Catch

by theycallmejub

Rating: mature
Tags: Sex, Random, Main 6, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Other
Length: 25355

The strange and alluring sport of fetish wrestling has taken Equestria by storm.

The strange and alluring sport of fetish wrestling has taken Equestria by storm.

(A series of short stories centered around erotic wrestling).

Published 2013-07-06 01:00:03 UTC
Last updated 2014-04-18 19:55:08 UTC

Perfect Octave (Octavia vs Blues)

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.

Student of the Game (Twilight Sparkle vs Shining Armor)

Student of the Game

Twilight snickered as her brother stepped onto the mat in the middle of their overpriced Las Pegasus hotel room. A too-small training gi struggled to contain his broad shoulders—a noble effort, though one that was likely doomed to failure—and a napkin-thin pair of nylon shorts hugged his haunches, covering his cutie mark while leaving his thighs exposed.

“I don’t know, Shining. Do you think it’s tight enough?” Twilight jeered playfully as she glided onto the mat herself, her newly gained pegasus-grace evident in her stride. Her own gi and shorts were as tight as Shining’s, but it seemed no amount of snug-fitting fabric could hinder her movements.

“What? Isn’t this how all the kids are wearing their gis?”

“The mares, maybe.” Twilight giggled, a cute sound that drifted up and away like a soap bubble. “Seriously, how can you even move in that thing?”

Shining glanced over his shoulder, admiring his training outfit. “But Rarity said I looked ‘rather dashing,’” he said, earning another soap-bubble laugh from Twilight as he mimicked her friend’s distinct inflection.

Ah, so Rarity was behind this—that explained everything. It was a poorly-kept secret that the seamstress had a crush on Shining, and she likely couldn’t bear the thought of concealing his wealth of rippling muscles, those pliable stones stuffed under his snow-white coat. Twilight watched the stones expand and contract with his movements as he drew near, suddenly aware of them in a new, strange and alarming way.

“What’s with the look, little sis? You’re not nervous already, are you?” said Shining, amused. He seemed perpetually amused these days, breezier, as if every sensation that skittered through his nervous system was cause for celebration. “Not that I blame you,” he continued, “I mean, have you seen what you’re up against?” A mist of magical light rolled up both his sleeves, and he flexed a bulbous bicep before kissing it with an exaggerated smack.

Twilight grinned at her brothers antics. “Take it easy there, killer. This is only a sparring match.” Taking her time, she sat down on her haunches, splayed her hind legs wide and bent forward at the waist, her stomach creasing as she touched her brow to her stifle.

Shining tilted his head and let out a sharp whistle, impressed. “Getting some training in before your big match with Sunset, huh?”

“Sunset and Trixie.” Twilight sat up, took a breath, then bent down and touched her other stifle, the movement slow and tantalizing.

“Two on one definitely sounds like their style,” he said, staring, mesmerized by his sister’s flexibility. “You sure you can handle both of them?”

“I’ve beaten them before. Both inside the ring and out.”

She rose back to all fours and glided closer to Shining, her lithe, streamlined frame enveloped in an aura of confidence—perhaps overconfidence. A wisp of purple light rolled up her sleeves, revealing two trim forelegs.

Another whistle from Shining, sharper, almost vulgar. “Looks like somepony’s been hitting the gym.”

“Don’t tease,” Twilight chided, though she was happy he’d noticed. “Now remember, Shining, this is only a sparring match. No magic, no compression locks, and when I tap, you let me go. Understand?”

“No problem, Mom. Should I go clean my room afterwards? Maybe take out the trash?”

Twilight gave his shoulder a playful shove, giggling again. “Shut up and get into position.”

Both fighters rose to their back legs and placed their front hooves on the other’s shoulders. Their foreheads came together, a white horn crossing with a purple one.

“Whenever you’re ready, Twily,” said Shining, pronouncing her nickname like a taunt.

Twilight spread her weight evenly between both hind legs. All traces of humor drained from her expression, and her keen eyes flicked over Shining’s stance, already searching for openings.

Shining attempted to match his sister’s focus, but he couldn’t flip a switch and shape-shift into a calculating predator the way his sister could. It was all mathematics to her, all angles and leverage and weight distribution and torque and timing. All of it scientific. Quantifiable. Predictable.

Her eyes flashed over his bent elbows, his shoulders, his staggered hind legs, and then finally settled on his face, reading his composed expression. She was already two steps ahead of him.

Shining shifted his weight.

Three now.

He made the first move, driving forward and slamming his massive chest into Twilight’s. She slid back on her heels as he trapped her in an unusual body lock, hooking one foreleg around her shoulder and other beneath her leg-pit. His forehooves clapped together behind her back, the sound like a door slamming shut, and he pushed his temple against her neck as the grip around her body tightened.

Twilight mimicked her brother’s hold, bending her stifles as she dug her heels into the mat to keep from being driven back any further. Both fighters pushed against each other, a pair of clashing deer with interlocked antlers, and already Twilight could feel the immense difference between her power and his.

But Shining had already made a mistake. A predictable one. He’d clinched too high against a smaller opponent, allowing Twilight to keep her hips below his. Catching his error, he squatted low and attempted a throw, but Twilight squatted with him, keeping her center of gravity below his.

She read his next move like a child’s picture book—an inside leg sweep—and countered with a sweep of her own. A crafty hind leg snuck behind one of his hocks and wrenched it from under him, sending both fighters toppling to the mat. They fell in a chest-to-chest embrace, and Twilight felt a jolt when Shining’s back struck the mat. Giving him no time to counter, she scooted her butt up his torso, stopping once her thighs straddled his chest.

A second later two lightning-fast forelegs snapped around Twilight’s waist, striking her sides then coiling like a pair of thick, white whips. The whips tried to roll her off Shining’s chest, but she bent forward and pinned his face under her stomach. A husky groan escaped him, smothered by the gi in his face, and he freed Twilight’s waist and pushed against her hips.

“Come on, Shining,” she taunted. “I know it’s just a sparring match, but you could at least try.” Her gi absorbed another grunt, and a grin touched her lips as Shining pushed harder, his haunches hovering above the mat as he fought to bridge out.

Sitting up a little, Twilight lifted her brother’s head and tucked it behind one of her forelegs, as if meaning to hit a guillotine choke. A flushed cheek adhered itself to her side while she under-hooked his forelegs and clamped her hooves together behind his back, trading the choke for a neck-wrenching cattle catch hold. With her thighs straddling his waist, Twilight sat up straight, yanking her brother into a sitting position and leaning back as far as she could.

Shining groaned in pain as she drove her shoulder down into the back of his head, rounding his spine and forcing his bottom jaw to dig into his own chest. The pressure on his neck made him squirm—made his heels rake back and forth along the mat, the bends of each stifle repeatedly curling and uncurling.

The hold was tight. The pain intense.

Growing desperate, Shining flexed his shoulders and tried to break the submission lock with raw strength, a new, arduous grunt rumbling on his parted lips.

“That’s better.” Twilight rocked her hips forward and arched her back. “Don’t make it too easy for me.”

Her grasp starting to loosen, she switched grips, interlocking her knees as she continued applying pressure to Shining’s neck. His compact muscles tensed and strained against her own, and the war of leverage versus brute strength stirred a sensual heat below her stomach.

Feeling his barrel expand and contract, the hard abdominal muscles squished against her crotch, Twilight scissored her thighs around his middle and crossed her back fetlocks. Then she waited for a contraction... and squeezed.

“I give, I give,” Shining panted.

Twilight ignored him. She closed her eyes and kept squeezing his ribs and wrenching down his neck. He tried to hold back an agonized bellow, but it hissed through his clenched teeth a little at a time, the noise breathy, feminine and pathetic-sounding.

This was bliss! Pure bliss! She’d beaten stallions as big and strong as Shining in the past, but she’d never controlled one so completely. It was an unrivaled sensation: the heady thrill of dominating your opponent with superior skill instead of speed or strength. Such a thrill was unknown even to many grapplers, those brawny novices who relied solely on power to trump their opponents.

Twilight felt Shining’s hoof slap against her elbow, and another soap-bubble giggle flitted up her throat, morphing into a carnal purr as it broke past her lips and escaped into the room.

“I said I give,” Shining complained, wiggling helplessly in his little sister’s grasp.

Twilight tossed her head back. “Come on, Shining, try to—nngghhh... break the hold.”

“I can’t. Cut it out, Twi, before you sprain my neck.”

Twilight’s muscles went slack but she didn’t let go. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

She gave his neck one more crank, his ribs one last tight squeeze, making him tap again, and then broke her hold with an annoyed huff.

Shining’s body flopped down on the mat like a caught fish on the deck of a boat. He lay on his back, coughing and massaging his neck while he stared up at Twilight, who was still sitting on him.

“You do know you’re supposed to fight back, don’t you?” she said, her tone taking on a familiar sardonic quality.

“I was, honest.” Shining sat up on his elbows. “Guess I’m just no match for you, Twily.”

“Get serious, Shining. I’m supposed to be in training, and I won’t get any better if you just lie there like a beached walrus.”

“A beached walrus?” said Shining. “Whoa, whoa, whoa… are you saying I’m fat? I mean, I haven’t been hitting the gym like you but—”

A giggle cut him short. Twilight tried to stifle the laugh, tried to take her sparring session seriously, but Shining’s thin smile beguiled her into longer, louder chuckles.

“What’s up with you tonight? You’re all flowers and bubblegum,” she said. “Not that I’m complaining.”

