive physique and bashful smile, won the fan's approval right away.

When the cheers for Blues died down, a penetrating hush fell over the crowd, as if everypony in attendance were holding their breath.

“And to my right, tonight’s three-to-one favorite, fighting out of the red corner. This Catch Wrestling prodigy sports a nearly flawless record, with 14 victories, only 2 defeats, and 8 consecutive wins coming by way of stifle-bar. Hailing from the pristine streets of Canterlot, and fighting out of Crazy Horse Gym in sunny Applewood, Las Pegasus... the fighting pride of Equestria’s capital... Octavia ‘Perfect Octave’ Philharmonica!”

The two combatants met at the center of the mat, and were joined by the referee, a zebra wearing a whistle around his neck.

“I expect a clean fight,” said the ref. “You know the rules: no biting, eye gouging or strikes of any kind. All chokes are legal, air or blood, and the same goes for joint and compression locks. We clear?” Both fighters nodded. “Good. Touch hooves and let’s get this thing started.”

The fighters touched hooves, then took two steps back and rose to their hind legs, stifles bent, shoulders low, chins tucked.

Octavia’s eyes wandered down to the spandex-clad swell between Blues’s hind legs. His muscular thighs acted as a frame for his bulging package, making it a prominent sight. She lingered awhile on the swell, then let her gaze roam up his barrel before settling on his rugged chest.

A tingle skirted through her, making her body tense with anticipation. She had competed with only two other stallions before now, and their masculine bravado had made them more fun to dominate than mares. And this one had a strong body, the kind she enjoyed stretching and squeezing and controlling.

Though she wasn’t watching Blues’s face, she could feel his eyes groping her sex through the nylon shorts covering her lap. The shorts coupled with her plain white t-shirt made for a more conservative costume than the usual showy fetish-wrestling attire. But her fans seemed to like her modest clothing, perhaps because they suited her ‘Perfect Octave’ persona: that refined grappler from the capital city.

Another hush came over the crowd, this one more penetrating than the first. Octavia inched closer to her opponent. The reek of sweat, sex and struggle burned her nostrils as she breathed in the lingering scents of past matches. The familiar smell pacified her, and a laser-fine focus settled into her eyes.

The referee's whistle screeched.

Octavia made the first move, stifles bending, shoulders and head dipping down. Shooting in low, she hooked a knee around her opponent’s elbow while simultaneously dropping to her stifles. A sharp yank dragged Blues forward and downward at the same time. Before he could react, he flipped over Octavia’s shoulders and thudded back-first onto the mat.

He gasped, the wind knocked from his lungs. A second later Octavia dropped onto his chest, their bodies perpendicular, and snaked a foreleg around his neck, securing a headlock from side-control. With her leg-pit digging into his throat latch, Octavia leaned back, wrenching Blues’s head off the mat and his chin into her shoulder.

As Octavia flexed her biceps, Blues’s cheeks flushed, taking on a shade similar to his burgundy singlet. Straining his neck, he arched his back and twisted in Octavia’s hold, turning his face in toward her torso. When his muzzle pressed against her side, he clenched his teeth and managed to roll to his stifles in one dexterous swivel. Improving his position earned him a clap from the spectators, but he was still stuck in the headlock, with Octavia’s forearm buried in his throat.

Thinking fast, Octavia cupped her front hooves under his chin and clamped her thighs around one of his fores, squeezing his bicep. A satisfied grunt escaped her as she leaned back, wrenching his chin off the mat and curling his spine.

“And it’s all Octavia as she sinks in a brutal cross-face, showing off her trademark, unorthodox style!” exclaimed Tally as he hovered above the action.

The referee moved in close, pressing his ear to the mat as he examined Blues’s grimacing face. The cross-face was a dangerous hold. Octavia knew how to apply it without causing any severe injury, but the temptation was always there, always nagging at the back of her mind. Normally the thrill of controlling her opponent was enough to satisfy her, but during matches like this—when she found herself on the dominant end of a grueling hold—she wondered what it would be like to take things a little further. A touch more pressure here. A dash more torque there. And…

In a surprising display of dexterity, Blues propped up on his free foreleg, shouldering Octavia’s weight. In a single fluid motion, he rose to his stifles and swung his lower body forward, coming to rest in a sitting position beside Octavia. He had time for one ragged breath before she muscled him back to the mat and secured another chest-to-chest pin in side-control. He was persistent, and she liked that, but this round had gone on long enough.

Raising off his chest, she dragged her stifle across his barrel and transitioned to full mount. Her ears burning, Octavia stared at her opponent, enamored by his chiseled body. Her mind buzzed, her skin tingled, her breath came faster and heavier. She was in control and loving every second of it.

She bent forward as if meaning to lie on her opponent’s chest, but left a pinch of space between their upper bodies. Her foreleg snaked under his neck, and when Blues made the mistake of trying to shove her back, she pushed his elbow across his own face and drove her shoulders down. With his neck caught between her bicep and his own, she brought her forehooves together, locking in a tight foreleg-triangle.

