Catch

Good vs Evil

Chapter ONE: On the Runway

After puzzling behind the veil of a runway stage curtain for the better part of ten minutes, Suri had yet to find a reasonable connection between mixed martial arts and Prim Hemline's fall collection of exceptionally racy lingerie. She also had no idea how Trixie had managed to bamboozle Prim, and the vast majority of Manehattan's big-name fashion models and designers, into hosting a “sporting event” that featured mares pummeling each other while dressed in swaths of clothing that were worth more than the collective lives of the entire catering staff.

Since meeting Trixie three months ago at the Applewood premier of On the Runway: The True Life Story of Prim Hemline, most of the constants in Suri's life had been stripped away, and what remained was a bottomless miasma of nonsense and shenanigans.

Naturally, Suri had crashed the red carpet premiere with every intention of introducing Equestria's starlets to a little mayhem via the miniature flamethrower inconspicuously hidden under her dress. She wasn't planning to murder anypony, but she knew her ex-employee Coco Pommel would be there (who was now a world famous fashion model thanks to a convenient sequence of events involving champagne, a private blimp sailing over the Zebrican wilds, and the penis of a very wealthy and very married prince whose name most certainly was not Shining Armor)—and nothing ruined a model's career like a few well-placed burn scars.

But before Suri could cook the little bitch, Trixie had appeared on the red carpet in a puff of smoke and challenged Coco to a submission wrestling match.

That, however, wasn't even the weird part. The weird part came when Coco bounded onto the carpet herself and stripped off her dress to reveal the nylon trunks and wrestling boots hidden underneath (which was odd considering that she had been wearing heels a second ago). The entire event halted as the two traded blows and body slams, until Trixie emerged victorious after catching Coco in a cradle pin and holding down her shoulders while some random onlooker called out a suspiciously slow ten count.

Things got even stranger when they stripped each other naked and started having sex right there on the red carpet. Or, more specifically, when Trixie mounted Coco's face and started using her muzzle as a personal fuck toy. That was pretty hot right up until a rather perturbed Princess Cadenza pushed her way through the crowd, horn glowing with apocalyptic fury as she shouted something about Coco having sexual relations with a stallion whose name sounded like “Shining Armor” but might have been “Mining Farmer” (though that made little sense; why would a farmer ever go mining?).

Suri was pondering the unlikely existence of this farmer that apparently did a little mining on the weekends, when a beam of alicorn magic struck Coco, causing her to suddenly burst into flames. Then, happy that her ex-flunky had become a burn a victim after all, Suri proceeded to calmly run for her fucking life in an orderly fashion, hoping to avoid the fusillade of random death beams spewing from the angry alicorn's horn. The actors, directors, singers, models and fashion photographers (holy horse apples was that the Photo Finish being trampled by a mob of fleeing starlets!?) ran with her, one of which Suri recognized as none other than the Great and Powerful Trixie.

“Run with Trixie, you fool!” she shouted, flinging the command at Suri as the two sprinted side by side. “Run!”

And, having nothing better to do at the moment, Suri ran with Trixie. She was still running with the crazed showpony; something told her she would be for a long time to come.

“...And introducing next, the fighter set to approach from the right, Suri Polomare!” shouted a disembodied voice through the wall-mounted speakers.

Suri took her time climbing into the eight-sided cage, milking her sheer black panties and matching stockings for all they were worth, (which, incidentally, was quite a lot). Four elastic suspenders, two on each hind leg, bridged the gap between her gauzy panties and gauzier stockings. It was, admittedly, not the best attire for fisticuffs (hooficuffs?), but Trixie and her team of promoters hadn't labeled this event a “spectators' sport” because it sounded good on billboards and bus ads.

With the door shut behind her, Suri began prancing around the cage, her tail bobbing as she seduced the spectators with the back and forth sway of her hips. All eyes were on her (okay, maybe a few eyes were on her opponent), and the atmosphere inside Prim Hemline's private ballroom was electric.

The ballroom was one of many here on Prim's private yacht, and everypony who was anypony was there. The spectators wore masquerade-style masks of all kinds, as if such flimsy veneers could hide the likes of Fancy Pants and his wife and/or mistress Fleur de Lis. Gazing out into the crowd, Suri spotted Prince Blueblood and Shining Armor (rumored to be fucking), Filthy Rich and Mandarin “Uncle” Orange (rumored to be mobsters), Prim Hemline,of course, and—

“Oh my gosh oh my gosh oh my gosh Photo Finish I'm your biggest fan in all of Equestria and I'm totally sorry about that time I let you get trampled at that crappy movie premier and I really really hope we can still be friends or possibly lovers because I want to adopt a pretty zebra foal with you or maybe murder you while you sleep and wear your skinned hide like a pair of footie pajamas but don't worry my therapist says I would never actually act out any of those horrific fantasies and that I'm just prone to morbid flights of fancy and holy flying ponyfeathers would you please, please, please sign my flank!”