“There’s nothing ‘up with me’. I’m just... glad I got a few hours to roll around with my baby sis, that’s all.” Shining crossed his forelegs behind his head and looked off at an open window. “I hardly ever see you anymore, now that you’re a Princess and everything.”

“You hardly saw me before the wedding either, remember?”

Shining scratched his head, searching the windowpane for the right words.

“Yeah, I know. It’s just… confusing is all.”

Twilight laid down on her brother’s chest, surprising him. “What is?” Her nose hovered inches above his turned cheek.

“It’s just… first you left for Ponyville and then you came back and then you left again and then you came back as a Princess and now you’re here but you aren’t and you sneak away to Las Pegasus and Cadence never wants to wrestle with me and…” He stopped and smiled up at her, embarrassed. “I’m rambling aren’t I?”

“Tiny bit.”

“See, this is what I mean. I don’t ramble. You ramble. You’re the ramble-ly one. Everything’s all jumbled up.”

“I blame the minotaur.”

“Hm,” Shining said thoughtfully, as if his sister had touched upon some cryptic wisdom. “Why are we talking so much about me, anyway? What’s up with you, Princess? What happened to letting go after scoring a submission?”

“Sorry.” Twilight blushed and sat up, her hooves resting on Shining’s chest. “I got a little carried away.”

A carefree laugh eased her guilt. “Ah, it’s not your fault. I have that effect on all the pretty mares. It’s ‘cause I’m so squeezable.”

“That’s it, I’ve had enough of this guy.” Twilight stood up, trying to make a serious face despite her stubborn grin. “I’ll never get any tougher training with this clown. Where’s Shining Armor the soldier? The captain of the Royal Guard?”

Shining wiped the smile off his face and sprang to attention. “Right here, your majesty,” he said with a salute. “How may I be of service?”

Playing along, Twilight raised her chin in a parody of nobility. “Your matriarch demands contest. You have her permission to utilize your full fighting prowess.”

“As you wish, your majesty. I shall do my best.” A humble bow completed his pantomime, and he and his sister laughed and shoved each other on their way back to the center of the mat.

A breeze wafted in through the open window, massaging Twilight’s sweat-damp skin with downy fingers. She untied her gi and tossed it aside, letting the wind pamper her with cool kisses and touches.

Shining shrugged off his gi as well. He balled it up and tossed it on the couch resting against the wall.

Both brother and sister stood facing each other. Shining raised his right foreleg and pointed the flat of his hoof in Twilight’s direction. A knowing smirk canted his lips, baiting his sister, and the knife-edge glint in his eyes promised her a worthy challenge.

She pushed her left hoof into his right, and he pushed back, his leg and shoulder muscles starting to tense. With their front hooves welded together, they reared up on two legs, slowly, their free hooves rising, meeting, straining against one another.

“Ready?” said Shining, his voice a low, husky growl.

Twilight nodded—and the contest began anew.

Twilight squatted low and staggered her stance, heels digging into the mat as Shining fought to drive her backwards. Her limbs caught fire after only a few seconds of pushing, making her muscles ache and her tendons and sinews scream. Sweat rolled off her nose like rain off the face of an elm leaf, falling in fat, clear droplets that stained the mat with evidence of her effort.

A different kind of bliss flowered in her stomach and chest, perhaps a better kind. Not the thrilling rush of domination but the invigorating fear of being dominated, and the struggle, the tooth-and-nail scrap to prevent it.

She played Shining’s game for as long as she could—a power game, one she couldn’t possibly win—then quickly dropped to all fours, lurched forward and hammered her shoulder into his waist. As he overbalanced, Twilight sprang back to her hind legs, circled behind him and caught his waist between her fores.

He gasped, all too aware of what was coming next.

With her brow digging into his back—stifles bent, hips low—she exploded upwards and snatched the mat from under Shining’s hooves, the move a perfect synchronization of straining muscles and joints and tendons and sinews. Her head and shoulders sailed backwards, her spine arched—and then the mat jumped up to kick the air from Shining’s chest and the sense from his skull.

He laid prone for just one second, but it was one second too long.

In a flash of precise movement, Twilight swiveled into a north-south position and weaved her forelegs around Shining’s neck. She lacked the brute strength to finish quickly with a chokehold, or to keep Shining pinned with just her upper body, but he was still stunned, still groggy from the—

She yelped as Shining’s hips suddenly bucked and his body gave a violent twist, overturning her with ease. The choke loosened during the reversal, and he popped his head free before scrambling into full mount, his brawny thighs straddling his sister’s narrow torso. He bore his chest down on Twilight’s and over-hooked her forelegs, trapping them under his leg-pits.

She thrashed beneath him, feeling his heartbeat pound against her chest, a steady, excited thump, thump, thump that brought the warmth back to her insides. Planting her heels, she bent her stifles, straightened her hocks and arched her back, curving her spine like a “C” tilted on its side. She started to push off her right heel and twist left, but stopped when the thighs straddling her torso scissored her ribs and went taut.

She flopped down on the mat, grimacing, and then Shining muscled her onto her side. Quads like supple stone pillars enveloped her ribcage, squeezing hard, making her pant as she fought for breath. Her eyes bolted shut, and so did Shining’s as their foreheads came together, their faces flushed by a sweltering heat.

“Give?” He pushed the word into Twilight’s panting mouth like a kiss. She shook her head in refusal, her warm, sweat-stained brow twisting and turning against his.

He followed by releasing his sister’s forelegs and locking up her head instead. His naked chest smothered her nose and mouth, and his biceps flexed around her temples while his thighs continued crushing her ribs.

“Come on… let’s see that tap out,” Shining breathed, pouring all of his strength into the two holds. Muffled cries battered his chest as Twilight pushed against his swollen biceps. Sensing his imminent victory, he dug his bottom jaw into the crown of her head and rode out the last of her squirms and twists.

A dreamy kind of pleasure flooded his senses when he felt Twilight’s hoof slap against his hip. But he wasn’t finished just yet. Instead of releasing her, he broke his scissor hold and rolled Twilight flat on her back. His chest bore down on her muzzle, solid and heavy like the flat end of an anvil. He flexed his biceps to their max and drove his hips down into her stomach, hard, making the trapped fighter pant and writhe.

“That’s it,” he grunted. “Keep that up.”

Shining caught her hind legs in a grapevine pin and ground his chest against her muzzle, smearing sweat across her face. Desperate forehooves shoved at his hips, then his biceps, then his hips again, weakening more and more with every passing second.

“Not so fun when you’re the bottom, is it?”

No, not fun at all. The pressure on her head was overwhelming, as was the tightness in her lungs. Shining was too strong for her, too heavy and much, much too close. She tapped his hip a second time, only to have her hind legs splayed wider in his grapevine.

“Wait. Don’t quit yet.” Shining’s voice rumbled out as a husky growl. “Just let me…”

Coherent speech dissolved into low moans as he ground his hips against his pinned sister. She felt him harden, felt his shaft stroke her through a too-thin layer of nylon, and her taps became hard and heavy pounds.

Shining lost himself; he didn’t notice his sister’s frantic pounding for almost a full minute. When he finally did, he released his hold and sat up, embarrassed.

“Sorry. Was that too much?”

Twilight cleared strands of matted hair from her sweat-stained face. “Yeah, way too much. Good match, though.” She glanced down at the bulge stretching her brother’s shorts, then looked up quickly, pretending she hadn’t seen it. “Go again?”

Shining pretended he hadn’t see the glance. “Sure.”

As he stood up and returned to the start position, Twilight sprang to all fours and then leapt on his back, laughing as he dropped to his knees, his butt pointed toward the ceiling.

“Hey, no fair!” Shining laughed back. Balancing on his head and hind legs, he grabbed one of Twilight’s front fetlocks to stop her leg from slipping under his jaw.

The struggle began playfully, but turned serious. Twilight wiggled her fetlock free and sunk in a rear naked choke, her left knee gripping her right bicep. She arched her spine, drove her hips into the small of Shining’s back and flexed her leg muscles, eyes clamping shut as she bit down on her bottom lip and squeezed his neck.

She expected to score a quick submission, but instead of tapping out Shining sprang to his hind legs and reached both fores behind Twilight’s neck. Once he found a good hold, he bent forward and hurled Twilight over his shoulders, planting her hard on her butt. While she was stunned from the fall, he dropped into a sitting position and snaked his forelegs around her neck. Then he hooked his hinds around hers, bracing his hocks against the inside of her stifles.

“Your rear naked needs work, little sis.” Shining slipped the bend of his elbow under Twilight’s jaw, then grabbed his own bicep. “Pay attention, you might learn something.”

A near-silent gurgle escaped Twilight as her brother arched his back and flexed his forelegs. Cement-hard biceps swelled around her neck, seeming to grow larger and denser, and the hocks tucked inside her stifles flared out, spreading her thighs wide.

Panicked, she grabbed the mounds of cement flesh and fought to pry them apart, her own muscles bulging with the effort. Her mouth hung open slightly, cheeks turning blue as a gauzy black veil settled over her eyes—a filter that tinted the room a shade darker.

“You think you’re pretty tough, huh? Lasting this long…” A steamy breath carried the words to her ear. “Tap, baby sis, before I put you to sleep.” When she didn’t, Shining abandoned his leg hooks and scissored her waist. “Don’t be stubborn…” His hinds straightened, thighs going taut around her middle. “…tap…”

Twilight writhed in his grasp, refusing to quit. She felt her brother’s heartbeat thump, thump, thump against her naked back, a sensation that made her thighs tremble, even as she was slowly losing consciousness. Heat from his stiff length seeped into her lower back, saturating her pores and mingling with the warmth already spreading through her body.

