Catch

Cream of the Crop

Carrot Top rose to her hind legs and stretched her fores above her head, purring as she tilted her body to one side, then the other. The Pit’s crowd was larger than usual tonight and Carrot could feel the mass of eyes roaming over her chiseled physique. They traced the ample swell of her biceps, the rippling sweep of her shoulders and back, the firm glutes barely hidden by her high-cut lycra trunks—sunset-orange and so thin they looked painted on. A pair of hock-high wrestling boots completed her strangely alluring veneer, the laces tied in looping bowknots.

Done stretching, she leaned against the turnbuckle and admired the three hunks waiting for her in the opposite corner. Caramel, Braeburn, and Macintosh were dressed in clothing similar to Carrot’s, and they drew even more titillated stares from the crowd.

Each Apple stallion was his own unique brand of sexy—Caramel with his trim build and bashful demeanor, and Braeburn, whose playful green eyes and coy smile could charm any mare. Both were dressed in wrestling shoes and snug-fitting singlets, though Braeburn wore his like a pair of shorts, the straps hanging at his sides.

And then there was Macintosh.

Mmmm… Macintosh… Carrot bit her bottom lip as she eyed him from across the ring, the first sparks of arousal already crackling between her muscular thighs.

“Good evening ladies and gentlecolts!” Tally said into his microphone—a working one this time—as he hovered over the Pit’s brand new wrestling ring. “It’s time for the moment you've all been waiting for—tonight’s main event!”

The crowd burst into a flurry of cheers and stomps. Tally waited for the room to fall quite before continuing.

“Introducing first, the grapplers to my left, fighting out of the blue corner. This folkstyle wrestling triad boasts a combined record of 19 wins, 5 losses, with 14 victories coming by way of pin fall. Joining us tonight from the humble streets of Ponyville, and fighting out of Bad Seed Gym in Manehattan! Fight fans, let's hear it for Caramel ‘Sweet as Candy’ Apple, Braeburn, and long time Pit favorite—Big ‘Dick’ Macintosh!”

A tidal wave of cheers crashed down on the hunky trio, most of them from mares and specifically for Mac. He flushed and waved at his fans, the gesture adorably sheepish.

It took a long time for the round of applause to quiet down. When it did, Tally started again.

“And to my right, tonight’s three-to-one underdog, fighting out of the red corner. This freestyle wrestling specialist sports a record of 8 wins, 3 defeats, with 4 victories coming by way of body scissor. Also hailing from Ponyville, and fighting out of Crazy Horse Gym right here in Applewood, Las Pegasus—Carrot ‘Cream of the Crop’ Top!”

Carrot hopped onto the middle ring rope and raised a foreleg in premature triumph. The crowd burst into cheers, though they didn’t scream as loud or stomp as hard as they had for the Apples.

She spotted Applejack seated in the front row and shot her a cocky wink. For Carrot and AJ, tonight’s match presented yet another opportunity for each of them to one up each other. A longstanding rivalry existed between their families, deeply competitive but always friendly, and since discovering the Pit, Carrot and AJ’s personal rivalry had intensified. They had met in the ring themselves on several occasions, and each mare took immense pleasure in bruising the other’s ego.

Tonight, however, they were competing for more than just their pride. A wager had been made. If Carrot could beat three of the Apple family’s best wrestlers, then AJ would give her as much free cider as she could drink for the next three cider seasons. But if Carrot lost, she would have to shave her mane and tail, cover both flanks with temporary apple tattoos, and serve cider to AJ’s customers for those same three cider seasons. A risky endeavor, but well worth it should she win.

Carrot hopped down from the ropes and trotted to the center of the ring, daydreaming about her future victory. She pictured herself lounging on a lawn chair beside her rival’s cider stand, ordering AJ to refill her dry mug for the dozenth time and watching her face wrinkle with irritation as she carried out the command.

Yes, it would definitely be worth it. And even if she lost, there were worse fates in the world than being pinned under a hunky Apple stallion. Especially Mac.

Mmmm… Mac…

“…Carrot Top, are you listening?” The zebra referee waved his hoof in front of Carrot’s face. “I said, do you understand the rules of the match?”