A panicked gasp found her ear, then a gurgle, then a roar from the crowd. She folded one knee around her bicep and placed the other behind her head, tightening the choke hold.

“Tap,” she purred just loud enough for Blues to hear over the crowd. He responded by bucking his hips, trying to dismount her, but she was glued to him, and her modestly toned forelegs were stronger than they looked.

She let him languish in the hold for a long time, toying with him, applying just enough pressure to keep him woozy, but not enough to knock him out. Her sex grew hot and moist as she felt his struggling start to weaken.

“I said tap out,” she repeated, her voice breathy.

A gurgled answer came from Blues. His free hoof tugged at the bicep squeezing his neck, his struggling weak but determined. His chest heaved against Octavia’s. She could have swung out to side-control for a tighter lock, but she wanted to feel his body squirm beneath her, powerless, completely at her mercy.

She pushed a hot breath into his ear, ordering him to tap again. His hoof fell away from her bicep. “Don’t touch the mat,” she said suddenly. “Tap out on my thigh, where I can feel it.”

Finished playing with him, she angled him onto his left shoulder and flexed until her biceps ached. She could feel the fight leaving him, his body going slack in her vice-grip.

“Mmmm, I said… tap my thigh.” She closed her eyes, grinding her lap against him. “Tap… I want to feel it… Let me feel it…”

She didn’t realize the impossibility of her request until she felt the referee prying her off Blues. Once free, his head lolled to one side and his body convulsed. He made strange noises. Octavia watched him as the referee instructed her back to the starting point on the mat, a disappointed look on her face.

Blues was asleep. Out like a candle under a heavy breeze.

Octavia raised a hoof in victory, earning a round of applause from her fans. Her sweat-sodden shirt was matted to her chest, and a moist spot darkened the crotch of her shorts. It was nearly invisible, thanks to the black fabric and dim light, but Octavia knew it was there, and that was enough to color her cheeks red.

The crowd awarded Blues a round of applause as he slowly climbed back to all fours, his legs shaky. After catching his breath, he steeled himself and trotted back to the center of the mat.

“Are you okay?” asked Octavia, eyes big with concern. “I apologize if I hurt you. I lost control for a moment. I didn’t mean to—”

A snorting chuckle cut her short. “Nah, it was my bad. I should have tapped sooner.” Blues rose to his hinds and shrugged off the singlet’s straps, letting them hang at his side. “Guess I underestimated you, Octave.” He rolled his neck along his shoulders, his joints popping. Without returning to all fours, he let his upper body hang forward as he flexed his back muscles. Long, crooked veins rose to the surface of his skin, pulsing along his neck and shoulders; and without the V covering his chest his upper body seemed impossibly broad, impossibly imposing.

“You got me once,” he said, pushing out a heavy snort. “You won’t get me twice.” The crease in his stomach deepened, his back rounded, and his upper body hung so far forward that Octavia was shocked he could hold the pose without returning to all fours. She rose to her back legs and struck her own fighting pose.

This was going to be fun.

The referee blew his whistle and the contest resumed.

They clinched in a mutual collar-tie, each bracing a hoof against the back of the other’s neck. While they held the position, neither fighter moving an inch, the crowd held its breath. Faces leaned forward. Eyes blinked.

Five seconds passed. Ten. Fifteen…

Octavia adjusted her grip.

Blues shifted his stance.

Twenty seconds now.

Twenty-five…

Thirty…

Octavia blinked—and then she was flying over Blues’s shoulder, given wings by a burst of explosive power. She tried to scramble the instant her back hit the mat, but Blues dropped onto her chest, trapping her on the bottom end of a north-south position. A thrill jolted through her. She hadn’t been thrown like that since her days as an amateur. There had been no skill in the move at all, just speed and power generated by that minotaur-like physique.

Now his underbelly was crushing Octavia’s face, contracting and expanding with his breaths. His body heat caressed her muzzle, and beads of sweat sidled between her lips, tasting bitter on her tongue. She tried to bridge up and roll Blues to his back, but his superior strength kept her pinned.

But pins didn’t win matches here in the Pit. She stopped her struggling and waited for him to make a move.

One sloppy transition attempt later, Octavia was free and back on her hooves, her fans stomping. They clashed again, and this time Blues shot in for a double-leg takedown. Octavia tried to sprawl, but he scooped her hinds and slammed her down a second time. Another solid takedown, but he fell into her open guard, allowing her to control his hips until she eventually slipped away again.

The match fell into a rhythmic pattern, with Blues scoring takedowns and Octavia neutralizing his ground offense before fighting back to her hooves. They worked themselves into a profuse sweat, making it harder for each to snag a limb or a neck and secure a submission.