He was so warm. So strong. So close…

With her hinds no longer trapped, Twilight pushed off her left heel and rolled to her stomach. At the same time, she pushed up on Shining’s biceps and just managed to drive her chin between her neck and the crushing forelegs.

Shining adjusted immediately. His forearm slid across the bridge of Twilight’s nose while his shoulder dug into the back of her head. Then, switching to a hoof-to-hoof grip, he drove his upper body down, crushing her skull between his shoulder and forearm.

“Nice move, Twily,” he laughed, “but I got you now.”

Twilight resisted a powerful urge to tap. Thinking fast, she popped her hips toward the ceiling and stood up on her hinds, creating a slope with her back. Shining’s face slid down into the mat, distracting him long enough for Twilight to free her head and roll Shining to his back again.

“Damn it. How did you just—”

His bewildered stammering ceased when Twilight sat forward and reached for his crossed fetlocks. He read her next move, released his scissor hold and quickly shoved her away before rising back to all fours.

Twilight sprang up a second after Shining did and tackled him. The two fighters pitched off the mat and rolled onto the carpet, a flailing, grunting, groping tumbleweed of intertwined limbs. Now the struggle was deftly serious. Breathy pants filled the hotel room, a sound their neighbors one suite over likely associated with a different kind of tumbling and grabbing and sweating.

The jockeying for position ended with Twilight’s rear planted on Shining’s face, her body facing away from his throbbing erection. From there she grabbed his mane and dropped onto her side, scissoring her thighs around his temples and smothering his face with her crotch. Her back fetlocks crossed and her quads flexed, hips wiggling as she ground her lap against her brother’s nose and mouth.

Shining groaned into the now moist nylon wall covering his sister’s sex, breathing in her muggy arousal. She rolled to her back and lifted her hinds high, stretching them as straight as possible. “Tap out,” she purred, expecting the end to come quickly.

To her surprise, Shining grabbed her thighs and tried to pry them open.

“Oh no you don’t…” Twilight grabbed him behind the head and buried his face deeper in her crotch. “You’re mine now. No more struggling. Just…submit…” She took a deep breath and flexed her strong quads, her firm glutes, her toned abdominals, setting each muscles to the task of crushing Shining’s skull.

“Your mine, Shining,” she repeated, her voice coming out shallow. “All mine. Say it. I want to hear you say it…” She rocked her hips, grinding her lap against Shining’s face while waiting for an answer that wasn’t coming.

At least not a verbal answer. Hearing his sister’s demand, Shining answered the only way he could. He circled his forelegs around her thighs, hoisted her onto his shoulders and then slammed her back down into the floor. Hurt, she broke her hold and managed to pull Shining into her closed guard. Her knees instinctively snatched both his front fetlocks, and her thighs scissored around his waist, the hold too loose to be effective.

Both fighters froze, eyes locked, chests heaving. Shining rested his forehead against Twilight’s, their horns crossing.

“We should… probably stop.” The words wafted into her open mouth.

“Yeah. We probably should.”

A long pause.

“Twily?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re still, uh...”

“Yeah...”

Another pause.

“You know... it wouldn’t hurt to have one more round,” said Shining. “I mean, you do have that big match coming up—”

“Oh, yes, the biggest—”

“And let’s be honest, you could use the training—”

“My rear naked does need work—”

“And it’s still early—”

“We’ve got all night!”

Giddy, Twilight shoved Shining off her lap and bounced back to all fours, shaking out her limbs as she warmed up for the next round.

They wrestled long into the night, trading a number throws and counters and submission holds, until finally they fell asleep right there on the mat, together, each fighter still locked in the other’s embrace.

Sun vs Moon (Celestia vs Luna?)

Sun vs. Moon

Celestia and Luna stand inches apart on a great green sweep of manicured courtyard grass, their spiraled horns crossed overhead like clashing medieval lances.

The Sun glares. “You’re looking well this afternoon, baby sister.”

The Moon smirks. “Likewise.”

Five rows of armored sentries stand at Celestia’s back, and Shining Armor stands among them, half-grinning with a mix of worry and amusement. Part of him fears the that sisters' hard looks will escalate into hard blows, and while that would make an amazing story to tell his wife back home in the Crystal Empire, it would also cause the destruction of the entire capital city, along with much of central Equestria.

Watching the royal sisters now, his view partially obstructed by Celestia’s buxom rear, he pictures the Sun and Moon locked in such a struggle, battling with bare hooves and naked limbs instead of world-breaking magical spells. Though Celestia looms taller than her sister, and her chest flares out with a broadness to rival any member of the Guard, there is a daintiness about her that Luna lacks, a frailty waiting to be exploited.

As Shining pictures them tumbling on the grass, their swollen sexes hidden by filmy lingerie, panting, limbs entangled, the royal sisters engage in small talk that flirts with aggression. Luna’s words are especially sharp, her tongue acting as a whet stone, giving each uttered syllable a cutting edge.

Celestia steps closer as she speaks, her glare intensifying.

Seated off to the side on a luxuriant quilt, Princess Twilight Sparkle clears her throat—loudly—then flips to page 134 of Commander Hurricane’s The Art of War. The sound dispels Celestia’s hostile glare. She takes a pacifying breath and tries to restore her regal demeanor, even as Luna’s smirk dilates into a gargantuan grin.

“Damn,” mumbles a pegasus guard standing in line beside Shining. “Royalty for a year and the little upstart is already putting The Big Bright in her place. And just look at the curls in that mane. The brat wears her crown well.”

Shining jabs an elbow into the guard’s shoulder. “Eyes to yourself, Long Sword. That brat is my baby sis.”

“Your baby sis is all mare these days. And you know, I’d feel a lot more comfortable about wanting to rut her brains out if I knew I had your blessing, Shine.”

“Sure thing, Long. I mean, how could I live with myself knowing I’d made you so uncomfortable?”

“We could tag team her if you want. I know how you royalty types like to keep things ‘inside the family’, if you know what I mean.”

“Wow, Long. Just… wow…”

Shining chuckles to himself, shaking his head in mild derision. But as silly and crude as Long Sword can be at times, he is right. Twilight is maturing more and more every day, and Shining isn’t getting any younger himself. She is an Equestrian princess, and he the ruler of some faraway empire made of ruby office buildings, sapphire churches and emerald concert halls. Everything has changed. Everything is still changing.

But the Day of the Duel is exactly the same, and Shining Armor is grateful for that much. Once a year on the anniversary of Luna’s return, she and her sister select their mightiest warriors and pit them against one another here in the courtyard. The fighting is good for stirring his long dormant warrior’s blood, but the ritual surrounding the contest is what Shining cherishes above all else. He loves the shoulder-to-shoulder closeness of standing in line beside his fellow Guards, each stallion a mirror image of himself—all electric blue manes, set jaws and bodies cut from the purest ivory.

And he loves the tickle of pruned grass beneath the frogs of his hooves. The grass here is no softer or greener than the plants growing in the Crystal Empire, but this particular patch of green is pregnant with memories of his carefree youth. It is a youth that is fast escaping him with every sunset, as if the years are sinking below the horizon, dragged down and burned to cinders by Celestia’s winking ball of fire.

But mostly he loves the sameness he shares with the Guardpony standing beside him. On the day of the Duel, all Guards are stripped of their titles and ranks and stand as equals at the back of their matriarch. Today Shining Armor is not a captain or a prince. Today he is just another soldier, dressed in the same golden armor as his brothers.

“It’s your turn to decide this year’s rules of engagement, baby sister,” says Celestia.

Luna scowls at her sister’s use of the unbecoming title ‘baby sister’. Her words are sharp and curt: “Three rounds. No armor. No weapons. And the winner takes the loser however he pleases.”

An aggravated huff proceeds, “Honestly, baby sister. I wish you’d outgrow your adherence to that filthy old custom.”

“Some customs are worth adhering to.”

“No. I won’t allow that filth in my kingdom this year.”

“Our kingdom, Celestia. And it is my turn to set the rules. If you don’t like my terms, you are free to forfeit the competition.”

Celestia forces a composed look. “Fine. Do whatever you like, then. That has always been your way, hasn’t it, baby sister?”

Before the sting of the comment fully sinks in, Luna steps forward and drives her forehead into Celestia’s, eyes brandishing a threat her glowing horn intends to uphold. “You watch your mouth, you callow little—”

Twilight clears her throat a second time. Without looking up from Commander Hurricane’s teachings, she flips to page 145. A headshake evinces her disapproval.

Shining Armor smiles at all of this, amused by the trio of silly immortals. On the Day of the Duel, Celestia and Luna never fail to set aside their regal demeanors and squabble like the children this country never allowed them to be. And Twilight is right at home in her role as mediator, with her impassive face, and her book, and her golden crown that reminds Shining so much of his wife.

This is how he wishes to remember them—his family. Tomorrow he must return to the Crystal Empire and rejoin the supreme fantasy of that glimmering nation, with its polished roads, polished towers and polished citizens. Tomorrow he will wake to the sterility of spotless castle walls, and to the sing-song chime of Cadenza calling him “My handsome Prince,” as she presses his work uniform with a steaming iron. But today he is free of all that. Today he will do battle for the fragile ego of a goddess, and there is no place in Equestria he would rather be.

“Go ahead and choose your champion,” says Luna. She steps away from Celestia, her mood blackened from having stood so close to the sun.

Celestia backs away as well, drawing closer to her soldiers. “Shining Armor,” she says, “to my side at once.” Shining breaks from the line and lopes up beside her. “Face me, sentry.” He follows the order. “Now remove your helmet and kneel.”