The waving hoof wiped away her daydream like a rag cleaning a dirty window. “What?” She blinked, and then fixed her eyes on Caramel. He was standing mere inches from her, looking even more gorgeous up close than he had at distance. He had a runner’s physique, with lean, defined muscles, and long legs that held a promise of speed and agility.

“Carrot Top!”

“What?”

“The rules!” huffed the referee. “Did you need me to repeat them?”

“What—I mean, no, I got it.”

Carrot had helped set the rules herself; she didn’t need to hear them repeated. In order to win, she had to score one fall on each of the Apples. That meant she needed three falls, whereas they only needed one to beat her. They couldn’t tag in or out during rounds (thank Celestia for small blessings), and pins were legal, a rare occurrence in Pit matches.

Carrot Top and Caramel Apple rose to their hinds, their stifles and hocks bent, their hips low. Then they touched hooves; the whistle sounded; the crowd roared; and the match began.

Caramel was quick. He darted in and clinched with Carrot, snaking one knee behind her neck while hooking her right elbow with the other. He yanked her body toward his and roped both forelegs around her middle, and before Carrot could counter, he stepped off to her side, bent his stifles and drove his hips into her thigh, arching his back as he threw her over his shoulders.

The fall sent a rattle shooting up and down her spine, the pain brief but intense. She rolled to her stomach with a grunt, and Caramel rolled with her, his forelegs still circling her middle. Squeezing her torso, he sprang back to his hinds, wrenched her off the canvas, and threw her again, his back arching as he fell backwards. A squeal escaped her as she sailed over his shoulder and crashed down on her back, stunned.

She was still in a daze when Caramel rolled her onto her stomach again, his chest on her back and his lap pressed against her butt. She felt his package push against her backside as the trim forelegs around her torso began squeezing, coloring her cheeks blue and making her gasp. A moan passed between her gritted teeth, and the desperate sound drove Caramel to squeeze all the harder.

He was stronger than he looked, and Carrot suffered a slow, grueling asphyxiation between his trim forelegs. She tucked her elbows in and tried push her chest up off the mat, but Caramel’s weight kept her from posturing up. She tried shoving his forelegs down to her waist, but they didn’t budge an inch.

“Give,” Caramel breathed into her neck. With his bottom jaw resting on Carrot’s shoulder, he lifted her hips off the mat and tightened his body lock until his forehooves touched his elbows. He ground his crotch against her butt, his stiff member lying flat against his stomach, trapped by the spandex stretched over his lap. The pressure on Carrot’s ribs and the stiff cock grinding against her bottom made her pant and whimper with a heavy mix of pleasure and pain.

“You’re finished,” Caramel breathed. He pushed Carrot’s face into the canvas, his taut muscles flexing as he worked hard to finish her. “Submit. Let me hear you say it.”

But Carrot was far from finished. She posted her right shoulder on the canvas, resting her weight there. Then, mustering her will power, she pushed off of her back hooves, popped her hips up and rolled forward, taking Caramel with her. As they tumbled, the forelegs around her barrel slid down to her waist, and she snatched one of Caramel’s hinds in mid-roll, yanking it between her thighs and bracing his stifle against her crotch.

The fans hollered, and so did Caramel as he came to a rest on his side, one of his hind legs trapped in Carrot’s stifle-bar. His forehoof instantly reached for her flank, ready to tap, but he grit his teeth and stayed himself. Carrot hugged his shoe to her chest—her hind fetlocks crossed, her stifles pinched together—and slowly drove her hips into his leg, hyperextending Caramel’s stifle an inch at a time. He groped at Carrot’s hip but didn’t tap, grimacing, his eyes bolted shut.

“Tap or I’ll break it,” said Carrot. When he ignored her, she tucked his shoe under her leg-pit and arched her back.

He cried out, tears forming at the corners of his eyes, but still resisted. Carrot loved it. The more he struggled the hotter her mound grew—hot and wet and driving into his prone leg.

The crowd encouraged Caramel to break the hold, but his cousins shouted for him to tap. His pride wasn’t worth getting seriously injured over.

He held out for nearly a minute before tapping, then rolled onto his side clutching his stifle once Carrot let him go.