Suri pushed her ass against the wall of the cage, her cheeks pursing around metal chain links.

Laughing and shaking her head, Photo hopped down from her seat, withdrew a black marker and scribbled “Da Magicks” across the fleshy spot where Suri's butt met her upper thigh. The subsequent “SQUEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!” that followed was so loud and embarrassing it required all caps and several exclamation points to be properly understood.

“Honestly, Suri,” said her opponent from across the cage. “I've found rats eating out of my trash can with more class than you.” Rarity punctuated the insult with a hair flip.

“Funny,” said Suri. “But I happen to live in uptown Manehattan, you inbred little hick. The rats never scurry much further than midtown.” She sauntered closer to Rarity. “Nice granny panties, by the way. How many bargain bins did you have to fish through to find those?”

Grinning with self-satisfaction, Rarity glanced back at the frilly panty-garter-stocking combination adorning her lower body. She gave her ass a playful wiggle. The gesture was subtle, but still more than she needed to steal the crowd from Suri.

“Oh this sexy little number?” said Rarity. “I made it myself. Not that you would know anything about that.”

Oooooooo, that stuck up little cunt! She turned Suri's blood to lava, making an active volcano of her shuddering body. “I'm gonna enjoy beating you blind.” Suri’s voice hissed out like steam. She was ready to blow at any moment.

“Oh, do say more, darling,” Rarity crooned. “You know I love it when you talk dirty like that.” She puckered her lips and planted a surprise kiss on Suri's mouth. A second later Rarity’s cheek was red and stinging, courtesy of a swift slap to the face.

“Do that again and I'll rip out your—!”

“Ladies, ladies!” said the referee, who absolutely was not Spike wearing a striped shirt and the most obvious fake mustache he could find at the nearest party store. And no he hadn’t snuck aboard Prim’s yacht, tied up the real referee in a janitor’s closet, and stole the stallion’s clothing so he could have the best view of Rarity’s hot body when all the grabbing and groping started (and frankly he’s a little offended that you would even think that). “Save some for the cage,” he insisted.

“We're already in the cage!” both fighters shouted in unison.

The crowd ate up the pre-show drama. Nothing heightened the anticipatory excitement of a fight like bad blood, and these two had plenty between them. Photo Finish adjusted her hat and lifted her mask, revealing a pair of thick sunglasses (damn it!—Suri had been hoping to finally catch a glimpse of her eyes!). She shouted for somepony sitting at ringside to “hurry up and ring the bell already!”

Roused by Photo's impatient remark, and the brassy DING! of the start bell, Suri rose to her hinds and struck a sexy fighting pose, wanting to look as cute as possible while she kicked the crap out of her arch nemesis.

Rarity rose as well, though she was more concerned with striking faces than poses. She threw a blazing right cross that blunted Suri's cheek and spun her around like a dreidel.

Pop, pop, pop went a score of flashbulbs winking behind Suri’s eyes. She danced a clumsy two, three, four-step on her rear hooves, fumbling to stay upright as she reeled backwards. Or was she reeling forward? She couldn't tell; dizziness and flashing lights had made a muddled soup of her senses.

She was still upright and stumbling when her face collided into cold metal—the cage’s fence, she rationalized—then she cried out as something diamond hard bludgeoned her lower back. No, two somethings—they drove into her tailbone, knocking her chest into the springy fence.

Wait, springy...? Yeah, okay. She could use that.

Thinking fast, she hopped off the canvas, drew her stifles into her barrel and drop kicked the fence with both back hooves. The fence gave, yielding like a soccer net catching a speedy ball, then sprang back and launched Suri toward the middle of the cage. Her back crashed into Rarity, and the fighting pair toppled to the canvas.

Rarity landed on her side, and Suri landed on Rarity, still shaken from the blows she had suffered earlier. The delicate seamstress hit surprisingly hard, and now, down on the canvas, she wrestled with a strength that seemed to come from nowhere. Sweat beaded on their coats as both fighters tussled, and their limbs grew warm and loose and limber.