With his helmet resting on the grass beside him, Shining stifles a grunt as Celestia stomps the back of his head, driving his muzzle into the grass. The sensation of her weight bearing down on his skull makes him clench with a co-mingling of dread and zeal. The feelings battle deep in the pit of his stomach, each fighting to drive out the other.

“Where is your place, little Dove?” Celestia address her sentry in the flat, authoritarian voice of a conqueror.

“At my brother’s shoulder.”

“And what is your title?”

“Guard.”

“And your name?”

“The same as my title.”

“Excellent.” She cups Shining’s chin and lifts his head. “Do your princess proud, little Dove.” A peck on the cheek displays a motherly kind of love, as tender as it is platonic.

“You’ve trained your Doves well, Celestia. But surely they must grow weary of their cages.” Luna glances over her shoulder and eyes her gaggle of Leather Wings, beaming with motherly pride as she watches them loaf about on the grass, and play-fight, and bicker, and grope each other as if hidden away by their mother’s precious night. “My Bats have never known the confinement of a cage. I find that freedom keeps the blood hot.”

“A soldier requires discipline,” says Celestia.

“And a fighter needs only the passion in his chest and the strength in his limbs.” Luna’s gaze falls on a single Leather Wing: a stallion with a purple-black coat dressed in matte armor. “Come here, Naught. Your mother has need of you.”

Naught ambles up to Luna and, to the disgust of Celestia and her Guards, pulls his mother into a deep, open-mouthed kiss. His tongue laps at hers for a long moment, hungry for a taste of alicorn, then leaves her mouth and trails down her neck. He kisses and nibbles his mother’s succulent throat, then stops when he notices Shining Armor staring at him.

“Oh, he’s a cute one, Mother. Can I have him?” His nocturnal eyes gleam with lust and menace.

“Only if you win, baby.” Luna places a hoof on Naught’s chest and gently pushes him away. “Defeat Shining Armor, and you will be free to take him however you like.”

Naught steps away from Luna, drawing closer to Shining and Celestia. “The Shining Armor,” he says, blinking with astonished eyes. “Yeah, I thought I recognized you. You look different without your fancy purple armor. Cuter. Weaker.”

Butterflies flit through Shining’s chest at the sound of Naught’s husky growl, and immediately he is glad that Luna choose a stallion this year. His tail wags absent his will, and the Guards at his back grin and chuckle quietly, amused by their captain’s blatant arousal.

“Remove your armor, little Dove,” Celestia orders.

Obeying, Shining unlatches his cuirass and shrugs off his breast and back plates, revealing a robust chest and muscular shoulders. Once finished undressing, he stands nearly naked before his goddess, clothed in only his hind greaves, hind shoes and a snug-fitting undergarment that bulges where it cups his stallionhood.

The Leather Wings whoop and whistle.

The Guards remain silent.

“Strip for Mommy,” Luna says with an impish grin. “And go slow, baby. I want to enjoy it.”

Taking his time, Naught glides out of his armor like some exotic reptile shedding its skin, becoming lighter and newer as he discards the dead hide. The body that emerges from beneath the old matte skin is rugged in all the right ways. Scars fork across dense muscles like lines on a physical map, charting the ins and outs of a landscape marred by years of battle. The lines bend and curve as he swaggers toward Shining, his movements creating new roads, new rivers, new mountain passes. He stops just shy of meeting the Guard, eyes beckoning his opponent to cross the remaining distance.

Celestia and Luna return to the bench-like thrones resting on the backs of their soldiers. Both sides retreat several paces, granting the Dove and the Bat greater room for their duel.

Shining stares down Naught. Tiny whirlpools churn his blood; fires rage under his cheeks; a mallet repeatedly bangs his chest. He hasn't felt like this since last year, when he faced Luna's ex-champion: a raven-haired beauty named Thirst. Thirst is a mare, Naught a stallion, but the difference is utterly lost on Shining. Sex and gender have little to do with his arousal where battle is concerned.

He steps forward to meet his opponent, hyperaware of the wind massaging his coat. At this distance, it is clear that Shining is the larger, heavier fighter. The difference in size is slight, but it’s still enough to make Shining frown inwardly, as he dislikes fighting smaller opponents.

As they wait for Celestia to give the order to begin, Naught licks his lips and slowly mouths the words “break you”. His musky scent flits up Shining’s nostrils, and the eager Dove wishes for a few dozen sunrays to pierce the overcast sky. He longs for warmer weather, wanting to work up a good sweat with this cocky Bat.

“Our pets are waiting, Celestia,” says Luna, lounging on her throne, her long body stretched from one end to the other.

The Sun rests her chin on an upturned hoof and says, “Begin,” the word plain, masking her budding excitement.

Before Shining can move a muscle, Naught lurches toward him, the motion awkward, and his head swings forward, his brow striking the Dove’s nose with a sense-jarring crack.

Shining staggers backwards, dazed. He doesn’t see Naught spring upright on his hinds—doesn’t see the midnight-purple fores reach for his exposed neck, or the leathery wings flare out and pummel the empty air. But he feels them. The limbs are warm with hot blood, and hard from years of battle, and coiling around his throat, and hoisting up, up, up into the twilight sky—and the bat wings are beating like mad.

A laugh catches his ear—a tiny “heh” that is almost a grunt—and then air rushes by as the ground leaps up and clubs the top of his head. His vision blurs. In the distance, garbled cheers pound his eardrums, and he is faintly aware of a crushing weight on his stomach.

His bleary eyes snap open to find Naught sitting astride his barrel, his front hoof cocked, right shoulder drawn back, eyes leering with ill intent.

The hoof shoots down in an arc and cracks Shining in the cheek, turning his head. Seeing stars, he raises both fores and shields his face, blocking a second punch meant for his chin. His pulse spasms into a speedy throb, and he tries to ignore the heat of arousal blooming in his loins, making his undergarment feel tight.

A third blow bounces off his high guard, then two forehooves sail down at once and snag one of Shining’s fetlocks. They yank his foreleg straight up, pulling it across Naught’s chest, and in the same motion, not missing a beat, the Bat pivots around his opponent’s caught limb, throws his left hind across Shining’s neck and falls to his back, clamping his thighs around the snared foreleg. Pinching the prize between his stifles, he braces Shining’s elbow against his pelvis and arches his back, grunting as he crosses his iron shoes. His hips drive toward the sky, and pain floods Shining’s elbow joint.

A grappler? Those are rare among the Leather Wings. This will be fun.

Displaying his superior strength, Shining grabs hold of Naught’s crossed shoes and sits up in the foreleg-bar, his tight abdominals flexing and showing beneath his coat. He fights up to his haunches, then his stifles, then his back hooves, grimacing, the hold intensifying as he rises… rises… and then lifts, hoisting Naught off the ground and bearing his weight with only one foreleg.

The Leather Wings boo.

The Guards remain silent.

Celestia fires a smirk at her sister, chin resting on her hoof.

Sensing the impending slam, Naught breaks the hold, flares his wings and zips away. He comes to a stop several paces from the Guard, hovering, his chest racked with a sudden fit of dry heaves.

“Tell your gutless Bat to sheathe his wings,” says Celestia, flinging the angry words at her sister.

“And why should he do that?”

“If my Dove is to fight without his magic, then your Bat should go without his wings. It’s only fair.”

“It’s only fair.” Luna’s taunting inflection rips a chorus of laughter from her Leather Wings. Their shoulders shake as they point or clutch their sides, cackling at the expression on Celestia’s face. Long Sword offers a hostile snort, but the other Guards remain still as statues.

Shining shakes out his sore elbow, enjoying the Leather Wings’ haughty attitudes. Though he would never admit it to his princess or his brothers, he loves Luna’s Bats. They are the only ponies in Equestria brave enough, or perhaps foolish enough, to jeer at Celestia, and there’s something wildly sexy about that kind of witless courage.

He watches them have their fun for a moment longer, then fixes his gaze on Naught. New excitement dances along his length, driving him to speak.

“Permission to speak freely, your Highness.”

The uproar dulls at the sound of his imposing voice.

Celestia looks down her nose at him. “Permission granted.”

Shining snorts, pushing a jet of steam from each nostril. “Let the Bat fly if he wants to. It wouldn’t be much of challenge otherwise.” His front hoof rakes the ground, the gesture more bull than pony.

Without waiting for Celestia’s response, Naught flares his wings and hurls himself at Shining, snarling, his iron shoes grazing the tops of grass blades. A sidestep makes his wild haymaker a miss, and a swift kick to the barrel sends him careening. Snorting, he flies higher, circles, then swoops down like a falcon, forehoof cocked, right shoulder drawn back.

Standing upright, Shining rolls with the diving cross and launches a counter uppercut, catching Naught flush in the barrel. The Bat’s stomach folds around his forehoof, and a steamy gasp flies from Naught’s mouth, the air caressing Shining’s cheek. As the blow launches Naught backwards, Shining bites his tail and gives it a swift jerk. It goes taut before snapping back like a bungee cable, and Naught stifles a hurt cry when Shining’s outstretched foreleg clotheslines him across the eyes. His body back flips in midair before crashing to the ground.

The momentum in his favor, Shining pounces on Naught’s back and sneaks the crook of his elbow under the Bat’s chin. A croak vibrates in Naught’s throat. He grabs at the bicep swelling against his jugular, wheezing in panic even before Shining cinches in the sleeper hold.