“And the first fall goes to Carrot Top!” exclaimed Tally. He hovered down to her side and raised one of her forelegs, his hooves never touching the ground.

Carrot turned toward AJ and shot her that same cocky wink.

One down. Two to go.

Caramel had been a nice appetizer, but he’d left Carrot hungry for something more filling—something like a nice, juicy braeburn. The dreamy-eyed farmer was brawnier than Caramel, his muscles rising and curving in pronounced swells. Four rippling legs carried him into the ring, and he flashed Carrot an impish smile that made her melt.

“Well now. I reckon you ain’t half bad. For a Carrot,” he said, taunting her playfully.

The referee waved them to the center of ring. They touched hooves, and then both fighters rose to their hinds.

“Hey there, little filly,” Braeburn said with a laugh. “Your opponent’s up here.” He cupped her chin and tilted her head up, peeling her eyes away from the bulge between his thighs.

“What?” Carrot asked in a daze.

“You could stand to focus a tad more,” he laughed.

Carrot shook out the fog and struck a fighting stance. Braeburn was right, she needed to focus. Her match with Caramel had cost her more energy than it should have. If she was to have any chance of beating Mac, she needed to dispatch Braeburn quickly, before she wore herself out.

A screech from the referee’s whistle signaled the start of the second round.

Not wasting any time, Braeburn stepped in and hooked the back of Carrot’s neck with the bend of his knee. It was the same move Caramel had used to open her up for the suplex. She wouldn’t fall for that twice.

She bent her stifles and pushed off her trail leg, exploding forward and driving her shoulder into Braeburn’s barrel. With her right ear glued to his left flank, she clamped her forehooves together behind his hocks and hoisted him up onto her shoulder. A startled squeal clamored up Braeburn’s throat as she took three steps and dove forward, breaking her fall with his spine.

Carrot landed flat on his chest and felt it heave, breathless from the violent slam. She started scooting up his body into full mount, but a swift foreleg shot up and snaked around her neck, trapping her in a guillotine choke. She tried to pop her head out, but Braeburn squeezed her neck between his bicep and torso, keeping it trapped. His hips bucked upward, his crotch pushing hard against hers, and his hind fetlocks crossed behind her back.

Carrot felt the pinch on her jugular and was woozy within seconds. Moving on instinct, she raised her hips and planted her boots on the canvas, stacking her opponent. The choke slackened enough for her to steal a quick breath, but the moment she exhaled, Braeburn’s hinds straightened, his thick, brawny quads going taut around her middle.

The pressure on her ribs was almost unbearable. Braeburn was strong—much stronger than Caramel had been. This was bad. She wouldn’t last much longer in this hold, and even if she did—even if she popped free, countered and hit a submission—at the rate she was going she’d be too exhausted to beat a burly, brick wall like Macintosh.

Mmmm… Macintosh… Even now—half awake and suffering a slow asphyxiation—the name sounded heavenly in her mind. She couldn’t lose before getting a chance to wrestle Mac. She just couldn’t.

With her butt in the air, she looped her forelegs around Braeburn’s waist, heaved him off the canvas and slammed him a second time. He crashed down on his back, and Carrot felt the shock of the impact shoot through her body.

Not enough—he clung to her even after the second slam.

Smirking, Braeburn muscled Carrot onto her side and dug his forearm into her trachea, really pouring on the pressure now. He attacked her two fronts, his forelegs suffocating her neck while his massive, sweaty quads did their best to grind her ribs into powder. His eyes welded shut, his muscles flexed, his chest heaved against hers. He had every possible advantage working in his favor—strength, position, leverage—but he still couldn’t finish her. She kept her chin tucked and her head turned in just enough to keep from being choked out.

Frustrated, Braeburn continued squeezing and flexing until the strain of exertion turned his legs to strips of licorice. His tank on E, he couldn’t stop Carrot from peeling his back off the canvas and slamming him again.

And again.

And again...

When Carrot was sure her opponent was completely spent, she laid her back atop his chest, their bodies perpendicular. Moving lackadaisically, she hooked one elbow under his neck, the other behind his stifle, and brought her forehooves together. Braeburn wiggled and pushed heavy pants into her side, his face flushed with equal parts embarrassment and exhaustion.