Pressing her attack, Suri kept Rarity off balance with a rapid fire chain of transitions and submission attempts, the moves flowing into each other with the ease of a cross following a jab. She hit a foreleg bar, wrenched, lost it, transitioned; found a front headscissor, squeezed, lost it, transitioned; secured a pin, hooked a hind leg, lost it, transitioned...

And then she wheezed, the air bashed from her diaphragm by the same two diamond-hard somethings that had struck her tailbone. They were Rarity's back hooves, the same hooves that once bucked an adult manticore. Now they hammered Suri’s gut, shoving her from the top position and sending her crashing to the canvas. Curled in a fetal position, she groaned and clutched her bruised stomach, wondering how long it would take her lungs to remember how to breathe.

Rarity dropped onto Suri, hooking a stocking-clad hind.

The ref counted.

Suri bucked her hips. Rolled. Panted.

Then she locked her fores around Rarity's neck and pinned the seamstress on her back. As their chests heaved together, naked fur rubbing naked fur, a triumphant smile creased Suri's mouth. She finally had Rarity on the mat—right where she wanted her.

"Got you," she purred, her biceps inflating as she flexed to swallow Rarity's dainty throat. One front hoof grabbed a swollen bicep, making a "4" with both front legs, and the other glued itself to Rarity's muzzle, covering her nose and mouth.

Rarity bucked her hips, desperate to shuck Suri off her chest. When that effort failed, she bridged her spine and tried to roll over, but Suri dug her stifles into the canvas and drove her hips down, keeping her pinned.

Steamy pants tickled the sensitive frog of Suri's hoof, and muffled groans did the same to her ears, making her warmer, wetter. She ground her lap against Rarity's underbelly, her body moving on its own, rubbing and grinding as if to snuff the fire raging between her thighs.

Rarity groaned louder at this grinding, this molesting, her face reddening as much from embarrassment as a lack of air. She wedged both front hooves between her neck and the crushing biceps, fighting to pry them apart, but Suri drove her shoulders down and held her tight squeeze.

Tears streamed down red cheeks, and then came the tap, light as a feather against Suri's shoulder. Elation flickered across her face, and, still maintaining her hold, she glanced up at Photo Finish, eager as a foal expecting praise for completing her chores.

Photo was screaming her head off, hugging the masked stallion beside her and shaking him. And somehow that sight, more than the thrill of dominating her rival, made this entire night worthwhile.

Whether she wanted to further impress her idol, or simply extend the number of minutes where she lived in a world where Rarity writhed and moaned at her mercy, Suri rolled to her side and enveloped Rarity’s barrel with two luscious, stocking-clad hinds. She laced her fetlocks, squeezed, unlaced them, pulled her victim closer, repositioned, purred, then laced her fets again, ensuring her hold was as secure as possible.

A slow breath filled her lungs with confidence and sweat-fumes. Then she shut her eyes, flexed her quads, her glutes, her hamstrings, straightening her hinds one grueling centimeter at a time. She took her time, savoring the feel of Rarity's stomach expanding and contracting against her hot lap. Her hinds gripped harder with every contraction, continuously making Rarity's next breath more painful than her last.

Rarity grabbed at a swollen bicep, pushed on a bulging thigh. She writhed. She panted. She moaned into Suri’s hoof, the noise low and muffled.

It was almost over now; Suri could feel the ribs locked between her quads starting to splinter and snap. “Don't break yet,” she whispered, laying her temple against Rarity's. “Just... a bit... more...” Her cheek burned hot against Rarity’s face. She added a slow grind to her squeezing, her clit aching for a few sensual strokes.

Rarity tapped again, this time slapping at Suri's cutie mark—the surest sign of surrender in submission grappling—but Suri acted as if she'd felt nothing. Rolling to her back, she loosened her choke and focused on the scissor hold. Her crossed fetlocks needled toward the ceiling, hinds elevated and on display for all to marvel at her dominance.

By now, Rarity had given up on struggling or tapping. She took to holding on for dear life instead, her knees curled around Suri's thighs as she endured as best she could. After several more seconds of this brutal crushing, Suri splayed her thighs and shoved Rarity off her chest. She sat up, bearing her weight on two fatigued forelegs. Her mouth hung ajar as she chased her breath, her stomach rolling sensually with every pant.

The crowd roared. They wanted more. And so did Photo. And so did Suri.

Her horn sparked, and a hovering veil of magic light tugged off her panties. She rose to all fours, stood over Rarity, then lowered her naked pussy onto the beaten fighter’s neck. Her ass jiggled as she made herself comfy, thighs clamping to hug Rarity’s face. Flushed cheeks scrunched and pursed as Suri flexed her quads, adopting the ruffled shape of marshmallows being pressed between two graham crackers.