Shining Armor is no sadist, but a rush of something headier than simple adrenaline courses through his blood as the Leather Wing struggles beneath him. He grips his own bicep with one knee and places the other behind Naught’s head, driving the Bat’s muzzle into the dirt as he flexes every muscle in his forelegs, squeezing, wringing oxygen from his opponent’s lungs. His member stiffens against Naught’s lower back, engorged by the thrill of domination.

“You give?” He lets the question roll off his tongue like morning dew off the face of leaf, already aware of its answer. The Leather Wings have the pride of apex predators. They rarely submit to their opponents, especially when said opponent is a Guard. Their tenacity makes them fun to dominate… and even more fun to break.

Shining plasters Naught’s ear with a scorching pant, then digs his iron shoes into grass and sits up straight, wrenching his opponent’s stomach and chest off the ground. Leaning back, he bends the Leather Wing’s spine as he continues squeezing his neck, choking and stretching him all at once. Naught stifles a cry as Shining curves his spine like a bamboo shaft, too proud for bellows or bleats, even as he attempts to swallow snatches of air.

The Dove presses his burning cheek against Naught’s, holding him close. “That tight enough for you?”

“F-fuck… you…”

“That’s the idea, tough guy. But I’m afraid I’ll be the one doing the fucking.”

Shining leans back further and gives Naught’s writhing body a playful wiggle, teasing his matriarch with the tantalizing sight of one brawny stallion dominating another. Adjusting his hold—wrenching harder, squeezing tighter—he glances over at Twilight, who feigns disinterest behind her book. He almost laughs at her prudishness.

“You should order your Bat to submit, baby sister, before my little Dove injures him,” Celestia taunts.

Luna ignores the verbal jab and goads Naught to fight back, the words “gutless” and “worm” sneaking into her supposed encouragements. He pulls harder at the biceps locked around his neck, but a touch more torque on his spine turns the tugs into halfhearted slaps. As he taps, Shining shuts his eyes and redoubles his efforts, letting his stiff rod throb against Naught’s back for a moment longer.

“You feel that?” he grunts, rubbing his member against Naught. “I’m gonna love shoving that up your ass tonight.”

When he feels Naught beginning to pass out, Shining starts to release him, but a biting “Continue,” halts the action. The order comes from Luna. On any other day he would be expected to follow such an order without question, but today his allegiance lies with the Sun and the Sun only. He looks to his matriarch with pleading eyes. Shining Armor is no sadist, and while it’s true he takes a certain pleasure in dominating his opponents, it is equally true that he does not wish to seriously injure them.

A curt, “Barbarian,” slips past Celestia’s lips, aimed at her sister, and Shining takes this to mean she wishes for Naught’s release.

The Leather Wings shower their brother with insults as he lies wheezing beneath the victorious Guard, calling him weakling and coward. Shining rises and offers Naught a friendly hoof, but the humiliated Leather Wing ignores the gesture, choosing to totter up under his own power.

“Were you worried he might break the spine you so clearly lack?” The Leather Wings cackle at Luna’s jab. Naught wipes dirt and tears from his face, rattled.

“Good first match. You’re a hell of fighter, Naught.” Shining extends his front hoof in a show of good sportsmanship. Naught bats it aside, then staggers toward his fellow Leather Wings, greeted by taunts and cackles and swats to his flanks.

Shining returns to his brothers as well, greeted by stillness and silence.

It’s sunset when the fighters meet again on the battlefield, rested, blood swirling in their veins as they once again lock eyes. Naught’s previous cocksure aura is gone now, snuffed by one of pure anger. A smattering of welts and bruises add new color to his flanks, marking where his family beat much of the pride from his spirit.

Shining measures his opponent with caution, sure that Naught will hold nothing back during this second round. He rises to his hinds and strikes a boxing pose, the stance more minotaur than pony. Naught strikes his own upright pose, hovering, his iron shoes centimeters above the ground. Shining recognizes the stance. It’s a griffin martial art, extremely rare, and when translated into Equestrian its name means “Floating Butterfly” or “Stinging Bee”.

Shining has only faced the style on one other occasion. He was beaten soundly. This won’t be easy.

This time Luna utters the prerequisite “Begin,” and Naught darts in with all the speed and craft of a swooping Wonderbolt. His right hoof is a blur that whips Shining’s head to one side, his left a rib-bruising silhouette. The punches come from all directions, hard and fast, and while Shining defends well enough, Naught repeatedly whizzes out of danger before the Guard can mount any counter attacks.

Growing frustrated, Shining wings a wild haymaker, expecting Naught to dart straight up or drift back. To his surprise, the Leather Wing glides inside of the blow and headbutts him between the eyes. As he reels, Naught sneaks both forehooves behind Shining’s head and drives a stifle into his left side, folding him double. His breath catches, his lips sputter. He tries to shove Naught away, but the same stifle shoots up a second time, this time catching him under the jaw.

Teeth rattle in Shining’s skull. One flies loose and tumbles about inside his mouth, tasting faintly of blood. He spits it from a smirking mouth, elbows tucked close to his body—and Naught doesn’t catch his mistake until it’s too late. At range Naught’s greater mobility gave him in the advantage, but those two stifle blows have brought the fight in close—and Shining’s left is cocked, his shoulder drawn back, waist primed to swivel.

An uppercut digs into Naught’s gut.

A counter hook catches Shining on the jaw.

Sweat flies.

They trade blows on the inside—a harrowing mistake on Naught’s part—and after several exchanges a crippling right sneaks past his guard, catching him flush on the jaw. His head lolls, he wobbles, falls—and then Shining is on chest, pelting him with a hailstorm of lefts and rights.

A black front hoof slaps a black face, the gesture a physical display of Luna’s dismay.

The Leather Wings groan.

Twilight glances up from her book, her attention drawn by the strangely alluring drumbeat of hooves battering flesh.

When Naught is good and dazed, his wits a long forgotten memory, Shining scoots up his body and sits astride his face. With a shuddering breath, he clamps his forehooves together behind Naught’s head and hikes it up between his thighs. His erection pulses against Naught’s muzzle as he pulls up with both hooves and drives down with his hips, smothering the trapped fighter, crushing and humiliating him.

“Give,” Shining breaths, enjoying the feel of Naught pushing at the back of his thighs. Muffled curses dissolve into his muggy crotch, and he pinches his quads together, trying to snuff out the tiny sounds. Looking down his own chest, he marvels at the sight of Naught’s grimacing face, the Bat’s shut eyes and sweat-drizzled brow the only features still visible.

Celestia’s breathing quickens, as does her pupil’s, the two alicorns drink in the image of their champion having his way with Luna’s underling.

Winking at his aroused matriarch, Shining drops onto his side and straightens his hinds, crossing his iron shoes behind Naught’s head. He loosens his grip and lifts the trapped head for a moment, admiring Naught’s blue cheeks, his furrowed brow, then returns his victim’s face to its prison of rock-hard muscles. His burly inner thighs flex against Naught’s cheeks, and his glutes tense, then slacken, then tense again as he plays with the trapped fighter.

He is sure of his impending victory when Naught’s teeth sink into his stallionhood, ripping a strident “Bastard!” from his throat. Fighting the urge to release Naught, he rolls to his stomach and clenches harder, his tight, dimpled rear on display for his matriarch’s titillation.

Naught bridges and shoves at Shining’s hips, his senses clouded by the stink of musk and the taste of sweat-stained arousal. The headscissor tightens as Shining’s weight bears down on his skull, but he keeps the stiff member clenched between his teeth.

“Aaaah… Come on… submit…” Shining groans, tears wet the corner of his eyes. His grip slackens… slackens… slackens…

Then a hard jab to his rear makes him jump, and his hinds splay wide enough for Naught to pop his head free. He scrambles up to all fours, wings flapping to aid his ascent. Just as Shining pivots on his hip and throws a sweeping kick, Naught springs off the ground, hopping over the attack, and then drives both front hooves into the Dove’s underbelly with a stomach-turning crunch.

A floating rib snaps.

The Leather Wings holler.

Shining clutches his barrel. Rolls to his back. Groans.

Capitalizing on this moment of weakness, Naught grabs hold of Shining’s hinds and tucks each hock under his leg-pits. A wispy “Heh” drifts off his tongue as he steps one hind over the Guard’s back, turning him and then plopping down on his tailbone. His front hooves clamp together against his chest, and he leans back, far, curving the Guard’s spine while lifting his pelvis off the ground.

Shining covers his mouth, attempting to stifle a humiliating bleat.

“Hmmmm… That’s so hot. Again. Louder this time.” Naught rocks his shoulders back, and Shining bleats again, louder, as if purposely following Naught’s command. He tries to rise up on his fores, but the Leather Wing’s tail lashes around his front fetlocks, binding them with manacles of fine coal-black hair. He writhes and whimpers like a bear cub caught in a hunter’s trap, but his pride as a Royal Guard keeps him from submitting.

Luna and her children feast on the titillating sight laid before them: the great Shining Armor trapped and helpless, humbled, his spine curved in a crescent shape, his thighs shuddering, his rigid shaft tenting his undergarment, pulsing, huge and elevated and on display for the Moon’s pleasure.

Naught glances down at the engorged cock, then up at his matriarch. “You like that, Mother?”

Luna answers by splaying her hinds, showing off the glistening pink of her mound. She kicks off one of her gilded shoes, licks her front hoof and slowly traces the line of her slit from top to bottom. “Break him, baby,” she purrs. “Break him for Mommy.”

Enlivened by his mother’s command, Naught releases Shining’s left hind and wrenches harder on the right, deepening the curve in the Dove’s backbone.