The ten count took ten years. At the end of the decade, Tally announced Carrot the winner of the second round. She sat up on her haunches and glanced over at AJ again, who was looking considerably more nervous.

“Game and set, apple bucker,” she said under her breath, smirking. “The next one’s match.”

The whistle sounded to signal the start of the final round. Rather than shoot in right away, both fighters remained on all fours and circled each other.

Fresh sweat rolled down Carrot’s body, making her taut muscles glisten. A squall of heavy pants racked her chest, and her ribs were still sore from the first two rounds.

As beat up as she was, Carrot still had to fight a strong urge to lunge at Mac and lash her forelegs around him. Just the sight of his tight butt and swollen quads moistened her sex and made her clit hard. Her libido told her to pounce, but the rest of her insisted on waiting for an opening. Mac was known more for his patience in the ring than his brute strength, and to beat him, Carrot needed to be patient as well.

She waited for Mac to make the first move. When he popped up to his hind legs, stepping in and reaching for a body lock, Carrot shot in and snagged one of his thighs. He countered by trapping her in a front headlock, but the hold didn’t stop Carrot from stepping off to his side, hiking her forehooves up into his crotch and dumping him to the canvas.

Getting him down was easy enough, but keeping him there was something else entirely. She tried to hit a headlock from side control, but Mac bridged and practically tossed her off his chest.

They tussled on the canvas, Carrot Top attacking while Mac countered, keeping his exertion to a minimum. He matched her aggression with patience. Whenever he scored a dominate position, rather than work for a pin or a submission, he was content with simply laying his weight on Carrot, wearing her down a little at a time.

Then, spotting the perfect opening, he shoved Carrot’s front leg across her face and locked in a foreleg-triangle from the bottom. She panicked and tried to sit up on his waist—but he pushed off his heel, swiveled his hips and rolled to one side, flipping Carrot to her back and pinning in her side control.

Carrot bridged immediately, gasping as Mac’s biceps tensed, his forelegs morphing malleable iron rods around her neck and trapped forelimb. He mashed his forehead against her temple, and a gust of steamy pants kissed her cheek, making her clit throb. The muggy stink of his sweat mingling with her own flooded her senses, and she moaned into his shoulder, a sound that was half pain and half pleasure. His teeth grazed her ear as he asked if she’d had enough, his voice barely reaching her through her own fading consciousness.

"Buck you..." she gasped, her face turning blue.

Mac gripped his bicep with one knee while the other rested atop his head, leaving no space for Carrot wiggle free. With her eyelids welded shut, she clapped her front hooves together, her elbows bent, and pushed her trapped foreleg against Mac’s neck, loosening the choke a tiny, tiny bit. From there it was a test of sheer strength and willpower—with Carrot grunting and pushing and wiggling while Mac kept his breathing even and continued to squeeze. It was a game Carrot couldn’t win—not against a powerhouse like Mac. But she didn’t need to break the hold with brute force. She just needed enough space to—

There!

Her boots planted on the canvas, Carrot thrusted her hips upward and twisted in toward Mac’s body, finding just enough room to pop her head and leg free. She scrambled away on her haunches, her breath coming in loud huffs, and Mac scrambled after her, his patience and technique waning.

He was getting into it now, grabbing at Carrot’s torso and waist and hips with new urgency. His body heat seeped into her pores, and his roaming hooves disrupted what little focus she’d managed to cling to, superheating her sex and driving her wild.

After a long bout of negating each other’s offense, Carrot wiggled free of Mac’s grasp and sprang back to all fours. Mac rose as well, and, swept up in the moment, Carrot shot in for a double leg takedown.

Mac winded his stance and easily blocked the takedown, but Carrot stayed committed and kept driving forward. He staggered backwards for a few steps, and then planted his hind hooves and bent forward at the waist. His chest draped across Carrot’s back and his forelegs wrapped around her middle, squeezing hard.

She was still driving forward when he ripped her boots off the canvas, and Carrot’s legs flailed as Mac threw her over his shoulder. Riding the momentum, he peeled her off the canvas a second time, smiling as her legs kicked uselessly.