Her opponent’s power started wearing on Octavia. Lacking the energy to continue popping back to her hooves, she opted to keep the fight on the ground. They jockeyed for position and traded submission attempts, grabbing and flipping and rolling each other across the mat. Their breath came in huffs as their bodies pushed against each other, sweat mingling, muscles and wills straining.

After several back and forth exchanges, Blues managed to muscle Octavia to her back and finally pin her down, though he was stuck in her closed guard. She crossed her hocks behind his back and under-hooked his shoulders, controlling his range of movement. While struggling to pass, Blues ground his erection against Octavia’s lap. She inadvertently ground back, and while her body shuddered, he forced her legs apart and transitioned to half guard.

From there he easily stepped over into side-control, his opponent too tired to block the pass. But as he moved to cinch in a choke hold, Octavia shoved his head back, jerked her hips up and threw her hinds around his exposed neck. Then she crossed her rear fetlocks and dragged Blues to his back.

Toned, nylon-clad thighs enveloped Blues’s throat. He squirmed between the mounds of packed muscle, his ear pressed hard against Octavia’s butt. With the crowd egging her on, she straightened her hinds a centimeter at a time, choking him slowly and smiling at the strangled gasps sneaking past his lips.

The thrill of domination brought new warmth to her marehood. She propped upright on her forelegs and flexed her glutes harder. Her head lolled back. Her eyes shut. Her stomach clenched. She let up a for a second and adjusted the hold, needing it tighter. Harder.

She didn’t play with him like before. She wanted her submission and she wanted it now. She loved struggling against her opponents, controlling them, dominating them, even hurting them to a degree. But there was something extremely gratifying about forcing them to submit, as if their admission of defeat somehow bolstered the weight of her victory.

She had missed her first submission—squeezing too hard and too fast—and she was on the verge of missing the second.

“Submit…” The order came out slow and sensuous.

Blues gave a strangled reply, his face flushed bright red. Drops of spittle sprayed from his mouth, wetting the layer of nylon that covered Octavia’s upper thigh. He writhed and gasped and bucked, his hooves struggling to pry open the crushing legs.

“Squeeze him, Octave!” called a unicorn stallion from the bleachers. He was sitting in the front row off to Octavia’s left, sweat beading on his flushed forehead as he gripped and tugged his erection.

An earth mare two rows up leaned on the pony beside her and rubbed herself with intense urgency. Red lines forked across the whites of her eyes, as if the match were playing out on a screen she’d been staring at for too long.

So many watchers, Octavia thought. In a way, they were under her control as well. They came for her—to gawk at her taut muscles and marvel at her prowess. Their pleasure hinged on her performance. She could spark their desire for pain and flesh, make them swoon, titillate and drive them to orgasm. They were hers to manipulate, to dominate, no different from any of her opponents on the mat.

A lapse in focus almost set Blues free. To ensure he didn’t escape, Octavia dropped to her side and snatched one of his forelegs at the knee, yanking the limb across her chest. “Tap out,” she demanded, arching her back. “I said... tap…”

She almost didn’t hear it over the crowd’s cheering—the faint sound of Blues’s hoof slapping the mat.

A ripple of pleasure swam through her, making her tingle. “My thigh,” she breathed, still squeezing. “Tap out on my thigh. Let me feel it.”

Blues bucked his hips instead, grunting.

“You aren’t going anywhere until I feel it.” She uncrossed her fetlocks, adjusted the hold, then crossed them again, twisting his foreleg for good measure.

Blues slapped the mat a second time, stubborn, refusing to grant Octavia’s wish. The humiliation of being submitted twice in a row had bruised his ego enough; he wouldn’t be told where or how he chose to submit.

“Take his head off!” shouted one of the fans.

“Don’t let him up!”

“Wring his scrawny neck!”

Urged on by the crowd, she squeezed all the harder, hungry for his submission. “Tap, Blues. Don’t make me hurt you.”

Blues gave one last desperate buck, then tapped out on the thigh digging into his throat.

A sigh escaped Octavia, soft and satisfied, and her legs opened as she shoved away her spent opponent, letting him gasp and wheeze on his side. Feeling empowered, she cemented her fifteenth win with a customary victory pose, placing a front hoof on the downed stallion’s chest while flexing her opposite foreleg for the crowd. Chants of “Oc-tave—Oc-tave—Oc-tave” ballooned inside the room, the name occupying more and more space with every repeated utterance.

She looked down at Blues with eyes that were almost bashful. “I’m sorry. I overdid it again, didn’t I?”

A breathless chuckle. “Yeah… a little bit.” A hoarse cough. “In fact, I think you just retired me from the sport. I’m done. I never want to do that again.”

“Nonsense.” She planted a pecking kiss on his cheek. “You put up a good fight tonight. Train a little harder, and I’m sure you’ll get me next time.”

Smiling warmly, she helped Blues up to all fours and raised his hoof in a show of good sportsmanship.