Shining bellows. He struggles to free his front hooves, needing them to tap out. “I… I give…” he stammers after several seconds, embarrassed by his verbal surrender.

Naught ignores him.

“Aaah… please…” Shining groans. “I give up, Naught… You win…”

“Touch yourself.” Naught aims the command at his mother, who follows through without needing to be told twice, or once for that matter. Lying on her back, she hangs one hind over the edge of her bench-like thrown and goes to work fondling her clit. The pliable frog of her hoof attacks the hardened nub with quick strokes, and she moans with none of the reservation displayed by her sibling.

“Break him, baby,” she whimpers, her throat convulsing with pants. “Break him in half for Mommy.”

Obeying, Naught cranks harder on the trapped limb. His free hoof sneaks between Shining’s splayed hinds, stroking the Dove’s hard shaft and swollen balls.

“The match is over, baby sister!” Celestia barks. “Call off your bat before I—”

“Wait… just… ahhh… just a little longer…” Luna moans. She attacks her clit for a moment longer, then her stomach sucks in and she comes with a breathy moan, squirting into her hoof and coating her inner thighs with muggy juices. Her wings twitch, shaking loose a sprinkling of raven black feathers.

As Luna shudders, her body racked with orgasmic aftershocks, Naught gives Shining’s spine one last crank, ordering him to bleat out his submission again, to beg. And when Shining complies, his pride forgotten, Naught releases the beaten Dove with his hallmark, “Heh.”

Shining remains face down on the pruned grass, clutching his pain-racked tailbone. His broken rib throbs.

A hoof nudges his back, and he turns over to find Naught standing above him, extending a helpful foreleg. Shining smiles at the gesture, but gently nudges the limb aside.

“I’m done,” he pants. “You cracked one of my ribs, there’s no way I can handle another round.” He rolls back to his chest and splays his hinds. “You got me, Naught. I’m all yours.”

“Shining Armor, stand up this instant! Your Princess demands—”

“Oh, give it a rest, Celestia,” Luna interrupts. “Your little Dove has lost.” She turns to Naught and coos, “Go on and have your fun, baby. Mommy wants to watch.”

Naught glances down at Shining’s prone form, then up at his mother and fellow Leather Wings. “I only fuck fighters I beat.” Without warning, he stomps a heavy front hoof between Shining’s shoulder blades, making him cry out in shock and pain. “You hear that, Prince?” he growls, his voice low and smoky as he crouches and blows the words into Shining’s ear. “You owe me one more round. Rest up. We’ll settle this another time.”

Shining totters up on three legs, the fourth clutching his cracked rib. “Next year, then?” He offers Naught a hoofshake to cement their promise, but the Bat ignores it. He turns his back and trots off toward his family, one last airy “heh,” flitting off his lips.

Good vs Evil, Ch1: On the Runway (Suri vs Rarity)

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.

Good vs Evil, Ch2: All the World's a Stage (Twilight Sparkle vs Trixie and Sunset Shimmer)

Good vs Evil

Chapter TWO: All the World’s a Stage

“So let me get this straight: you spent two years as a Royal Guardpony learning martial arts, traveled across the world to build upon your already extensive knowledge of fighting, invented your own style that adapted Minotaurian wrestling for quadruped grapplers, created a phony, sexually-charged combat sport based on Gryphonic pro wrestling and MMA, seduced Prince Blueblood into financing it, Blackmailed the Crystal Empire’s entire National Athletics Committee into recognizing it as a legitimate sport, conned both Fancy pants and Filthy Rich into sponsoring your promotion campaign, body slammed inspirational speaker and renowned life coach Iron Will on international television, kidnapped best-selling author A. K. Yearling and forced her to write your memoirs, came out of the closet, and somehow convinced Celestia's number-one-student-turned-alicorn—Twilight-freaking-Sparkle—to join your ridiculous erotic wrestling league and face you in a one-on-one, no-holds-barred, loser-gets-their-brains-fucked-out submission wrestling match?” Sunset took deep breath and a swig from her shot glass. “Is that it?”

“That’s it,” answered Trixie. “Except for one thing: it’s not a one-on-one Match, it’s a three way Battle Royale. You’re coming with Trixie. It’s the league’s biggest match to date and Trixie can’t sell the “ultimate rivalry” angle without you. She already has Celestia and Chrysalis on the undercard.” Trixie sipped from the wine glass levitating in her aura. “What do you say, Shimmer. You in?”

Sunset downed her fifth shot of the night. “Don’t be ridiculous, of course I’m in. But before this goes down there’s something I’m dying to know...” She leaned closer to Trixie, their elbows brushing on the countertop. “How’d you do it? The others I get—Blue Blood and Yearling and all those saps—but how did you dupe Sparkle into playing along?”

Trixie took another sip, slow and methodical. “I told her she might learn something.”

And she would. In sixth months’ time, Twilight Sparkle would learn what it was to be completely and utterly humiliated.

“Introducing first, fighting out of the blue corner…”

The impeccable diction of ring announcer and former boxing judge, Tally Marks, boomed from the speakers embedded in the ceiling of the Matte City Superdome. He hovered above a huge boxing ring, his cow-spotted coat and graying mane awash in florescent lights.

Standing in a chamber hidden beneath the arena floor—her front hooves shivering against a set-to-rise metal platform—Trixie enjoyed the richness of Tally’s voice. This was it. In a few moments she would finally be alone in the ring with her arch nemesis, Twilight Sparkle.

Well, almost alone. She would have to share her rival with…

“…Sunset “The Prodigal” Shimmer!” Tally shouted from above. According to the enthusiastic ring announcer, Sunset was coming to ring with an impressive record of “7 wins, just 2 defeats, with 6 wins coming by way of knock out!”

Of all the dozens of random ponies that Trixie had face-punched during red carpet events, or body slammed on national television, or suffocated between her thighs while teetering on the lip of an active volcano (Mmmm, dominating A.K. Yearling before taking her hostage had been very fun), “The Prodigal” had been the only opponent tough enough to offer Trixie a decent challenge.

“And introducing next, fighting out of the red corner…”

…Twilight “Student of the Game” Sparkle. 13 wins. No losses. 9 wins by cattle catch: the princess’s favorite submission hold. Trixie pictured the haughty little twit prancing down the runway, her lean body sheathed in a tight-fitting gi, tail flouncing, hips switching in the nylon shorts molded to her shapely croup and toned-to-perfection upper thighs.

“All right fight fans, it’s time for the moment you’ve all been waiting for!” trumpeted an exuberant Tally Marks. Trixie shut her eyes and pictured him floating above the ring, his wings tracing majestic arcs in the air as he raised a microphone to the line of his mouth. “Introducing last, but certainly not least,” Tally continued, “the challenger set to approach from my left, fighting out of the green corner!”

Trixie’s eyes filled with starlight at the boom of Tally’s voice. Her pupils dilated with something too passionate to be simple arousal, too strange and gnarled to be love, and a sudden calm descended on her, chasing away her pre-show jitters.

“This dynamic pro wrestling dynamo comes to the ring with a record of 15 wins, just 4 losses, and 12 victories coming by way of rear naked choke!”

Hidden gears whirred in the chamber. The platform began rising.

“Joining us tonight from Canterlot, and fighting out of Showboat Gym right here in Matte City!”

Smoke now. And strobe lights from overhead.

“Fight fans, make some noise for the Crystal Empire’s favorite showpony—the ‘Great and Powerful’ Triiiiiiiiiiiiiiixeeeeee!”

And then cheers, bounding up in unison with the rising platform, the rising fireworks, Trixie’s rising pulse. Containing her excitement—no, her arousal—she swaggered down the runway that connected her platform to the ring, enjoying the unified and near-ritualistic chant of “Show-pone-ie! Show-pone-ie, Show-pone-ie!” that billowed up from the fathoms-wide, fathoms-tall stands.

After years of struggling to make a decent living as a traveling performer, Trixie had finally found a stage that suited her talents, and a public that appreciated her unique flare for the dramatic. The citizens of Matte City—the only city in Crystal Empire filthy enough to host this event—may have been a gaggle of perverted swine, but they were Trixie’s perverted swine, and she cherished them as she would any of her valuables.

They were almost too much to take in, her crystalline fans. Their rock-polish faces gleamed down from the heights of the stadium seats, like rows upon rows of diamonds arranged on a series of gargantuan shelves.

Once all three fighters were in the ring, Sunset hopped onto the middle rope, her hinds straddling the turnbuckle, and waved to her legions of screaming fans. She gave them an eyeful of her sylphlike physique, her body sheathed in scarlet trunks, matching hock-high boots and of course, her trademark masquerade mask.

Twilight waved as she hovered above the ring. The crowd soaked up her act, buying her innocent smile that ensured them she was only here for a bit of fun and fair competition.

And then there was Trixie, basking in her greatness, her power, perfectly content with gazing up at the crowd from the canvas floor. A star-speckled thong leotard hugged her torso, accentuating her natural curves, and a pair of thigh-highs bearing the same pattern stretched up from the boots on her back hooves. She removed her cape and flung it over the top rope, then grabbed the brim of her hat and tossed it from atop her silver mane. It sailed over the bleachers like a Frisbee, until five or six screaming fans reached for it all at once, clubbing and biting each other as they fought for possession of the star-speckled garment.

When the crowd finally settled down, a zebra referee directed all three combatants to meet in the center of the ring.

“Let’s have a down and dirty fight, ladies,” he said without the slightest trace of humor. “You know the rules: no biting, mane pulling or eye gouging. A fighter is disqualified if pinned, submitted or thrown from the ring, and the last fighter standing is the winner. We clear?”