She crashed down on her head this time, and while she was stunned, Mac muscled her onto her stomach. Dazed, she instinctively drew her hind legs under her torso and tucked her elbows in toward her ribs, making herself small. Mac couldn’t help but smirk when he saw the opening. Kneeling at her side, his chest on her back, Mac hooked one elbow around her neck and the other behind her stifle. Then he brought his hooves together.

Carrot grunted as he flung himself backwards, dragging her down with him to finish his cradle pin.

Her shoulders hit the canvas. The ten count started.

“1…2…”

Mac’s temple adhered itself to Carrot’s, and his elbows drew together until her forehead nearly touched her stifle.

“3…4…”

Carrot squirmed in panic, pushing and tugging at the iron coils around her neck and leg.

“5…6…”

Mac arched his back, elevating Carrot’s hips and placing her body weight on her shoulders. She struggled harder but it was no good. Mac was too strong, and she’d never been trapped in a cradle pin before—she didn’t know how to defend against it.

“7...”

Improvising, she lifted her free leg and crossed her back fetlocks, pinching Mac’s elbow between her stifles. With her forehooves tugging at his, she mustered the last of her will power and tried to straighten her back, her entire body straining against Mac’s forelegs.

“8…”

Their eyes shut. Their muscles burned. Their chests and stomachs heaved.

“9—”

And then cradle broke and both fighters dropped to their backs, lying shoulder to shoulder. There was a moment of still silence.

A breath from Mac.

A blink from Carrot.

And then they scrambled to their stifles and clinched once again, Carrot catching Mac in a headlock, Mac enveloping her middle with his forelegs.

After two and a half hard rounds of wrestling, Carrot’s muscles had morphed into lumps of gelatin and her lungs felt like a blast furnace. But Mac was tired too, and he didn’t want it as bad as she did. She smacked her lips together against his cheek, already tasting that sweet, free cider.

Pulling hard on his neck, Carrot muscled Mac to the canvas and buried her shoulder under his bottom jaw, her hips straddling his stomach. His strong frame wiggled like an eel. When he bridged, Carrot snaked her hind legs around his, hooking her fetlocks inside of his cannons and splaying his back legs wide. Then she drove down with her hips and tightened her hold on his neck, pinning and choking him at the same time. Mac hugged her body and tried to buck her off, but with the grapevine pin locked in he couldn’t raise his hips or push off on his heels.

Without the usually trapped foreleg, Carrot couldn’t get enough leverage to choke out Mac. Their cheeks rubbed together as he continued to trash, and the friction of the their bodies bumping and grinding made both fighters pant and grunt and moan.

Despite his trashing, Carrot kept managed to keep his shoulders pinned. She counted along with referee for the last few numbers, blowing them in Mac’s ear, taunting him, making sure he knew he’d just been pinned by a mare half his size. When the count reached ten, she released her hold, sat up on Mac’s stomach and flexed her biceps for the cheering crowd.

Tally drifted down beside Carrot and raised her foreleg in victory.

“Ladies and gentlecolts, your winner by pinfall—Carrot ‘Cream of the Crop’ Top!”

The crowd cheered, and even the Apples applauded her performance, electing to be good sports about their loss. AJ and her family were nothing if not hyper competitive, but years of competing on various stages had taught them how to lose gracefully.

Unfortunately for them, Carrot Top had never learned how to win gracefully.

“Applejack, I’m dry again! Hey, Applejack!”

AJ trudged over to where Carrot was lounging on a lawn chair and refilled the little pest’s mug. “Anything else?” she said, forcing a smile.

Carrot glanced over the top of her sunglasses. “No, I’m good.” She waited for AJ to walk all the way back to her cider stand before shouting again.

“Applejack! My drink needs ice!”

AJ huffed and smacked a forehoof against her own brow. Grumbling, she trotted off toward her house to fetch Carrot some ice. If she only she hadn’t agreed to serve Carrot her free cider, she wouldn’t be in this mess.

Carrot watched her vanquished rival stomp off in irradiation.

“To the victor,” she thought aloud, raising the spoils of their private war above her head as if for a toast.

The sun shined down on her pale coat, a cool breeze wafted through her mane, and all was right with the world. She lowered the mug to her lips and took a long, deep, satisfying drink. It was a good day to be a Carrot.