The burning in Rarity’s lungs didn't start until two eager hooves grabbed her mane and jerked her head off the mat, forcing her face deep between the mounds of Suri's thighs. The thighs splayed, opening just wide enough for Suri to nestle the point of Rarity's muzzle within her slit. and then they closed again, becoming a prison of sticky fur and densely muscled inner thighs.

Hot, wet folds enveloped Rarity’s muzzle. She groped at Suri's hinds, pulling and shoving, and Suri let her, smiling down with both front hooves on her hips. She posed for her fans, flexed her muscles, waved and blew kisses. She was in total control now. She knew it. They knew it. And Rarity knew it too, which was the sweetest treat of all.

A frustrated grunt gusted up Suri's slit, sending a thrill through her as she peeled Rarity's hooves from her thighs and pinned them to the mat. Her pussy clenched harder, her thighs tighter, and her hips began a slow rocking-rolling-undulating motion, like a paper boat riding smooth wavelets. She leered straight down at the top of Rarity's head, wishing she could read the agony and humiliation that must be etched on her face.

"Not so dignified now, are you?" she jeered, her hips rocking a beat faster. Glistening pussy lips wiped back and forth across Rarity's face like towels working in reverse, leaving stains instead of cleaning them. “Ooooo-oh! Oh, yeah! Oh, fuck yeah!”

The wiping strokes grew broader and harder as her clit found the point of Rarity's muzzle. She ran her forehooves through a tangle of purple, sweat-matted locks, then clutched them at the roots and pulled up. Leaning back, she extended her hinds and scissored them around Rarity's temples. Then, supporting her weight on her fores, she threw her head back with a lusty moan and raised her hips, lifting Rarity's skull and holding it aloft between her thighs.

The crowd's cheering had been replaced by the collective huffing and puffing of ponies pleasing themselves to this titillating sight. And what a sight it was: Rarity, in a rare moment of consummate submission, panting and groaning like a stuffed whore, her skull wedged between two curvy legs, her muzzle buried in hot pussy, her chest heaving, fore hooves pulling at mounds of muscle—and Suri, in total domination, her fores propping up her body like toned stilts, her hinds flexing, every muscle working together in a riveting display of feminine power, of control, of totalitarianism, her thighs rigid and confining like prison bars, her fetlocks crossed to form a padlock, trapping Rarity, barring her in a cage of pain and humiliation, of curves and ill intent—a cage within a cage—punishing her, setting her straight for having the gall to believe she belonged on the same stage, in the same room, in the same sentence with a mare of Suri's talent and beauty.

Tonight Suri was the better mare. And the knowledge that she'd finally beaten Rarity, coupled with much squeezing and hip rocking, brought her to orgasm. She hardly made a sound as she came, just twitched and smiled with the mindless bliss of a mare in true satisfaction.

Her hinds splayed to free Rarity's skull, but the rest of her remained still. She listened to her vanquished rival pant and cough, thinking of continuing her assault, and then thinking again. She was over this. Face-raping your arch nemesis for the amusement of several millionaires was pretty much the zenith of public-humiliation themed revenge scenarios. Any further shame or torment she inflicted on Rarity would likely pale in comparison to this.

The rest was just going through the motions. She climbed off Rarity's face. She raised her forehoof in victory. The fans cheered. She retreated to her dressing room, took a shower, got dressed.

Later, while standing on the deck of Prim's yacht, Suri was joined by a certain famous photographer in a pair of dark sunglasses. Her heart skipped a beat, but she kept her composure and played it cool.

“Thanks for rooting for me,” she said.

“No problem. You were great in there, and I was thinking that...” Photo's voice trailed off. She tapped a forehoof against the hardwood, looking away. “...I mean, maybe you and I could, uh, have a match ourselves... someday...”

“You wrestle?”

No way. There must have been something in the water. Trixie's madness was spreading too fast.

“Of course I do.”

Then, while making the most earnest expression Suri had ever seen on a pony, Photo slowly removed her hat… and then her glasses… and then her...

...her mane?

“Now swim with Trixie, you fool! Swim!”

Without warning, Trixie dropped the props to her Photo Finish costume and broke into a mad gallop. She sprinted to the edge of the boat, leaped overboard and began swimming out toward the orange horizon.

Suri watched her for a moment. Stunned. Angry. Amused. A little hurt...

And then she ran, and she jumped, and she swam with the mare.

Something told her she would be for a long, long time.