The fighters nodded.

“Good,” snorted the referee. “Now touch hooves.”

Twilight offered her front hoof to Trixie.

“You must be joking,” Trixie sneered, leaving the hoof untouched.

Ruffled, Twilight moved on to Sunset. “Never mind, her. Let’s have a good match, Sunset.”

Sunset glanced down at the outstretched hoof and flashed a white-hot smile—a curved solar flare that seemed to leap off her amber face.

“Yeah, okay,” she said, bumping hooves with Twilight. “Lets.”

Each combatant struck a fighting pose. Sunset danced a nimble two-step on her hind legs, her fores raised, shoulders bobbing and dipping and bursting with sun-crackle energy.

Trixie remained on all fours, her stance an ice-sculpture compared to Sunset’s tribal sun dance.

And Twilight hovered, her front hooves raised and level with her chin, elbows bent, hind legs drifting above the canvas. They swayed lazily, the points of each rear hoof flirting with the pliable floor.

A ringside official gave the bell a high pitched DING!

And the fight was on.

Sunset led the attack, eager—perhaps overeager—bouncing to her hinds and flashing a swift up jab. The punch fell short by centimeters, flirting with the shell of Twilight’s eyelid, but succeeded in momentarily blinding the princess. A second jab followed the first, this one grazing skin, a peck on the cheek. Then a blazing cross barreled into Twilight’s muzzle, less a peck and more a sloppy, lip-bruising kiss.

But the Student hadn’t earned her nickname by napping in the gym. She rolled with the punch, cutting the impact in half, Shaking off the blunt force trauma, she beat her wings and swiveled her hips, her waist, her shoulders—her body corkscrewing in a dazzling display of balance and coordination. With her back hooves planted on nothing but thin air, she bent her stifles and fired a laser-guided hook, eyes trained on Sunset as the punch whistled forward in a compact arc.

Startled, the masked fighter jerked back, eyes gaping as the intended blow grazed the tip of her muzzle. She backpedaled to avoid stumbling, her rear hooves dancing a dexterous upright waltz, and Twilight gave chase, wings flapping as she peppered Sunset’s high guard with a flurry of bee sting jabs.

The crowd roared as a right cross tore straight down the middle of Sunset’s guard, blunting her jaw. A striding wingbeat brought Twilight closer, and, putting the whole of her weight behind the punch, she swung low and sank a hook at Sunset’s barrel, smiling with just her eyes as the masked fighter wilted around her hoof.

Sunset’s hinds buckled. As her body wilted, Twilight drifted back a half step and launched an uppercut to finish her offensive flurry. The masked fighter’s teeth clicked together as the blow lifted her off her hooves, sending her sprawling to the canvas.

Seconds before Twilight pounced, looking to finish what she’d started, a pair of azure forelegs snapped around her barrel from behind. Moving on instinct, she twisted in the tight grip and lobbed a blind elbow strike behind her back. Bone thudded against bone, but the fores coiled around her torso didn’t loosen. Instead, they hoisted her off the canvas and squeezed her tight… tighter… tighter… painstakingly wringing the breath from her lungs.

“Do you feel that?” Trixie breathed. “Feel how much stronger Trixie is than you? How easily she could crush you.” She flexed her biceps harder, earning a clipped “aaahh!” from the suddenly immobilized princess.

“If it’s so easy,” Twilight grunted, “then why not take me on by yourself?”

Trixie bristled. She bent her stifles and flung Twilight over her shoulders, driving the the crown of her head into the canvas. A monetary haze settled over the princess’s eyes, and when it started to lift, the underside of Sunset’s outstretched hind came into view, crashing down on Twilight’s neck and plunging her into the mist all over again.

The crowd roared for the dynamic duo, filling Trixie with confidence as she watched Sunset hoist their mutual rival back to her hinds. She had been craving this moment for a long time now, and with Twilight caught in Sunset’s full nelson hold—half-conscious as she struggled against two corded forelimbs—Trixie couldn’t help but feel that all her planning and scheming had been well worth it.

Stepping closer, she cupped her rival’s chin. “Trixie is going to enjoy this.”

A snarl replaced Twilight’s grimace, but the pained expression returned in earnest as Trixie’s left barreled into her underbelly. A wheeze slipped past her gritted teeth. Tickled by the sound, Trixie swiveled her hips and threw a hybrid hook-uppercut that blunted Twilight’s floating rib, buckling her stifles and making her head droop. Gravity and failing muscles tried to drag her to the canvas, but Sunset kept her standing, biceps flexing as she tightened her full nelson hold.

More blows rocked Twilight’s body, peppering her barrel with bruises and ugly red welts. It was like hitting the heavy bag back at the gym, except this bag was full of organs instead of sand, and could groan and gasp and express the most delicious kind of pain with its pretty face. Chants of ”Trix-ie, Trix-ie, Trix-ie” pounded the showpony’s ears, driving her hooves to bludgeon with greater and greater force.

And then she stopped—just stopped—letting Twilight’s body go slack in Sunset’s grip. She cupped her rival’s chin and raised it again, leering. “Give up?”

Twilight didn’t say a word. She didn’t need to; her answer came loud and clear in the form of a surprise headbutt.

Trixie teetered under the blow, then stepped forward, wound up and launched a wild haymaker. The punch cracked Twilight between the eyes, and her head popped back to crack Sunset’s muzzle, sending both fighters reeling. Trixie followed their clumsy backpedal, her right shoulder drawn back, hoof poised to throw another haymaker.

The punch was still whistling forward when Twilight flared her wings, fluttered off the canvas and thrusted her back hooves into Trixie’s chest. The princess hit the mat. Scrambled. Took Sunset’s back...

And then she was airborne, her neck lassoed by two powerful forelegs.

“Trixie has had her fill of you.”

With Twilight’s neck snared between her fores, Trixie bucked her hips into the princess’s rear, lifted, arched her back, slammed.

The ring shook. Twilight’s body spasmed, and, seizing the moment, Trixie manhandled on her, pinning the royal neck under her lap. She clamped her thighs around Twilight’s head, pinching her temples, and shoved her silky frogs over a purple mouth and nose.

“Trouble breathing,” she taunted. Her face crinkled with effort as she straightened her fores and locked her elbows, driving all her weight down on Twilight’s muzzle. The princess’s hooves grabbed at Trixie’s forearms, and her heels raked back and forth across the canvas, her stifles sporadically bending and unbending.

“Not bad, Trixie,” said Sunset, flashing her solar-flare grin. “But I think we can do better.” She plopped her rear onto Twilight’s underbelly, sitting with her back to Trixie, her eyes fixed on their victim’s writhing hinds. Then, still grinning, she dropped to her side, lifted Twilight's waist off the mat and nestled her victim’s body between a pair of sweat-glistened amber thighs.

She took her time, slowly scissoring her hinds around Twilight’s torso. She let the pressure build by degrees, her smile twisting into a look of exertion as her thigh muscles morphed from limp to taut, squeezing together with rib-crushing force. Both purple hinds kicked a beat faster, and Sunset grabbed one, putting Twilight’s spandex-clad mound on display as she pulled the limb across her chest, hugging it tight to her body.

Taking the hint, Trixie freed Twilight’s muzzle and clamped her front hooves behind the princess’s head, cupping it, her body quivering with anticipation. She peered down at Twilight, smirking at the sight of her rival peeking up, her red cheeks smashed against two curvy azure pillars.

“Submit now, and maybe Trixie will spare you the humiliation,” she tittered. It was a lie of course—a taunt meant to give Twilight some semblance of hope. She finally had her rival right where she wanted her. This was going to last a while, of that much Trixie was sure.

When Twilight failed to tap out, Trixie tucked the helpless fighter’s face between her thighs, smothering her, burying her muzzle in sweat, flesh and a thin layer of spandex. She pulled up with both forehooves and drove down with her hips, heaping all of her weight onto Twilight’s muzzle. Her hips wiggled as she settled onto her new seat, and her thighs pinched together, adding a tight squeeze to her smother.

Pants billowed into Trixie’s crotch, and desperate hooves pushed at her rear. A downward glance displayed the top of Twilight’s head, her horn, the tips of her ears, locks of purple mane—but nothing else. Her face was gone, completely hidden by Trixie’s lap.

“I think she likes,” Sunset jeered, stroking Twilight through a pair of soaked shorts as she continued crushing her victim’s ribs.

“Is that right?” Trixie breathed. “Does Celestia’s favorite whore like her punishment?”

Not waiting for or expecting an answer, she dropped to her side—turning Twilight’s face in the process—and crossed her boots behind the beaten fighter’s head. Gripping the back of Twilight’s mane, Trixie adjusted her hold and flexed her hinds. Her inner thighs dug into the princess’s flushed cheeks, bulging as they crushed everything from her temples down to her jaw.

The referee watched the action closely, leering. Beyond the ring the cheers had died down, replaced by the breathy huffs, puffs, and moans of ponies in the throes of self stimulation.

It was all so overwhelming: Twilight’s bruised and writhing body, the masturbating crowd, Sunset’s glistening muscles, her thighs locked around their rival’s barrel, grinding ribs, wringing every last drop of air from Twilight’s diaphragm.

The end came when Twilight finally slapped a feeble hoof against Sunset’s thigh, but the duo’s fun wasn’t over just yet.

“Oh, that’s it,” Sunset squealed, giddy at the sensation of Twilight’s slapping hoof. “That’s the spot... Touch me right there…” Biting her bottom lip, she shut her eyes and tossed her head back, her spine arching as she wrenched hard at Twilight’s hind. She relaxed her muscles, took a breath, and then gave her quads one last powerful flex.

Sitting on her rival’s face again, Trixie raised her hooves in victory, earning a cheer from her fans. The cheering grew louder as she yanked the crotch of her leotard to one side, uncovering a soaked pussy that was aching to be pleasured.

“Did you think Trixie would let you go so easily?”

Twilight tried to protest, but was forced to swallow her words, along with a mouthful of Trixie’s juices. The showpony wiggled her hips, purring as her naked lips mashed against her rival’s face. Splaying her thighs wider, she took the tip of Twilight’s muzzle between her glistening folds before clamping her thighs shut again, locking the princess’s face in place.

Muffled pants and cries tickled her lips, and weak forehooves pushed at her rear. She tried to start slow, but the thrill of Twilight struggling beneath her was too much, and she ended up grinding hard and fast right from the start. Her hips rolled as she rubbed her clit against Twilight’s nose and mouth, and her stifles pinched together, once again hiding the princess’s face from view.

She noticed Twilight moaning harder against her lap, and an over-the-shoulder glance explained why. Sunset had broken her hold, and her face was buried between Twilight's elevated thighs, her tongue lapping, lips kissing and slurping.

The sight peaked Trixie's arousal, giving her an idea.

“Use your tongue...” she ordered, panting and moaning. “Do it... or Trixie will smother you…”

A high pitched “Ooooooo-oh!” escaped her as Twilight’s tongue flicked against her slit. The beaten fighter lapped at her lips, her inner walls, searching for that little nub, perhaps hoping Trixie would release her if she pressed the right button.

When tongue finally met clit, Trixie hooked one forehoof behind Twilight’s head, burying that pretty face deeper in her crotch, and braced the other against the canvas. Her hips bucked hard, her mound slapping into Twilight’s mouth as she fucked that wonderful tongue.

“Mmmm-ooooohh…” she purred, her pace quickening. Her hips hopped up then thudded down, pummeling the beaten fighter, repeatedly bouncing the back of her head off the canvas. When she felt close to bursting, she once again snared Twilight’s face between her thighs and rolled to her back, taking princess and partner with her.

Her hinds straightened. Her back arched. She flexed and squeezed and rocked her hips, her forehooves pulling down on the back of Twilight's head.

And then she came with a satisfied squeal. Her inner thighs quivered against Twilight's temples, keeping the princess trapped while Trixie rode out the aftershocks of her orgasm.

Sighing, she released Twilight and shoved her way. Reeking of sweat and her own arousal, Trixie started to rise, but was interrupted by a sneaky pair of front hooves that grabbed her mane.

“That was pretty hot stuff,” said Sunset, standing upright, her front hooves tangled in Trixie’s sweat-matted mane. “And while I’m grateful for the good time”—she jerked Trixie’s head down, catching her in a front headlock—“I’m afraid this match is mine.”

Her stifles already bent, Sunset looped an azure foreleg behind her neck, then grabbed Trixie’s naked mound and hoisted her off the canvas. There was a falling sensation, something caressing her back—the top rope, she figured—and then her body dropped to the floor beyond the ring, her head striking a surface that was much harder than canvas.

The blow jostled her senses. When she came to almost a minute later, Sunset was standing over a beaten Twilight Sparkle, her hoof raised in victory.

“Sneaky little…” Still dizzy, Trixie rolled to her back and stared up at the stadium lights. Damn it. She should have known better than to trust a fiend like Sunset Shimmer.

Oh well, it hardly mattered now. A packed stadium of screaming fans had just watched her sexually dominate Princess Twilight Sparkle. So what if she’d lost the match; she had her revenge, and that as more than enough.

For now...

The Gingerbread Mare (Pinkie Pie vs... Nightmare Moon?)

"…Introducing first, the challenger from Ponyville, fighting out of the blue corner—Pinkie 'The Gingerbread Mare' Pie!"

After delivering her own spirited introduction, Pinkie Pie kicked open her bedroom door and strutted inside, waving to the teddy bear audience that lined the floor in neat rows. Her hips rocked in a clownish parody of eroticism, like a teenage foal mimicking the strut of her favorite pop idol. The lady wrestlers in her magazines and comic books always looked so sexy as they sauntered up to the ring. And though the pictures in her books didn't move, Pinkie often imagined the fighters strutting in style, hips switching as they paraded their curvaceous bodies and flashy costumes.

Pinkie’s own costume was currently at the cleaners, but the lacy panties stretched around her hips made for a decent enough substitute, especially coupled with the pink and black kneesocks worn on her back legs.

Greeted by the pretend roar of her plush audience, she hopped into the ring (onto her bed) and flexed for her screaming fans, flaunting the result of eight months of arduous training. She rose to her hinds and placed a hoof behind her ear, coaxing more noise from the imaginary crowd.

Her opponent—a life-size plushy of Luna that she'd won bobbing for apples at last year’s Nightmare Night festival—waited for her at the opposite end of the bed. Plushy Luna wore a modified version of Pinkie's old Mare-Do-Well mask, along with her third sexiest pair panties (the violet ones she'd borrowed from Rarity for a hot date and never returned). She had cut the lenses out of the mask, allowing her to look Luna square in the eye.

She stalked toward the plush fighter, unfazed by her seductive aura. Tonight, she wasn't facing her friend Princess Luna, but the evil Nightmare Moon! The sinister nightmare miasma had regained control the princess, and, uh, the only way to free her was to submit her in a one-on-one wrestling match! Yeah, that would work.

Holding her best serious expression, Pinkie smiled on the inside, proud of her impromptu storytelling, even if it was silly and made no sense. Her spontaneous plot line resembled the kinds of stories she'd read in Crossed Fetlocks, her favorite underground fetish wrestling magazine. Hack erotica authors were responsible for all the literary monstrosities featured in that rag, and even Pinkie, who had never been a critical reader of any sort, found the plots stupid and contrived. Even so, she adored all those zany one-shots; the horrid storytelling was as much a part of the fun as the costumes, the over-the-top theatrics and the wrestling itself.

Pinkie fully immersed herself in her silly narrative, leering at Nightmare Moon as she stalked closer. Her skin tingled with anticipation, and the muscles beneath her coat drew into compact knots, ready to uncoil in a flash. Her chin hovered inches above the bed sheets and her bottom reached for the ceiling, the pose resembling a cartoon lioness poised for the hunt.

She waited for plushy Nightmare to make the first move, but the doll was a patient and wily fighter. She stood motionless, making Pinkie wait until the excitement swelling in her body threatened to shake her apart at the seams.

Seeing no other choice, Pinkie pounced on the doll, nearly falling off the bed as she tumbled. She lashed her forelegs around Nightmare’s waist, struggling to seize control of the match early.

The grappling began fast and haphazard, with both fighters grabbing at exposed limbs and necks, each looking to secure a quick submission. But the pace slowed considerably as Pinkie studied her opponent, learning the subtleties and nuances of Nightmare’s movements. Her breath came quicker as she used her superior earth pony strength to manhandle the doll, and though the princess fought valiantly, it was only a matter of time before Pinkie mounted and pinned her.

Straddling her hips, she pulled Nightmare into a sitting position and gripped the doll's body between her thighs. Her back fetlocks laced together and her hinds straightened, quads going rigid as she began squeezing her pretend opponent.

Luna's plush barrel caved between the flexing quads. She offered no resistance, so it was up to Pinkie's imagination to fill in the blanks. She pictured the trapped princess squirming between her thighs, against her crotch, and then submitting in a fit of harsh coughs, her forehoof slapping at Pinkie's hip. The thought made her light-headed, and her inner walls moistened as she ground her crotch against the doll's soft body. She stared into plushy Nightmare’s masked face, wondering what kind of expression the real Luna would make as her barrel crumbled in a bodyscissor hold.

Then—because this was the part of the story where the winner ignores the loser’s submission and tightens her hold—Pinkie roped her forelegs around Luna’s neck and secured the doll in her favorite submission hold: the guillotine choke. More than anything else, Pinkie loved to be close to her opponent, to feel them struggle in her grasp, and no other hold offered the same chest-to-chest nearness as a guillotine choke coupled with a bodyscissor.

She dropped to her side and squeezed Nightmare’s body and neck. Her inner thighs flattened the doll’s barrel, grinding imaginary ribs to powder, and her biceps ballooned around its plush jugular. As she squeezed, she imagined Nightmare slapping her cutie mark, begging for mercy.

Tap, tap, tap went the hoof against her flank. For being a mere conjuring of her imagination, the noise was surprisingly realistic.

“Again,” Pinkie breathed, sweat beading on her brow. “Tap out again.” She rubbed herself off against the pillow, moans gathering on her parted lips

Tap, tap, tap…

Oh, that felt good. That felt so, so—

BANG! BANG! BANG!

“Pinkie, what are you doing in there?”

Pinkie froze upon hearing Mr. Cake’s voice. “Uh… I’m kinda busy right now…”

“Well get less busy. Your morning shift starts in seven minutes.”

“But it’s Saaaaterday,” she whined, her thighs still coiled around her victim’s body.

“And you have a Saturday shift. Let's go young lady."

“Okay,” Pinkie huffed. “I’ll be down in a minute.”

She ground her lap extra hard against the doll’s body, came, won the match, freed Luna from the clutches of the evil nightmare miasma, took a quick bath, changed clothes, then trotted downstairs and prepared for work.

Cream of the Crop (Carrot Top vs Caramel, Braeburn, and Big Mac)

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.